Sean Kelly -1988 photo:Barry Sandland

This photographer knew the picture that people would remember and that would shine a light into Sean Kelly’s character wasn’t of his face; the story is all below. These are legs only a cyclist could love.

In 1988 these legs won Paris-Nice for the seventh time, Gent-Wevelgem and his only Grand Tour Victory, the Vuelta a España, at that time, held in April. He raced to win from Paris-Nice in March to Lombardia in October with no peaking, or vacations, just single minded ambition.

You have to stay with the lithe Spanish climbers to win Vuelta. Kelly’s legs show no extra fat and no lack of might.

There he sits on the top tube of his Vitus 979 Aluminum framed race bike, answering questions in his hard- to- decipher Irish brogue. Even in black and white, one can see he is deeply tanned. No sunscreen and no Look pedals for Sean- he was possibly the last man in the peloton to switch. He always rode a bike that looked too small and cramped. Perhaps this wouldn’t have worked for anyone else but how does one argue with his method?

For all The Rules followers, study the socks. Ponder carefully, for this is what yours should look like: white and the perfect height. This is the way to set off tan, veiny, incredibly powerful legs. Do your legs look like these? No, I didn’t think so, but these socks would be a start.

The Rules readers might also study the gearing; maybe a 23-tooth sprocket as his largest on his seven speed freewheel and 52 and 42 chain rings up front. This must have been a very hilly course. Rule 5 was his middle name.

For my money, American writer Robin Magowan‘s books and articles about this cycling era are without peer; his summation of Kelly is perfect.

It is customary to talk of Kelly as quintessentially an Irish rider. For my part, though, I think it helps to place Kelly better as a cyclist to see him as the last of the Flemish riders. This is usually a title associated with the post-war rider, Briek Schotte who has become appropriately enough the man in day-to-day charge of the de Gribaldy teams. As exemplified by Schotte it stood for a certain type of mentality, willing to suffer, narrowly focused, and hard, hard, hard. Kelly had all this in him from his Irish small farm background: the outside loo; the dogs that have to be chained before you can step from your car; the one career possible, as a bricklayer on a construction site, stretching away and away into the grey mists. On the positive side, along with the self-reliance, came a physical strength that even by peasant standards is impressive. In a profession of iron wills, there is no one harder.

The professionals don’t need to wrap their own bars-they have full- time mechanics who can do it blindfolded. No matter how carefully I did my handlebar tape around shop owner George, he would regard the job, and then cruelly shoot me a look that said “amateur!” I have studied him wrapping tape. It looks effortless and he might also be talking to a customer, mocking a minion, his mind on many things – but the final result is perfection.

This drives me crazy.

It should not be so hard. I replace my tape maybe two or three times a year, just seldom enough to forget how to do it properly.

The Velominati have spent a lot of energy debating bike color co-ordination (see Rule eight) and I had a bad tire/tape issue, so I had to go white (I don’t do black tape). There is no doubt white looks great; the question is how long will it look great?

The bike shop I like to use, close to us, did not carry my favorite Fizik tape. It is bombproof and magically never ever gets dirty. So I bought what they carried, some white Deda tape.

I stripped off the old and tried to put on the new. After three attempts of rewrapping with more tension and less overlap each time, I was still short on one side. The tape was so stretched I might as well have been wrapping my bars with plastic wrap or the old Benotto cello tape. Son-of-a-bee-aatch!! (F’ing Italians, would it kill them to give me another few centimeters? The other side was better – could they be different lengths? F’ing Italians!) The only way to make it even meant both sides ended up short and too far from the stem-completely unacceptable! This put me in a mood most foul.

I called the other shop within riding distance, a Specialized shop, and was told they had three kinds of white Specialized tape. Three kinds- really? Of course when I got there, it wasn’t so-but the one they did carry has rocked my world. Specialized S-Wrap Classic 3 ply fake leather with some sweet dot perforations. It is $25 but supplies more than enough tape for the perfect wrap. It’s mighty fine looking and feels perfect; perfect cushion, perfect grip, oh, I’m in love. But, will it stay white? How bad will it look in a month? Two weeks of fair weather riding leaves the tape still bright white.

Again Specialized has impressed me with their form and function. I have some Specialized S-Works road shoes and a pair of their leg warmers and they are great. Their glue-less inner tube patches: the jury is out. Sure they lose some cachet because their items are made in China not Italy but until the Italians give me a little more tape, I’m an S-Wrap boy.

