Ride report: Tour de Paris (Paris, TX)

This past Saturday was the 24th annual Tour de Paris, one of my favorite rides each season. This year was especially notable because Turtle decided to take advantage of the relatively flat route and go for a personal best distance on the 30-mile route. I was signed up for my usual 100K but had promised myself to back off last year's 18.9 mph pace.

We rolled out of bed at 4am, got everything loaded and were on the road by 5:30. A number of my MS 150 teammates were going up for the ride, and we were looking forward to seeing them there. As fate would have it, we didn't really cross paths with most of them until after the ride; but that's the way these things go.

The people who run the Tour de Paris were enthusiastic and accommodating as always. This year they'd added a twist to the route, taking us through downtown Paris (“Second largest Paris in the world!” according to the mayor) before heading out on the main route. But once out on the route, the ride just didn't seem the same as in the previous couple years. The roads seemed rougher this year, not so much because of the size of the chipseal aggregate but because they seemed to have been battered by traffic. Much the route was like riding on a washboard, so that even on the flat I had to keep peddling to maintain my pace. Rest stops were not as well stocked as in years past, which I attribute to soaring fuel and grocery prices (this year's entry fee was unchanged from last year's). That's not a big deal to me, except that there wasn't a bottle of pickle juice in sight – bad news for guys like me, who benefit from the cramp-fighting properties of the stuff.

I rode the first 20 miles or so with Mrs. Strada before discreetly pulling off at a rest stop to… rest – but mostly as a diplomatic way to cut her loose so that I wouldn't be tempted to try keeping up with her brisk pace. By mile 50 or so, I was beginning to suspect I was in trouble. Despite my backing off the pace, I was probably using the same amount of energy as I had spent going fast, last year. And the heat was getting to me. When I pulled up to the 50-mile stop, I felt uncoordinated and lightheaded, and I had started feeling chills – all warning signs for heat exhaustion. I sat down under a canopy and doused myself with cold clothes being passed out by the volunteers. After a while, I felt good enough to get back on the bike; but the loop around the town square had added roughly 5 miles I really could have done without, at that point.

So, just like last year, I was in energy conservation mode: not worrying about my pace, spinning smaller gears, and coasting at any opportunity. Finally, after climbing more rolling hills than I remembered there being on the Paris route, I rolled into the parking lot and was surprised to see that Turtle's wheelchair was still cable locked to the rack for her handcycle. That meant she was still out on the route somewhere, but I was more worried about myself at that point. I was fried. After fumbling in my seat back for the car keys and trying to see past the spots to unlock the car, it took me half a dozen tries just to get my bike into its stand so I could collapse on the grass.

About that time, a pickup truck rolled up with Turtle in the passenger seat and her bike in the back. She had started to overheat at around mile 26 and, true to her promise not to make herself sick, had SAG'ed the rest of the way. The driver got out of the truck and was saying something to me about how I needed to unlock Turtle's wheelchair, take it to her, and get her bike out of the back of the truck. As if.

“She's got the key,” I told the SAG driver, somewhat curtly. “You're on your own.” I wasn't sure I had the strength to hold my head up, much less stand, lift my wife out of the truck, and set her on her chair without both of us ending in a heap on the sizzling pavement.

Turtle got unloaded, and the SAG driver helpfully put her bike on the rack. She thanked them cheerfully and then turned her attention to me. “Are you okay? Honey, you look like crap.”

Normally, I'd have had some snappy response, but not this time. In the first place, I knew she was right; in the second, I didn't have enough mental reserves to think of anything.

She wanted to get someone to help with my bike, but I insisted on taking care of it myself. Finally, with the bike secured and Turtle keeping a close eye on me, I shambled slowly toward the high school cafeteria where I knew there would be Sonic hamburgers, lots of bottled drinks, and air conditioning. And I recovered.

Not one of my more enjoyable experiences, I'm afraid – but certainly memorable. One of my MS 150 teammates said the sign in front of the school read 99 °F when he finished. Despite my vow to slow the heck down, I ended up with a 17.7 mph average for the 67+ miles. Turtle wasn't too disappointed about not finishing the 30 miles, partly because 26 miles was still a personal best for her (on the bike) and partly because she'd done it without making herself sick in the heat.

Unlike her idiot husband.

Populaire(ty) Non-Contest

After nearly a season's worth of encouragement from my friends and riding partners, The Stradas, I finally took my first taste of randonneuring. Granted, it was only a 100K (≅ 62.5 miles) “populaire” – next to nothing for these folks, many of whom hardly consider it worth getting out their bikes for fewer than 100 miles – but it gave me a sense of this type of riding.

We met in a school parking lot in the little town of Princeton, Texas. There, we signed our liability waivers and were each given a small, folded card printed with spaces to have initialed at each of the checkpoints along the route. To me, this seemed like a rather unnecessary bit of bookkeeping, but for the folks who are into this sort of ultra distance riding, the cards used to verify the miles they've ridden so they can earn points and win awards. At the end of the ride, each rider places his card in a freezer bag tucked under the wiper blade of the ride organizer's car so that he can award points – and also so that he has a head count of who made it back to the start.

For me, the ride was not unlike the training rides that I've done out around Celina with The Stradas. Unlike the pay rides, there were no huge crowds of inattentive cyclists to dodge and no racer wanna-bes. Instead there were laid-back ultra distance riders like RAAM veteran Mark Metcalfe who, despite his legendary status around these parts, was as accessible and nice as they come. For these riders, it's not about how fast they can go or how quickly they can ride the legs off the rest of the group. It's about pacing themselves, riding long, and enjoying the camaraderie and scenery along the way.

As recumbent numbers increase, some wedgie riders might start to feel surrounded; but the LSR folks don't seem to mind. (That's me on the far right, bringing up the rear as usual.)

I'm a long, long way from being strong enough for the kinds of distances these folks ride on a regular basis. Heck, I can't even figure out the differences between the types of rides, with names like “fleche”, “brevet”, “permanent”, and “audax”. It's all just so exotic and… well, French. But I'm glad I went out to get a little taste of what my friends are always on about.

P.S. – Some of you may be looking at the picture above and thinking, “See there? Those blasted bicyclists are always out there riding in the middle of the road when they're supposed to be single file.” True enough, but the picture you don't see is the one where the guy in the back has just hollered “Car back!” and the whole group immediately and smoothly merges back into a single line.

Ride report: Collin Classic (McKinney, Texas)

The weather report for the 17th Collin Classic was for a 30% chance of rain with a high of 95 °F. No surprises there; the Collin Classic has a history of being the first ride of the season that really makes heat management an issue. I've participated in this ride each year since 2004, and I can recall a couple years when I took a little too long on the course and barely managed to drag myself back to the starting point under my own power. It usually ends up being hotter than predicted, and because she has had overheating problems* on this ride in the past, Turtle elected to skip it this year.

