Coming to you live from stage 20 of the Vuelta, and reporting whilst still marginally sober. Racers are coming in fast on the 30+ min time trial, with several overlapping at the finish. We’re parked at a beer garden along the last little stretch, having run the last 10 km of the course earlier this morning (no rental bikes to be found, so we went primitive).

Several observations from my first time live at a grand tour. First, this is awesome. Second, cycling is hard (related observation from my mother-in-law: “these guys are really suffering”). Third, cycling looks cooler with castles in the background (sorry USA). Finally, if my 5 month old son, currently sleeping despite the crowd, were to ride professionally, it would be at least 2029 before he was back at the Vuelta.

Picture is an unknown rider coming up the last incline and rounding the corner to the finish. Not a bad shot with an iPhone.

Oh, and happy birthday to the editor-in-chief: Frank, the fixie-curious flatlander.

Wait, new update; we just met David Millar, today’s winner, out on the town. He was happy to see some fans, but had no team gear left to distribute…. So he gave my wife the Garmin socks he raced in, right off his feet. They’re in the sink at the hostal right now….

For those of you squinting, it’s a Specialized Rock Hopper, circa 1988.  This museum piece is my ride of choice when visiting my in-laws in Boise, ID.  It’s perfect for the miles and miles of dry single-track in the foothills outside of town.  Well, perfect if you consider your joints to be disposable.  Anyway, I logged a few thousand feet of vert on this puppy, and enjoyed every minute.  A few details, like the threaded headset that need two full turns to tighten and remove the “death rattle,”  as well as the luxurious combination of running shoes and flat pedals.  Hey, take what you can get, right?  A day on a bike is a good day.

The tour has been over for a week now, not that I really noticed.  And that should have been a capital ‘T’ in “tour”, right?  Mea culpa.  And a yawn. Don’t get me wrong –I have nothing against the tour.  I even think the route was fine (they rode their butts off around France, what more do you want?).

I’m just not much of spectator.  I’d rather do.  Let me make a more direct analogy: I’d rather have sex than watch porn.  Dig?  So when the tour ends, it’s a welcome return to focus on my own riding.  No commentary, no sponsors, no EPO, just a skinny white guy suffering up a hill — which is right where I want to be.

But here’s the hypocrisy: I just learned that I will be on site for the final two stages of the Vuelta, and I got really excited.  (The trip to Spain is for a wedding, and the timing is purely coincidence.)  So why, if I’m ambivalent to someone else’s suffering, or success, on a bike, am I so excited to be there? This required some soul searching, aided by alcohol, bien sur.

The answer is pretty simple: chance.  The chance that something unusual, something unexpected, will happen.  An early break will hold out against the freight train of humanity chasing it.  A lone climber will light up a 10% grade and summit with a 2:00 lead.  A sprinter will take a straight line, never glance back, and hit the line with clear air behind him.

Chance is enough of a reason for me to watch.  On any given day, any rider could win a stage– that’s exciting.  Of course, the days also add up, and that, I confess, is also worth watching. Ansel Adams said, “Chance favors those who are prepared.”  I bet a few tour champions would agree.

I just rode around Lake Washington on my single speed. “So what, you pussy?” I imagine you are saying. Fair enough. But what if your brother-in-law is keeping the pace at a brisk 24 mph on your 9-spd Cannondale, hills and all? My knees are numb and my quads feel like jello. I will never go near that Lake again without a derailleur.

By the numbers, 24 mph on my 42×17 single-speed means my cadence was 118 rpm. Sure felt like 200. Kick-ass cadence calculator is here.

[originally posted on ishouldhavebeendutch.dutchmonkey.com]

I spent Memorial Day weekend in Boise, and on the actual holiday I headed out for a big ride with my brother-in-law. We started at 2800′ elevation, and ended up at the local ski area, Bogus Basin– where the parking lot is a mean 6200′.

It was a great ride, until the skies opened up in a downpour and the temperature dropped to 45F. Sensing disaster (and knowing the nearest brewpub was over 3000′ of vertical away), I did the only sensible thing possible. I walked over to a phone booth alongside the deserted ski lodge, tore out the first 100 pages, and wadded the pages up inside my thin cycling jacket. My brother-in-law raised an eyebrow, and I responded that it’s the closest I’ll ever be to a real Tour experience.  (Can anyone confirm that tour riders used to do this… I know I read it somewhere.)  Anyway, I like to think his hypothermic convulsions were much more severe than mine during the decent, but that’s pretty subjective.

[originally posted on ishouldhavebeendutch.dutchmonkey.com]

This morning was one hell of a shiny one in Seattle. It snowed/sleeted/rained/somethinged last night, and every surface was a sheet of ice. Undeterred, I rode the trusty steed in to work with my brethren (yes, many other cyclists were out and about). A few near misses ensued, but then I had my moment at the intersection of Brooklyn and 50th:

I pulled up to a red light next to a brand new Corvette. Seattle is not a Corvette town, so this is worthy of note in and of itself. Reaching the light, which is about to change as I get there, I hover for a moment– still clipped in– and glance sideways. The driver looks at me in the same moment, and we lock in the briefest, yet unmistakable exchange. We are each man and machine. We have sized each other up, and, just as quickly, dismissed each other.

The light changes, and I pull bike and eyes forward. I expect the sensation of the ‘Vette passing me, but nothing happens. The silence is broken by a precise “Sizzzz” which rises in pitch for a few seconds and then repeats. Again, “Sizzzz”. I take a slow, deliberate look over my shoulder. His wheels are spinning like a circus ride. He’s sitting at the light, and a VW Golf is impatiently pulling out around him.

[originally posted on ishouldhavebeendutch.dutchmonkey.com]