*Is it wrong to be this excited about handlebar tape? Is it dangerous to ask this question? I’m hesitant to answer either of these. And yes, Rules violations in photo, how many can you find?

Specialized S-Works Classic Tape

A reproduction of Eddy's 5.5 kg Colnago used for the Hour Record

The hour record is the most distinguished, and most difficult record in bicycling. It is different from all other records in that it is measured in meters, and not in minutes and seconds. How long a distance can you ride in exactly an hour? That is a question many famous riders, over the years, have tried to answer precisely. [The Impossible Hour]

The UCI is the keeper of cycling records and it holds that Henri Desgrange, a Frenchman, rode 35.325 km in 1893 as the first official benchmark for the hour record. By 2000 the record has closed in on 50 km. How far can you ride in an hour? If you can do a 25-mile(40.23 km) time trial in under an hour you are a very strong amateur racer. Who do you know who can get their road bike up to 50 km/hr on a flat section of road and hold it for even one minute? Unless you hang out with riders who get paid to put on bib-shorts, I would bet, no one.

There are two hour records: the real one is the straight ahead Merckx-style track bike on the track referred to by the UCI as the Athlete’s Hour Record. The other record changes with each aerodynamic improvement and it is not a true comparable test of a human effort over an hour. This is a terrible record to attempt; one’s complete maximum effort without respite, always in the saddle, hunkered down in a tight aero tuck, dying by the second. It’s the roller ride from hell.  I’ve just watched the Worlds women’s 500m pursuit and they are just above 50 km/hr with full disc wheels aero bars, essentially the hour record is this 500 m effort for not 30 seconds but an hour!  This is why the record sits unchallenged for years, everyone knows it’s an impossible feat.

The hour record progresses over the years at Paris and Milan tracks, each hardman picking his moment of peak form and incrementally inching up the speed. Notable among others, in 1942, Fausto Coppi clocks 45.798 km at the Vigorelli track in Milan. In 1956 Jacques Anquetil goes to 46.159. 1968 World Pursuit Champion Ferdi Bracke raises the bar to 48.093.

The UCI lists both Ole Ritter(48.653 km) and Eddy Merckx(49.431 km) as the next two record holders but the rides were done in Mexico City at altitude (2240 meters). I contend these do not belong with the others. The less dense air is a clear advantage; that’s why they chose Mexico City, but’s hard not to compare Merckx’s performance to everyone else’s, as he will always be the ideal.

Chris Boardman, another World Champion  pursuit  rider became the next record holder in 2000 at the Manchester Velodrome with a distance of 49.441, only 10m more than Merckx and in 2005 Ondrej Sosenka(?!) jumped it ahead to 49.700 in Moscow. Resetting the record by 259 meters is shocking, especially by a rider lacking the palmares of a man like Boardman. Though he was not caught doping for this ride he had been caught before and after this in his career and I conclude he is a cheat and his record is invalid so Boardman is still the current record holder. I have decreed.

This effort is on the track,  it is a power to aerodynamic drag ratio battle. A pursuit rider should do well as the fluid pursuiter can spin out lap after lap never wavering but the longest pursuit is less than a tenth of the Hour Record.  Chris Boardman was a fantastic track rider, time trialist and a respectable road racer, but Boardman was never the crank bending hardman Merckx was yet he beat his record at sea level, meaning he would have really sunk Eddy’s record had they both been done at the same altitude. Boardman admits to not having a huge engine but could get very aero to maximize his power to drag ratio. Dave Zabriskie talked about “feeling the speed” during his 2009 national time trial victory. This must mean feeling the minimizing of one’s drag while riding, getting slicker, sliding through the atmosphere with the least turbulence.

Does lower drag trump power?

Boardman didn’t wear a hairnet helmet, he had shoe covers and his position was lower(160mm stem!) than Merckx’s. Eddy, though no pursuiter, was a track rider too. Boardman’s record was done on an indoor track where the velodrome was heated to lower the air density, gaining a slight advantage. Boardman had perfected his aero position and engine over years of pursuit and non-athlete’s hour record setting. Eddy started off very fast(51.43 1st kilo!) to break Ole Ritter’s shorter distance records then had to hang on like grim death to the finish. Chris started slower, settled in and finished fast to just nose ahead of Eddy’s distance.