The start of the ride is only about 10 miles from my driveway, so I got up at my usual 5:20, took my time getting ready, and still arrived at 6:45. Plenty of time to get a good parking spot, pick up my ride number, and watch for people I know to arrive. Speaking of which, it's interesting to me to see how many more recumbent riders there are each year. In 2006, when I first started riding my recumbent, I knew pretty nearly all of the other recumbent riders I saw on the charity ride circuit. Now, they – we – seem to be popping up everywhere, and I no longer know everyone.

Richard, another of the RBENT gang, was parked just across the aisle from me, and we spent some time socializing. I had made plans to start out the ride with Jason and The Stradas, but they didn't get there as early as I did and had to park at a secondary location. Fifteen minutes before the start of the ride, cars were still streaming in. The organizers announced that it was not looking good for an 8:00 start, because we couldn't go until all the cars were off the road and parked. I thought that this delay might allow me to find my group, but it didn't work out that way and I started on my own.

It was sunny as we headed out, but the sky started to look dark and ominous about 10 miles into the route (see the route map, if you want to play along at home). As I passed the second break point at Valdasta (≅ 17 mi.), it was pretty dark. I thought about stopping to remove my sunglasses and turn on my blinky taillight but didn't. The pack hadn't yet thinned much, and I didn't want to have to stop and merge again. I think it was somewhere between the second and third break points that I crossed paths with RCarlino and got to visit with him for a couple miles before we got separated in some rolling hills.

By the third break point (≅ 28 mi.), it was so dark that some riders who had headlights were switching them on. Headlights, for Pete's sake! But I was averaging over 17 mph and feeling good, so I didn't stop.

A couple miles later, at around Blue Ridge, the first fat raindrops began plopping on and around us. And then the sky opened up. Within a minute, we were straining to see in the dark, through sheets of rain and steamy, droplet-covered glasses. Most riders slowed; others (the usual suspects) insisted on whipping by and then cutting back in front to spray huge rooster tails in our faces. Meanwhile, the more sensible of us did our best to stay upright and watched for cracks and debris that might be obscured by the water. And at least one of us wished he'd stopped to remove his sunglasses and turn on his blinky taillight.

As I approached Climax, I was soaking wet and shivering.** The temperature had dropped significantly, and the sleeveless jersey I'd worn in anticipation of stifling heat no longer seemed like a good idea. The water that filled my shoes was running out the heels, into my socks, and down my legs. My seat pad was full of the dirty water being thrown up by the rear wheel and through the mesh of the seat. It squished audibly as I moved. As the cool air moved across the saturated chamois in my shorts, I was reminded of George Costanza's protest: “I was in the pool! I was in the pool!”

This time, I pulled in to the rest stop. At around 35 miles out and after battling the rain for nearly 10 miles, I was ready for some pickle juice and a rest. I ran into Nelson (another RBENT buddy) and felt envy as I noted that he had fenders fitted to his Bacchetta Corsa. Meanwhile, I listened as a 30-something man pleaded with the driver of one of the supply trucks to give him a ride back to the start. The driver explained that he couldn't oblige, because it was a safety issue; but there was a look in his eyes that suggested he might be more afraid of a stampede, should he say ‘yes’.

With the rain still hammering down in sheets, I got back on my bike and carefully pulled out of the rest stop. With the thunder rumbling in the distance, I kept thinking of something I'd heard from some meteorologist or another: “Just because you don't see the lightning doesn't mean you're safe. If you can hear the thunder, you're within range to be struck.” Nice.

And then the rain stopped. A couple miles later, the sun came out. I spotted a familiar mostly-pink bike and a Liquigas jersey ahead, and rode up to wait for a break in the riders' conversation so I could say hello to Allez and Lance NotStrong. After a couple minutes – about the same time as Allez and Lance figured out who I was – I heard Jason and The Stradas calling to me from behind, and we rode on together to complete the route.

Per the Collin Classic web site, one of the annual challenges for the organizers is to find new roads for the ride. Every year, Collin County repaves more of the smooth country roads with filling-loosening large-aggregate chip seal, so “Bikin' Mike” Keel and his helpers should be applauded for their efforts. There was some chip seal, but with the exception of one short medium-rough stretch, it was smooth, smooth, smooth. The chicken soft tacos after the ride were tasty, and there were enough for everyone. I don't really need another ride t-shirt, but considering that I was still very damp from being rained on, I was grateful to have the one that came in my ride packet. It was nice to have something dry to change into before going into the air-conditioned high school to eat.

Despite the seeming chaos before the start, this 17th Collin Classic was as well organized as any of the five I've been a part of. Every year, the organizers listen to the feedback they get from the participants, and the effort they put into addressing complaints is a big part of what makes this one of the premier rides in the area, year after year.

Summary

Distance: 53.52 miles
Total time: 3 hours, 8 minutes
Average speed: 17.5 mph
Average/maximum heart rate: 162/188 bpm


* Because of the level of her spinal cord injury, Turtle doesn't sweat from her upper sternum down.
** I know who you are, and you can just stop it. Break point four was at the town of Climax, TX.

The long and winding road '08

As I look back on last year's post-ride report, I can see that I waxed rather poetic about my first MS 150 experience. This year's ride, though no less deserving, won't get quite the same treatment mostly because it's more difficult this year to find the time to wax.

Last year, we had rain the first day, high winds the second day, and generally gloomy weather all weekend. This year, we had two beautiful sunny days, and the winds were relatively kind to us. Even on the first day, when we bucked a headwind for the first half of the day, at least it was the first half of the day. The weather was slightly cooler this year, which balanced the sunshine and made for very comfortable riding weather.

If it sounds like I'm spending a lot of time talking about the weather, maybe it's because as I type this, the view out the window of my office building is of heavy rain, dark as night except for frequent flashes of lightning. This could have been our fate for the MS 150 – but it wasn't.

I can't say enough good things about my Wheeler Dealer teammates and the time we spent together on and off the road. My plan when I recruited Mr. and Mrs. Strada to ride with us this year was to form a three-Bacchetta juggernaut. I always have a blast riding with those two, but while they spent the first few months of the year doing long-distance rides in excess of 100 miles, I spent my weekends and evenings sequestered at a keyboard, desperately trying to keep my head above the alligators. So the bad news was that I was in no shape to keep up with them for the MS 150. The good news was that I fell in with Squirrelly Girl and a couple of our new team members and had a great time with them for the better part of both days.