I am, above all, a roadman. I shall attack the hour record as a roadman must. I must finish the season at the peak of my road form. For that is how I shall have the best chance at beating the hour record. -Eddy Merckx

All of this leads me to my boy Spartacus, Big Baby or if you will…Fabian Cancellara. The last man you want to be with within 10 km of the finish of a hard race because he IS going to ride you off his wheel and you ARE going to lose. He has mentioned attempting the hour record this year or next and I’m assuming he is talking about UCI athlete’s hour record. His power to aerodynamic drag ratio has to be a monster as he continually kicks everyone’s ass on all kinds of time trial courses. He may not be the professor of track pursuit riding like Chris Boardman but he should be able to crush Boardman’s record on power alone. Given enough fine-tuning time on the track to “feel the speed” he should prevail and it will be fun to see, fun for us, not for him.

The illustrated Man. Photo: Graham Watson

This will be the last of my Cipo photos in a post for a while and only because I’m employing self-control.

To me he exemplifies “Italian Cyclist” and if I weren’t so lazy I would try to find his quote about cycling being representative of all that is beautiful in life.

Watch this silly video of Mario getting punked. The set up is the guy in the little car tells Mario some of Mario’s bike have been stolen and seconds later a camper goes by with some of Cipo’s bike on the back.

Italian hilarity ensues.

One has to come away with a few things from this fine bit of TV: Italian TV looks better than US TV, at least concerning the dress code for the hostesses. Cipo is so cool. I believe he does all this with his cycling shoes on. And his sleeveless jersey with world champion stripes still visible, oh I’m more than impressed. Unfortunately us non-Italian speakers are missing a lot of excellent Italian cursing and taunting here too. Enjoy.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Who doesn't want to look this good on the bike? Photo Graham Watson.

Is it awesome to wear matching jerseys and shorts? Yes, but it took me a long time and a trip to Italy to have this revelation. Is it a violation of The Rules (#14)? Perhaps.

I always had a drawer full of black bib shorts and a drawer of jerseys. It makes it easy to get dressed to ride, black goes with everything. Grab clean shorts, meditate over jersey selection and boom, suit up. I was never compelled to buy a professional team kit as I’ve never been a rabid fan of any team, any rider or any team kit. I may become Sean Yates in my Motorola jersey for a fleeting few seconds but that’s about as far as it went until I finally made it to Italy.

When driving around near Lucca I kept seeing older guys (my age) out on the road, a foot from the tractor trailers, unfazed, fit, wearing matching jerseys and bibs. I didn’t recognize the kits but these guys looked impossibly good and since I’m a devout Italophile, that’s all it took for me. If that’s how it’s done in Italy then I’m all in.

Luckily Cervelo rider Ted King (self-anointed King of Style) agrees with me.

Among a smattering of other worthy reasons, cycling rocks because you can experience exactly what we pros experience. You can ride the bikes we ride, wear the helmets we wear, pedal the roads on which we race… and you obviously have the opportunity to rock the clothes we wear. So why the crap not?

Moreover, if you’re going to piece together a bicycle outfit, instead of the ragtag/patchwork look, why not look good when doing so? We look good, so you sure as heck might as well hop on the bandwagon and look nearly as good as we do.

I had a run-in with the KoS about my issue with tall socks (and punctuation) but we have agreed to disagree about sock style. Ted’s website is worth a visit as he is a well spoken pro and he gets to hangout with Thor.

In truth I don’t really own (or wear) too many matching kits even now. I own two local club outfits and now four Euro-esque pairs, one set I really can’t wear much because I look too much like Cipo in his zebra Aqua Sapone days and it scares people. I bought an early (pre) Garmin-Slipstream set as I am a fan but never dared wear it when the team was in the same town for two weeks training. Everyone would be embarrassed if we intersected.  But my wife and I are now killing it in our Heinrich and Henrietta Haussler Stylin’ All White Cervelo outfits*. In mine I am actually descending more boldly as I channel H.H. from the wet Stage 13 of the 2009 TdF. All is well unless Heinrich turns out to be last doper of many dopers from the doomed Gerolsteiner team.

So don’t be afraid as neighbors look askance and they pull their kids inside as you leave the house in your bright billboard of matching jersey and shorts advertising, say, an Italian cement company. Wear it loud and wear it proud knowing looking good on the bike is important and it’s the Italian way.

*more violations, rule #1 and #4

There are many strong contenders for this sought-after prize. First up, David Rebellin; he was nailed as a doper. Rebellin is a rider like Johan Museeuw, with a long list of impressive wins who finally ruins it all when he slips up and gets caught, all past results are in doubt. Young Schleck should have also won La Flèche Wallonne this year.  Stephan Schumacher, where to begin, I’m not sure he should be considered for 2009 as he must have won last year’s award. Jesus he is the worst. In 2008, from out of nowhere beating David Millar in a TdF time trial, soloing off the front on mountain stages, caught twice and denies it. What a German tool. Jens Voigt should be asked to pistol whip him and put it on You Tube, or pay-per-view as I would pay quite a sum for that pleasure.

But the hands down winner this year has to be Danny-Boy Di Luca. Sure he is great one year and bad the next, what could that mean? Then in this year’s Giro, the Centenary Edition, always a beautiful race filled with crazy climbs and awful transfers, he is moronic enough to piss all over this race by doping his way through it. He rides away from everyone on the climbs, time trials better than most specialists, “oh the Pink Jersey gives a rider special power.” Really? Or he is all CERA’d up, denying clean riders stage victories. I have my doubts about Menchov but at least he beat Di Luca. Sure I bought into it, who would be so stupid to dope knowing you would be tested and they had already cracked the CERA code? Di Luca is evidently that stupid, and for that combination he will be mailed the rusty broken chain award.

A two year ban is not enough. We will have to watch that evil little bastard Riccardo Ricco this Spring. A rider who used to denigrate other professionals because they weren’t strong enough. If I was a professional who had to race against Ricco this Spring I’d be tempted to ride him into a nice stone wall during Milan-San Remo.

Again, pay-per-view, Jens, luger.

Haleakala, Maui
Maui has the longest and highest continual climb in the world, sea level to 10,000’ in 36 miles with an average gradient of 6%. It’s a wonderful, underused climb because great as the road surface, temperature, and views are, Maui is well off the route for most cyclists. I did this ride 20 years ago on my trusty steel Bella, 42 x 23 gear with no helmet, wearing a wife-beater cotton shirt (to stay cooler) and lycra non-bib shorts. And toe clips!

I felt lucky to pull it off back then, as at 200 pounds I’ve never been, nor will ever be a climber, but stubbornness and an appetite for suffering can conquer all. It was a suffer-fest. I was so dazed at the summit I nearly knocked my wife out cold by closing the car hatch on her head. And I swore I’d never do it again – but in 2007 at age 52 I found myself living on Maui with a Merlin, 39 x 26 gearing-everything upgraded and improved -except the main power plant. The body was not lighter or improved or upgraded in any way. I dared to wonder if this escapade was repeatable, or worth repeating. What follows comes from my notes, rendered immediately afterward, from bed.

To climb I must descend to the coast and spin along the coast towards the town of Paia, the unofficial starting point. The dawn patrol surfers at Ho’okipa are sitting on their boards in the early morning light waiting for the next swell. Early in the morning is a nice time to be cycling on Maui. Too bad I never do it. Paia is where it all starts. This dusty ex-sugar town is just waking up, cars and trucks going all directions. At the single light in the middle of town, a left turn puts me on Baldwin Avenue and the UP begins.

Baldwin Avenue is a curvy climb of a road that departs the coast and works up the lowest flanks of Haleakala. Sugarcane fields eventually give way to pineapple fields; it’s a narrow winding road I’ve ridden up many times over many years. Already the voice in my head is full of doubts, no off switch available. But the legs feel good, it’s not hot yet, and it is a perfect day to be doing something this crazy. It’s unfortunate for me that climbing is a solo activity. I climb at my speed, I can’t keep up with faster people and I hate climbing more slowly than my limit. There is nothing for it.

1000′

The body is on autopilot so the brain freewheels away. “Did Britney really carve 666 on her shaved skull? Oh Britney, what the hell happened to you? Did you get dropped on your dome when you were a baby?” I work on The Unified Field Theory a bit, note the need for gun massage; “Swedish massage, man, I need Swedish massage, not Danish or Finnish, it must be Swedish…” and my hump, my hump, my lovely lady hump song loops around and around. It could be worse- my brain is a sponge early in the morning, easily soaking up the worst radio nonsense and torturing me with it throughout the day.

Makawao is next, a cowboy town, or used to be -but it still works that cowboy thing. Baldwin Road turns into Olinda Road. You don’t really know how the legs are until you do the 18% grade out of Makawao. I take it as easy as possible, saving the guns.

Large horse and cattle pastures replace the cropland. Hawaii is so beautiful that what I am seeing could be one long color saturated hallucination.

The single flat section of the whole ride lasts about two minutes. It also contains one hill that the pods of  “downhill” riders have to walk up. Riding down the volcano is big business on Maui. Scores of vans loaded with tourists and fat-tired bikes trundle to 10,000′ and an experienced leader guides them down to Paia. Said guide keeps everyone safe, slow and alive (ugh, no thanks).