This year, there were eight of us all together as we rolled into the Ft. Worth city limits, and it was an incredible feeling to finish those last 100 yards to the finish as a group. Our tireless manager shuttled us off to stow the bikes on the truck and see to our carbohydrate replenishment needs before heading back to the finish line to cheer our remaining two teammates across the finish line.

I've struggled all year with my climbing and was feeling pretty apprehensive about the second day and those nasty hills I remembered from last year. But in the end, the only half hill I had to walk was the same one I had to walk last year. The same ones I ground my way up last year, I ground my way up this year. My first day rolling average was within a tenth of a mile per hour of last year's first day, and thanks to the lack of a 25 mph headwind my second day average was actually .7 mph faster this year.

So, another 157.4 miles under the wheels. More importantly, I was able to raise nearly $945 for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society – nearly double last year's total.

Correction...

I received my accounting statement yesterday, and it shows my fundraising total to be $977. Maybe someone sneaked a check past me by sending it directly to the MS Society.

Does that make me a transvestite?

In the interest of full disclosure – and because I don't really have anyone else to make fun of write about, just now – I feel I should share something that happened this past weekend.

It was a bit brisk outside when I started getting myself together to ride Saturday morning, so I was procrastinating a bit about getting my stuff together. Finally, I'd convinced myself that it really wasn't that cold; and anyway, because the ride starts at 9:30, it always (okay, usually) warmed up nicely by the end of the first 10 miles or so. By the time I'd reached this decision, I was running close on time and dashed around the house preparing energy drink, putting my bike in the car, and finally throwing on the first jersey and shorts I found.

At the parking lot where we meet to ride, I finished the breakfast biscuit I'd picked up along the way and started unloading/assembling my bike. At the last minute, I thought to spray on some sun block and I remember thinking to myself that the elastic leg bands on my shorts seemed tight. Must be the hill training, I thought. My legs are getting bigger. The shorts also seemed just a bit shorter than I remembered. Woo-hoo! I thought. I finally must be getting my growing spurt!

We were about 10 miles into the ride (it had warmed up nicely) when my brain, in shuffle mode, replayed a conversation I'd had with Turtle off and on for a couple weeks.

Turtle: I'm missing a pair of my bike shorts. Do you think they might have gotten mixe in with yours?
Foo: Mmmm-hmm... that sounds fine.
Turtle: Seriously. I think they might be in your closet. Are you listening?
Foo: Huh?
Turtle: Would you check your closet to see if you got a pair of my bike shorts?
Foo: Why on earth would I have your shorts?
Turtle: [sighs]
Foo: Okay, sure. Just let me wrap up this bug fix I'm working on, and I'll go check. But I'm sure I would've noticed if I had any of your shorts.

When we stopped for a break at our usual spot, I dug out my cell phone and called Turtle to tell her I'd found her shorts.

Don't get me wrong. This isn't the first time I've worn women's clothing. There was that time back in the mid '80s when I dressed up as a nun for Hallowe'en (going to hell; got it). I guess what I found just a little amusing is that I almost couldn't tell the difference between a pair of women's shorts and my own.

On the books for 2008

I know what some of you are thinking: “Foo never writes about riding anymore. So he had a crash and wrecked his shoulder. So what? It's cycling, not rowing.”

Well, to these naysayers I'd just like to retort, “Nyehhhh!”

Thanks to the prompting of Squirrel Bait (remember her from last year's MS 150), a sizeable contingent from last year's team and one new member hit the road at 1pm to log our first 20 miles of 2008.

For those of you who like your images a bit more amusing, try on this recent submission to the Dictionary of Image for size. It's been PhotoShopped a little, but the only deviations from reality were the addition of the definition text and a bit of texturing. This water tower for the town of Bourbon, Missouri, is the real deal.

Kind of adds a whole new meaning to the expression, “There must be somethin' in the water”, doesn't it?

Christmas keepsake

On Christmas, while we were out in the garage opening our presents, my father-in-law walked over and handed me a small, heavy box secured with a rubber band. Inside, I found three well-used, brass-case pocket watches.

“I don't know anything about these,” he said. “Whether they're worth anything, I mean. I found them when I was going through some of the stuff we were redding up at Mom's house. They were Dad's, and you can see that one of them has his initials on it.”

And then he kind of shrugged. “Like I said, I don't know if they're worth anything.”

Well, they are – to me, at least. Maybe not in the monetary sense, but even if I weren't so fascinated with weathered old things with a sense of history about them, the real riches lay in the fact that my dad-in-law thinks enough of me to pass on these family treasures to me. Whether he sees them as such, or not, is entirely beside the point.

An added bonus is the design I found on the back of one of the cases, which depicts a bicycle racer. Based on the style of the clothes and the handlebars, I'd guess it was from the 1920s or so.

Saddle(d) up

After what seemed like a lot longer than the 16 days I actually was off the bike, I took advantage of my vacation day and the gorgeous, 70-degree weather to sneak out for a short ride around the neighborhood. Here's how I break it down:

Minus	Plus
My legs don't feel nearly as strong as they did earlier in the season.	I'd still rather ride than jog.
I had to come to a full stop twice for the same school bus (in accordance with my status as a vehicle), which had its flashers on and its stop sign out.	I grinned and rolled my eyes at the driver, and he cracked up. And the kids cheered me on as they disembarked.
Some of the cheering sounded like "Get a car, old man."	At least they weren't confused by my "mannaries" and got my gender right.
One woman pulling out of her driveway looked right at me and kept creeping forward, seemingly intent on making me stop for her.	Because she was looking right at me, I was able to convey, by adept employment of pantomime, that I was fit'n ta go all Texas Chainring Massacre on her driver-side door. She stopped.
The seam of the cheap-ass chamois in my new Bellwether shorts chafed the heck out of my right thigh.	Fortunately, it was worst when I was walking, and at least it wasn't The Boys that got rubbed the wrong way. And I now know what kind of shorts not to buy in the future.
At 17.9 miles and an average speed of 16.8 mph, it wasn't the memorable sort of ride to which I'd typically devote blog space.	This posting should reassure Slow Joe Recumbo, who was starting to wonder if I would ever post anything about cycling again.

Now playing: Rob Dickinson, Fresh Wine For The Horses

Ride report: Tour de Paris (Paris, TX)

The 90-mile drive to Paris in the pre-dawn hour was a little spooky because of heavy fog along the way, but the day dawned sunny and clear. I rolled into the Paris High School parking lot at a little after 7am, started unloading my gear, and immediately started streaming sweat. As I was preparing to leave the house, I couldn't decide between a short-sleeved jersey and a sleeveless one. I was glad I'd brought both and chose the sleeveless.

At a little after 7:30, I'd finished with my preparations—sunblock, HRM, bike assembled—and gave The Stradas a call. They were still about 15 minutes from the high school and unlikely to be ready to go by start time, so I went ahead and began making my way toward the starting line.

A few minutes before 8:00, the organizers made a few remarks and then handed the microphone over to a gentleman introduced as Lance Armstrong's dad. He went on for a couple minutes about how the Tour de France didn't hold quite the same interest for him as it had in years past. The riders laughed, but I was distracted. I seemed to recall that Lance didn't have any kind of relationship with his father and referred to him as "the DNA donor." It seemed rather... uninformed for the Tour de Paris organizers to have this guy as a special guest when Lance Armstrong didn't even acknowledge him. Turns out I was the uninformed one, though. When I got home, I looked it up and discovered Terry Armstrong is Lance's step-father—and one who's obviously quite proud of his adopted son, at that.

Aaanyway... we got off promptly at 8:00 and, because I'd managed to find a spot toward the front of the group, I had very little of the claustrophobia I experienced last year, at the start. Last year, I was toward the back with all the wobblies; this year, I was up with the hammerheads. We took off, and most of the folks around me coalesced into several pace lines. Those who didn't rode in a predictably, orderly fashion, and in no time at all I was in clear air. At least, I was in clear air until I caught up with one of the pace lines, which was writhing back and forth across the entire width of the lane. So I passed them. And then I passed another. I finished the first 10 miles with an average speed of 21 mph.

Between miles 10 and 20, the pace lines reeled me in again. As they passed, one of the guys smirked and said, "Guess you're not as as fast as you thought, huh?" I told him that I reckoned I could keep up the pace just fine, if I'd been sitting on and sucking wheel all day, instead of going it alone. He just grunted and sucked on past.

When I made my first stop at mile 30, I had an average of 20.4 mph, but it was starting to heat up. The roads were rougher than I'd remembered them from last year, and I'd come to the realization that I might have mismanaged my resources on the first half. I hung around at the stop for longer than I normally would have done, hoping to hook up with the bunch of RBENT folks I thought were supposed to be in attendance. Corsa Ken arrived after a bit, but no sign of The Stradas or anyone else, so I took off before my legs got any stiffer.

I could tell I was fading. Though there were no serious climbs on the route (and no rollers of consequence until we hit Rt. 19), my legs felt rubbery on every incline. I went into conservation mode, spinning more and tucking everything in on the slight downhills to get aero and conserve energy. Still, I must have been doing better than some people. Somewhere around mile 35, I picked up a tail and towed a very fit-looking young fellow on a cyclocross bike for about 5 miles before he peeled off at a rest stop. He expressed his appreciation but never offered to take a pull. The moral? Don't let any DF rider tell you that he can't get a draft off a recumbent.

At mile 50, I "had" to stop again. I needed pickle juice and a few minutes off the bike in front of the gasoline-powered cooling fan that was set up there. Corsa Ken showed up a few minutes later, and Steve Strada shortly after that.

Steve was looking strong and only stopped because we yelled at him. So strong, in fact, that when we headed out again, I could tell that I was holding him back. Once we got into the final stretch and the rollers, I admitted to him that I was cooked and that he shouldn't let me hold him back. He didn't. Meanwhile, I continued on in energy conservation mode, feeling every one of the days during June when I should have been riding and getting stronger... but hadn't.

And yet, as I was grinding my teeth and spinning my way up one climb, I passed a DF rider in a Rolling Stones jersey.

"Hey," he said. "I'll toss you a rope and you can pull me, okay?"

"Good luck with that," I told him, but I was thinking, Up yours. This Little Engine That Could is through towing roadies for the day. He passed me, but I caught him (and passed him) once we made the turn on to the smooth straight stretch leading to the high school. "No fair!" he called out, laughing. "You're coasting!"

I dug in and cranked it up to 23 mph, trying to bring my average up a tick from 18.9 to 19, but I never quite made it. That said, "nearly 19" is a new record for me at any distance, so I mark it as a good day. My heart rate monitor showed that I'd averaged 165 bpm (86% of my maximum) for the duration of the ride.

Special congratulations go out to dallasbikr, who finished 100K on a fixie with an 18+ average. Dude, you're sick!

Ride report: RBENT club ride (Celina, TX)

On the RBENT forum, one of the members commented on his disappointment with the Mesquite Rodeo Ride, noting that one of his usual routes had better roads with less traffic, and he didn't have to pay to ride on them. One thing led to another, and before he knew it he had gotten roped into organizing a Saturday club ride showcasing 50+ miles of his favorite route.

It's been tricky finding time to ride during the past couple months, what with all the rain we've been having. As the date for the ride approached, we all watched the weather reports very carefully and hoped that we'd catch a break in the weather, and we did—sort of. There was no significant chance of rain in the forecast, and by 8am when we headed out from the quaint little town square at Celina, it was sunny with blue skies and fluffy white clouds. It was humid and was going to get hot, but I was slathered in sun block and carried nearly two liters of water, as well as a bottle of Accelerade. No problem.

We got our legs warmed up and before long were cranking along the wide shoulder of FM-289 at around 20 mph.

Mechanicals 1-3

About ten miles up the road, at Gunter, there was a problem. One of the DF (a.k.a., "normal bike") riders who had joined us had a flat. A couple people stayed back to help while the rest of us went on to wait at a convenience store a short distance up the road. And wait. And wait. (We later found out that he changed the first flat but didn't get the tube seated correctly and immediately flatted again.) While we were waiting, one of the guys noticed that his rear tire had a bulge. After some discussion, he decided it would be best to turn back.

Finally, we were back on the road, heading west along FM-121 toward Lake Ray Roberts. Traffic was a non issue, for once, as our route had been chosen expressly for its scenery and wide shoulders or low traffic.

Mechanical 4

We were enjoying the sun and the scenery when someone called out "FLAT!" We pulled off, and the victim set about replacing his punctured tube. Mrs. Strada and I stood baking in the sun while discussing the luck deficit that was developing, and the cruel twists of fate intertwined with a career as a professional bowler.

Finally, we... well, you get the idea. We turned south on FM-377 toward Pilot Point. More nice scenery and great company. As we entered Ray Roberts State Park and passed over a thin finger of the lake, we were all amazed at how high the water was. Last year's many exposed tree stumps were hidden, and the water level was into the canopies of trees that normally stand on the bank, well up from the usual water line. We wondered what we'd see when we crossed the dam, further on in our ride.

Mechanicals 5 and 6

About a mile from FM-455, where we'd turn and head west over the dam, I heard the dreaded "FSSSsssSSSsssSSSsss!" that signaled yet another puncture. This time, it was me. I called out "Mechanical!" and rolled into the parking lot next to a strip mall while there was still a little air in the tire. I think I pulled off the fastest tube change of the day, but maybe it only seemed that way because I was busy. Still, it was long enough for our bad luck to find another one of the DF riders, who broke his chain. I'm not sure how he managed to repair it, but he'd already headed back home by the time I finished changing my flat. Or maybe someone came and picked him up. I didn't find out about the problem until we were all back on the road.

We headed west on FM-455 toward the dam. By this time, we had spent so much time stopped by the side of the road that the heat had caught up with us. In the heat of summer, a successful ride is as much about staying on the move and completing the ride before it gets hot as it is about going the distance. The combination of heat, distance, and having to warm up our muscles after every repair stop was starting to wear on everyone, and our pace had slowed by a few miles per hour. Chip seal that hadn't seemed so bad in the early stages of the route was now drawing complaints from a couple of the riders who had lost their happy thoughts.

And then the remaining DF rider (see mechanicals 1 and 2) flatted.

Mechanicals 7 and 8

The poor guy. Mr. Strada stayed back with him while the rest of us rolled slowly on, in search of some shade. There was none.

A cell phone rang. It was Mr. Strada. "Um... we need a 700c tube. Does anyone have one?"

Most DF road bikes use 700cm rims, and so there's usually an abundance of spare tubes of the correct size. Unfortunately, on this day, the two other DF riders had had to turn back, and most of the remaining bikes were Bacchettas with dual 650cm wheels. Fortunately, one of the recumbents was of the big rear/little front wheel variety, and its rider pedaled back to donate his spare 700cm tube. Normally, this wouldn't be a big deal, but on a ride like the one we were having, the generosity of such a gesture was huge and was not lost on me.

Meanwhile, we waited, baking in the sun. We re-applied sun block. We finally decided that the best way to keep cool would be to keep moving, so we headed out at a leisurely pace across the dam. Halfway across, the cell phone rang. The flat was fixed and we were ready to move on. We returned to where the mechanics were waiting and were just about to roll out when...

"Damn," the DF rider said. "I just flatted again."

He hadn't even gotten back on the bike. Out of options, he found himself some shade to sit in and called the DF riders who'd turned back earlier to come and pick him up.

Denouement

We made it through the return trip without any further mechanical mishaps, but by this time everyone was dragging and feeling the effects of the heat. I continued to drink from my water bladder, but my breakfast was long gone and the snacks and energy gel hadn't done much to perk me up. Our pleasant ride was rapidly turning into an epic.

At Aubrey, we turned east on FM-428 for the home stretch back to Celina and a series of rolling and not-so-rolling hills. One of the guys, who normally rides a fast, sexy lowracer was having a tough time. "Anything less than a 20 mph average just isn't worth bringing the racer," he'd said earlier in the day. It was a decision he had come to regret, I suspect.

I was feeling a bit beaten down too, but I concentrated on pedaling in circles and remembering to drink often, all the while watching my average speed fall. When we rolled into the town square, my computer showed 60.17 miles. All it would take is a few leisurely laps up and down the lightly-traveled streets to complete two more miles and a full metric century—but I was done. I had developed a thousand-yard stare, and my legs felt rubbery. I needed air conditioning and food.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been a really fun ride (instead of a pleasant epic). The company was great, and it was fun riding with a bunch of fast recumbents, but the heat, the bad luck, and the fact that I really haven't been on the bike for a month made for a long day. I'll be ready to try it again when the rain stops and I've had a chance to get acclimated to the heat.

I'll bring more than my usual two spare tubes, however.

Dry Spell Outlasts Dry Humor. Film at 11:00

I know, it's unconscionable to go as long as I have without posting, but while my current work situation doesn't provide much in the way of entertaining anecdotes, I'm pleased to report that I seem to have appeared on my boss's boss's radar. Is it presumptuous of me to dream that I might someday battle my way out of the cubicle and into an office again?

Maybe not, but I'm far too occupied with exceeding expectations (and getting noticed for it) to concern myself with that, just now.

Meanwhile...

I rediscovered some bicycling poetry I wrote a couple years ago. Since I can't seem to keep track of this stuff, I'm archiving it here.

There once was a C++ coder
Who was known for his powerful odor.
He said, "I commute
And it's hot out, to boot;
But my bike, she's content 'cause I rode 'er."

I'm a big fan of Harry Graham, so...

Willie up the hillside spun,
The price his burning hamstrings paid.
When halfway up he said, "I'm done."
Poor William didn't make the grade.

Willie on a bike of red
Bonked because he had no Gu.
He wore no helmet on his head,
And now he's dead: he bonked it too.

And a wee limerick...

There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose bike was so tough he could huck* it.
He rode off the edge
Of a very high ledge—
They retrieved his remains with a bucket.

* A mountain biking term meaning to... well, throw oneself off a cliff without a second thought, basically.

Ride report: Collin Classic (McKinney, TX)

The 16th Collin Classic was a very different ride from the 14th Collin Classic I first took part in, back in 2005. That one was beastly hot, the 50-something mile route was crazy with large-aggregate chip seal, and I was still suffering on a DF bike. After what seemed at the time like an ungodly amount of climbing, we had to battle up one of the vicious hills on the frontage road running south along US-75—only to arrive at McKinney High School to find that the Chipotle eats we'd been promised had been replaced with jelly sandwiches or rubbery hot dogs. Some people were irate because the t-shirts had run out, and they'd been given headsweats instead.

The Classic took a lot of knocks that year, and the ride director has since worked very hard to address the criticisms. In 2006, there was a lot less chip seal, the giant hill at the end had been deleted from the route, and there was pizza and fajita tacos for afters.

This year, the improvements to the 55-mile route (in fact, 53.72 miles) continued. There were still plenty of hills to climb, but I can't remember a ride route that had such a generous portion of smooth, well-maintained pavement. There was a small amount of chip seal, but it didn't feel particularly rough to me. Either it had been broken in, or running my tires a couple PSI softer this year helped. There was no wind to fight, and the heat wasn't too bad.

I had another very good day.

Mr. Strada, Corsa Ken, Mrs. Strada, and a boy named Foo.
(Photo courtesy of www.bicycle-stuff.com.)

I started off with The Stradas and Corsa Ken, but that didn't last more than 100 yards. Thanks to the crush of riders and a mechanical glitch involving Mrs. Strada's computer sensor, I quickly became separated from The Stradas. Not long after, I lost Ken as well. Without any social governor to keep my hammerhead wanna-be tendencies in check, I set about the business of passing... well, anyone between me and a vacant stretch of road. I hadn't started out feeling particularly spry, but my legs warmed up and the HRM showed an average around 160 bpm (not unreasonable, for me). By mile 30, the crowd had thinned slightly, and I pulled in to the rest stop to wait for the Stradas so we could regroup. When they arrived, we compared computer readings and found we'd been averaging 18.5 mph to that point.

A bit further down the road, Mrs. Strada took a spill at a railroad crossing and got banged up a bit. She's a trooper, though, and after taking a few minutes to clean her injuries, we were all back on the road. We all made it across the finish line at around 3 hours and 15 minutes, in plenty of time to chow down on questionable-looking (but muy delicioso) soft tacos filled with a mixture of eggs, potatoes, and some sort of meat-like substance that may or may not have been chicken.

It was in the cafeteria that I finally caught up with LanceNotStrong, Allez, and Allez's husband. I'd run into rcarlino before the ride, and he said Lance was looking for me, but I never was able to spot their group during the ride. I took the opportunity to interrupt their conversation for a few minutes before leaving them to analyze the contents of their tacos.

Notwithstanding my glowing review of the Wild Ride, the 16th Collin Classic might have replaced it as my best for-pay ride experience of this season, if the route had been about 10 miles longer and if I'd spent less time separated from my riding buddies. As it is, I'm pretty pleased at having finished a ride of that length, with hills, with an 18.1 mph rolling average.

On the juice

Lest any of you be tempted to suspect that I'm kidding about the pickle juice that's become increasingly popular with cyclists over the last year or so, I present Exhibit A.

Or maybe Exhibit P. Or D. Just... look at the picture.

I know what you're thinking, because I thought the same thing: "Eww. Nasty." And yes, all else being equal, you won't catch me lounging in front of the TV, sipping this stuff after a hard day at work. That's what a nice, cold dunkelweisen is for.

On the other hand, when I'm 40 miles into a hilly bike ride and sweating like a pig, this stuff is a real picker-upper. Still doesn't taste great... but better.

Meanwhile...

I found this on my camera while retrieving the picture of the pickle juice. Turtle's out of town for the weekend and may enjoy this shot of her baby girl.

Ride report: Mesquite Rodeo Ride (Mesquite, TX)

I've been back on the bike and participating in charity rallies since 2004, but I had never tried the Mesquite Rodeo Bike Ride before. At the urging of the Stradas and a couple of DF buddies from the Plano club, I signed myself up for the 56-mile course. Turtle signed up for the 20.

It takes the two of us a bit longer than most to get our collective show on the road and to get unloaded and set up, so we arrived at the Resistol arena (or Mesquite Convention Center... whatever) at around 7am. As a result, we got a prime handicap parking spot next to the hotel and set about setting up her handcycle and my bike. And then we waited, watching for the RBENT bunch we were supposed to meet. And waited. By a few minutes before 8:00, Turtle had returned from her pre-ride pit stop, and we still hadn't seen a single familiar face on a recumbent. I later learned that this was because everyone else had parked on the complete opposite side of the convention center.

But no matter. With a few minutes to spare, we made our way to the starting pack where we got Turtle introduced to a couple RBENT folks doing the short route, and I hooked up with my bunch. The start was... awkward. Fred Flintstoning it up a grade to start on a wet street with a bunch of high-strung DF riders is not the ideal way to begin a ride, but we managed and set about picking our way through the pack toward clear air. The Stradas and I quickly got separated from the rest of our group.

Early on, I was impressed with the traffic control, not only for the motorists but also in the way that we cyclists were funneled to where we needed to be by means of liberal application of road cones. Sure, it made things a little dodgy having to at the same time avoid cones knocked over by inattentive riders and greasy-looking puddles on the streets—but there were half a dozen intersections and lane transitions that would have been much less safe without them. Route layout and intersection were, with few exceptions, better than for the Wild Ride, and that's saying something. I thought the route was a nice mix of urban and country riding, and while I could have done without some of the teeth-rattling, multiply-patched sections of pavement, sometimes that's just the price you pay for beautiful scenery and the not-entirely-unpleasant tang of cow poo in your nostrils.

Photos Copyright © 2007 by flyinglazboy

The route was, at once, less hilly than I'd heard in the past and more hilly than more recent reports had led me to believe. Maybe it was just that I was having an off day (or feeling the effects of not having ridden in nearly two weeks), but it seemed like we did an awful lot of climbing for the less than 1500 feet of elevation gain the ride is supposed to have. But it was all good, and the best part is that instead of getting smacked by the thunderstorms that were predicted, we got a nice, sunny day.

And Blue Bell ice cream for afters.

I kind of wish that there had been a chance to log my sixth metric century (100 km = about 62.5 miles) of the year, but given that I thought I might have to downshift to one of the shorter routes because of the weather, 56 miles and change is just fine. Motorists were sharing the road nicely (except the woman who nearly dislocated her shoulder rolling down her window to spit and scream obscenities at us), we didn't have any unpleasant encounters with racer boys, and the company couldn't have been better. Unless...

Nah. Scratch that. I don't know if Jessica Alba even knows how to ride a bike.

Ride report: Richardson Wild Ride (Richardson, TX)

For most of the early part of this year, I was focused on training and raising money for my MS 150 ride, but today Turtle and I took part in our first charity ride of the year.


The Richardson Wild Ride benefits the Richardson Regional Cancer Center and is held in conjunction with the Wildflower Arts and Music Festival each May. I rode in the rally two years ago, before I made the switch from my Trek 1500 road bike to the recumbent. That year, the weather was sunny and surprised a lot of us with a high temperature in the upper 90s. I went out fast with the long riders, bonked hard before the second rest stop, and barely managed to limp back to the finish for 40 miles. Still, what I'd seen of the event impressed me, and I was eager to see how things looked from the seat of my recumbent this year.

When we rolled out of bed at 5:20 this morning, I heard rain pounding on the roof. I groaned inwardly, because Turtle has a history of having to skip rides because of bad weather, and she was really looking forward to this one. But a quick check of the weather radar revealed that the rain was much lighter elsewhere and would likely pass through before the start of the ride. We continued our preparations, and by 6:30 the rain had stopped. At 8:00, when the ride started, the streets were still damp and puddly in spots, but we weren't getting rained on. And it was cool. Oh bliss!

Squirrel Bait—or as she has officially requested to be addressed, "Squirrelly Girl"—was there too, and we planned to start at the rear of the pack with Turtle so that we could ride out with her. Turtle was headed out to do the 16-mile route on her handcycle; SG and I would ride together as far as the second rest stop, which was the turnaround for the 40-mile route. I'd decide at that point whether to return with her or continue on the 64-mile route.

Starting at the back, we knew that we'd have to fight our way up through the slower riders, but by 15 miles the pack had thinned out a bit. When we go to rest stop 2, SG stuck to her plan and continued on the 40-mile route. I was feeling strong and headed into the hills to the east of Lake Lavon to bag my 5th metric century for the year.

At rest stop 3, I pulled in for a snack and a potty break, and I was pleased to see Mr. & Mrs P, a couple friends I'd met on a previous ride were standing next to their brand new, fire engine red Bacchetta Stradas. We rode on together, forming our own little pace line and having a ball.

See, one of the things about recumbents is that our ride rhythm is a bit different than wedgies. We tend to descend faster, while the wedgies are riding their brakes. Since we have to work harder on climbs, we prefer to fly down hills and use the momentum to reduce the amount of work we have to put into a following climb. So I often find myself penned in behind a glob of wedgies, losing all my momentum and then having to work my tail off on the following climb because the wedgies don't even start climbing until they absolutely have to.

It was quite relaxing to ride with a couple people whose rhythms and ability level were similar, so no one had to wait up for anyone else. And we got some strange looks from our fellow riders along the way, including a priceless moment during a climb when we passed a line of wedgies. On the way down the hill following the climb, MrsP rolled up next to me.

"Did you hear that?" she asked. I hadn't, so she explained. "I didn't get all of it, but one of the women in that group we just passed said something about us passing them, and one of the guys told her, 'Don't worry. They won't be able to keep it up for long.'"

They were right, of course. Once we got out of the rolling hills, we did ease the pace to 17 mph or so, but we never did see that group again. I guess they couldn't keep up our pace for long either.

When we arrived at the finish, we thought it would be neat to line up across the road, side by side, so the event photographer would get a shot of the three of us together. At least, until we discovered that there was no even photographer at the finish line this year. Ah well. We just consoled ourselves by sitting under a tree with Turtle, Sarah, and CliffyB while noshing on cold cheese pizza.

And the sun came out. It was a very good day and among the most fun of the rallies I've ridden during the past few years.

In terms of the ride organization itself, it's the about the best I've ever seen, from registration and packet pick up, to parking direction, to staging at the start. The rest stops are not as extravagant as some, but when you get to the finish, it's pizza and beverages galore. Traffic control on this ride is outstanding from beginning to end, with peace officers controlling most intersections and volunteer flagmen on some of the busier streets to make sure riders make needed lane changes in time. The only possible down side is that riders can become complacent and ride right through un-controlled intersections, assuming that they have right-of-way—but that's absolutely not the fault of the organizers. Another knock peculiar to Turtle's situation is that they hadn't provided a single handicap-accessible porta-john. She was pretty hot about that, but the ride director made it right, comping Turtle's ride fees for both this year and next year's ride, as well as giving his heartfelt promise that the oversight would not be repeated next year.

Thus making the Richardson Wild Ride one of the premier rallies in North Texas.

Just... a little while... longer

Just another couple days and I should get part of my life back. Brain cells and fingers left idle in the wake of my indentured web servitude... [sob] ...well, the mind bloggles at the possibilities.

In the meantime, check out this funky (in the words of the photographer) shot of the bunch of us waiting to roll out on the first day of the MS 150. I think it's rad.



...and one of my favorite shots from the whole weekend: Turtle congratulating me after I came across the finish line.

Copyright © 2007 Cessna395

Now playing: Drivin' and Cryin', Fly Me Courageous

The long and winding road

We've all heard the expression "as the crow flies", right? Well, it has nothing whatsoever to do with this past weekend's MS 150. If one were to pop up a map on Google or MapQuest or Yahoo!, he (or she) might be inclined to observe that there's no way the distance between Frisco and Ft. Worth adds up to 150 miles. I'm here to tell you that there most certainly is—if you take the scenic route.

Such a scenic route would include little-known dots on the map, such as Rhome and Dido. It would pass through the sleepy environs of Prosper and Ponder and Krum (but not quite Krugerville). It would cross Lake Ray Roberts and Eagle Mountain Lake. There would be an abundance of wildflowers and longhorn cattle and people waving from lawn chairs in their front yards.

There would be wind and rain on the first day, and long steep hills (and more wind) on the second. And at the end, there would be friends and family, some jumping up and down, some waving from their wheelchairs—but all cheering their faces off. There would be a jumpin' band playing, and tents with Cajun food and liquid carbohydrate replenishment.

And sore muscles. And a sort of vague sense of joy, not so much because the headwinds and hills were over, but because of a sense of having accomplished something for a worthy cause, in the names of others who could not do so for themselves.

We had a freakin' blast, wind and rain be damned.

Postus Scriptum

It has been brought to my attention that there was no comment link at the end of this posting, and sure enough when I looked I found that comments and backlinks were disabled. I didn't do it intentionally, so maybe Blogger burped. Or they've helpfully changed my defaults.

T-minus three days...

Well, more or less. I could probably geek out and embed a sly little niblet of JavaScript into this post to accurately count down the hours until the Dallas/Foat Wuth MS 150's Saturday morning launch time. I could... if I weren't so dadburned busy.

Tightened deadlines and paring of the development staff at work means I hit the ground running every day and don't slow down until I've put in my 9½ hours. I'm not looking for sympathy. Save that for the folks who got the pink slips. All I'm saying is that some very prime blogging time is being utilized more productively than in the past.

When I'm not at work, I'm doing homeowner stuff and handling the conscripted webmaster duties for all the Ride of Silence organizers who have waited until the last couple weeks to submit their event information. That won't let up until after May 16.

But I'm still here, and I haven't closed up shop. I've actually had a few things I felt were interesting enough to post about, but I got to work, got busy, and by the time I was in a position to post again, I... uh... what was I saying?

My neck's back to what passes for normal in my (wait for it) neck of the woods. The legs are strong and ready to roll. I still need to give my bike and gear a final going-over, but it's supposed to rain for the next couple days, so I have time.

As long as the weather behaves itself, it's going to be a great weekend. The troops—Turtle and assorted other family and well-wishers—all have their marching orders and will be busy getting us riders where we need to go before heading out to the lunch stop to help make sammiches. To top it all off, we received our cool team jerseys from a generous benefactor. Sweet, no?

Besides looking cool, there's a bit of symbolism in the design. Red, if not the MS Society's official color, sure does show up on a lot of little rubber bracelets and on the Champions of MS bandannas. I'm told by people who actually have luck to test that black chips are $100, and green chips are $25. So the chips on the front of the jersey total $150. I hope I don't have to explain why that's a significant number.

On the back, four playing cards bear the faces of the five friends and loved ones for whom we're riding. I think that's the coolest part of the design, and it's kind of a shame that it won't be visible while I'm riding because I'm basically lying on my back.

Finally, I want to thank those of you who have sponsored me in this endeavor. My blogger friends have made up the bulk of my contributors, and I find that pretty darned amazing.

Weekend update

But you've already used that as the title of another post, some of you are thinking. Well, hush. It's descriptive, it's Monday, and honestly... what difference does it make? It's not as if anyone's actually going to go back through the archived postings and become confused if two of them have the same title.

Speaking of being confused, maybe someone can explain something to me (or at least provide a non-obvious explanation). When an Amber Alert is issued, we learn the general circumstances under which a child has gone missing. We learn the make, model, and color of the vehicle, that it has a dent in the left rear door, and that it has a bumper sticker reading "My kid beat up your honor student." With a bullet hole in one corner. We learn what the suspected abductor was wearing, down to the team logo on his ball cap, and that the child was wearing pink. Pink t-shirt, pink capris, pink tennis shoes.

Am I the only one who sees it as being rather disingenuous to omit the race of the child and/or that of the suspected abductor from their description(s)?

Yeah, yeah... I get it. The radio station doesn't want to risk being accused of perpetuating this or that racial stereotype. But if I'm supposed to be on the lookout for the child, wouldn't it be useful to have me looking for a white guy pulling on the arm of a black child, if that's the case? Sure, knowing that they're traveling in a clapped out, '90 Accord is helpful, but there are just so many of them smoking around the metroplex.

I'm just sayin'.

But I digress

With my bloodstream full of anti-inflammatories, I've officially lowered the Foo Irascibility Advisory System threat level to a more manageable yellow. I didn't go out for any significant training miles on Saturday, wanting to ease back into riding to see how the ol' C3-C6 would tolerate it. Instead, Turtle and I went out for a pleasant hour of tooling around the immediate neighborhoodplex. It was a bit windy (and what Spring day in Texas isn't?), so we agreed that I'd ride ahead, double-back, and repeat. That way we'd be sort of riding together, but I wouldn't have to ride at her pace, and she wouldn't have to push herself beyond what felt comfortable for her. 15 miles for me; 8 for her (though I'm sure she'll correct me if I've remembered it wrong). Lunch at Subway.

Sunday morning, it was time for Dawn Patrol and a metric century with St. Bob and Squirrel Bait. At 63 °F, the temperature was nearly 20 degrees warmer than when we started our ride last weekend, but the stiff southern wind and overcast skies made for a gloomy sort of day. That was good news for us, because it made for a good training day. The homeliness of the day kept a lot of the usual runners and wobblies inexperienced cyclists away from The Rock, and the wind made us work—for half the loop, at least.

Nature break (a gratuitous double entendre)

I think it was after our fourth loop (~36 miles) that we made a brief stop for potty breaks and energy bars. As I munched on a Blackberry Sawdust Clif bar*, a squirrel with a very puffy tail boldly scampered up to me. It sat up on its haunches and watched me intently, eyes bright and whiskers twitching.

"Hey, SB," I called to Squirrel Bait. "Your little friend's back."

"Ew! Make it go aw—"

She didn't finish, instead stopping to watch the squirrel. Sensing the potential for a handout, it had cranked the cuteness up to Full and would have batted its eyelashes at her (if it had any).

"Aw... he is kinda cute, isn't he?"

The squirrel puffed up its tail and shook it to signal its excitement and a desire to be our best friend. I broke off a chunk of my Clif bar and tossed it in the squirrel's direction, and it leapt into the air. Time slowed, Matrix-like, so that we could fully appreciate the back flip with full twist the squirrel executed before snatching the crumb from the air and landing in a graceful crouch on the sidewalk.

"Go, Neo!" I said, genuinely impressed.

The squirrel was busily munching its chunk of chewy energy bar, but spared me a glance and seemed to wink conspiratorially.

Meanwhile...

St. Bob had been on the phone, checking in at home. There was a smallish emergency that was going to cut his ride short—and Squirrel Bait's, as well, since they'd carpooled.

To make a long story a bit shorter, I ended up going off on my own so that I'd be sure to get in my metric before my lovely bride started looking at the clock and worrying (as she is wont to do). I considered going for some extra distance, but by the time I'd finished my seventh lap, I'd had enough of the wind and the racer wannabes and gave that a miss. I ended with 65.5 miles at an average of 16 mph.

Later in the day, I got a call from St. Bob who wanted to be sure I'd made out okay, finishing on my own.

I don't call him St. Bob for nothing.

He told me that when he and Squirrel Bait finished their last lap and returned to the parking lot, the park maintenance guy who had tried to help Bob with his mechanical problem last week was there. He asked about Bob's bike problem and whether they'd had a good ride, just making conversation.

Finally, he asked if they'd seen his squirrel, and it turns out that the bold little critter I'd fed isn't just some random rodent. Her name is "Sylvia".

Who knew?

Reporting in... Suh!

After bagging on the Colder Than Crap Century,* I turned right around on Sunday and logged my first metric century (100 kilometers or, in this case, about 65 miles) of the year. At 45 degrees, it made for a very chilly start, but the wind had blown itself out and the sun was shining. By mid-morning, we were stopping every 20 miles or so to peel off layers of clothing. I felt strong all day and had a great training ride.

Monday morning, I was well into my first major neck flare-up of the year. It had nothing to do with the previous day's ride, but with all the whipsawing of the weather I'd suspected it was coming. By that afternoon, I could no longer hold my head completely upright and could barely turn my head. The treatment options: a Turtle-imposed freeze on all evening laptop sessions, and a trip to the neurologist for some new prescriptions. The former (and my load at work) accounts for the lack of postings to this blog and the ones I visit; the latter explains why I'm once again able to turn my head without seeing stars.

Looks like I'm back in business.

* Polar opposite of the Hotter Than Hell Hundred, you might say. Get it? Polar opposite?

Bunny update

Some of you may be wondering about our nest of rodents little furry darlings. Last Friday, just as our nasty storms were rolling in, I went out to check on them. Their eyes were open by that time, and the biggest of the litter eyed me suspiciously as I approached.

A teenager already? Ah... they grow up so fast, I thought.

"Well, Señor Conejito," I said aloud. "Are you and your buddies ready? There's about to be a lot of rain, so you'll maybe want to climb off the other kids so they don't drown."

It eyed me for a couple seconds and suddenly scrabbled over the lip of the nest, scampered along the fence line, and wriggled under. I could see Turtle watching me out the kitchen window, waving her hands and mouthing something that looked like Go get him! Go get him! I shrugged at her and headed back inside as fat droplets of rain began plopping on the concrete patio.

Turtle continued to peer through my binoculars out the kitchen window as the rain pounded down. Two more... three more emerged from the nest and milled around in the downpour. We haven't seen a sign of them since, but I'm sure they're fine.

Probably digging an elaborate warren under the foundation of my house as I type this.