2000′

The pastoral back road dumps me onto the Haleakala Highway, the two-lane ribbon that takes everyone all the way to the summit. The fun truly begins here as the grade increases, rising through more pasture and the first of the shady fragrant eucalyptus groves. Ahhhhh, sweet sweet shade, I love thee. All this has been ridden before so I can turn the volume of the doubting voice way down.

3000′

The route tours through Upper Kula residential neighborhood. Beautiful hedges of Technicolor flowers flash on the right. Every other vehicle heading up is a commercial van loaded with people about to get on rented bikes and coast down 37 miles. Cowards.

I turn left up onto Haleakala Crater Road. More nice homes and a lavender field appears, stunning, purple and out of place. I ride through the last of the eucalyptus groves, the last decent shade, then I’m above tree line into huge open swaths of cattle range above all towns and neighborhoods. The road starts a long series of looping slightly banked switchbacks. Simple numeric calculations have become rife with mistakes: “I passed that 3500′ sign at least 20 minutes ago, that means at 6mph I…was that 3500’or 4000′ ?” The unified field theory is a distant memory.

4000’

The snap is gone from the legs, nothing but mindless slogging upward, 6mph. When I get to 5000′, that’s halfway (jesus, I’m doomed) “Take it mile by mile,” the doubting voice consoles me, could this be the exit strategy?

5000′

Traffic really dropping off, occasional downhillers coasting down, I make no eye contact with them. Severe doubt is entering the mind. “I’m old, maybe I really can’t do this kind of stunt. Bail by 6000’, call it over. Plan beers anyway. Shit, that’s only the 5500′ marker, not 6000′.”  This slog is crawling, barely halfway, not good.

Broom wagon provides more liquid for Mr. Sweats Too Much. I see myself in the car mirror, massive puffy sweaty face, not pretty. OK, this is one reason (of many) I’m no pro- this is killing me. On the razor’s edge of nausea, drinking unholy electrolyte, forcing down 1st gel. Oye, shoot me in the face.

6000′

The road traverses across the flank of the volcano. There is respite from the sun as it climbs into more woods. Clouds form above, barely any wind, ideal conditions for a better rider.

7000′

I stop at the ranger station where I have to pay $5 for this nonsense. Guns still feel useful, surprisingly. This could work. Wrists, feet, back- all starting to complain. Drop into the 23, stand up, ride out of saddle, shift to 26, stay in saddle. Clouds above; I ride into a weird quiet cloud world. Visibility is 30’ just like my brain. Too wasted to taunt downhill riders. Zero math skills. I cannot figure the miles left from the mile marker at the ranger station.

8000′

OK, 8000’, I’m doing this mother, any pussy can do 2000′ of climbing. Truly lost in the fog. Is this steep? No, not bad. Four-plus hours of the slog, 5 mph, up to 7 mph once in while. More evil drink solution is taken on. I’m still on razor’s edge of puking something back up. More fog, arm and leg hair all dewy, ice warning sign on the road- I’m glad that’s not a problem today. Legs are still delivering force to the pedals. Is it getting lighter up there? Have I missed the 9000 feet sign in the fog? Maybe the lazy park service people didn’t put one up? Bastards, I will punish them…

9000’

Sunlight- blue, brown, white; I’m riding up out of the clouds like a diver coming to the surface in turbid water. The colors are stunning.

Above the clouds, the 9000′ sign finally goes by. All righty then. Who can’t do 1000′ of climbing? System showing signs of going to failure. Is that Mauna Loa or Mauna Kea on the Big Island? I’m climbing above the sea of white clouds.

This is killing me.

Brown volcanic tuff everywhere. A few silver sword plants (not flowering) thrive up here, nothing else green, just uniform brown brown.

Let this end. Truly smoked, I have earned my pints and pizza. There is the broom wagon driver-photographer-wife urging me up to parking lot and shooting some photos, oh these should be winners…

Swing into lot, dismount, it’s over, but at what cost? An outrageous panorama, air very dry, I’m finally almost dry and warm but so toasted. And I swear I’ll never do that again.

Put a fork in me...

I’ve reflected on my bike stable, where it started and where it is now.

Peugeot PX10-LE. 1977. A champagne gold hunk of French madness. It was advertised as Monsieur Thevenet’s current racing model but I doubt he got this. The frame was nothing out of the ordinary but copper wire wrapping at the spoke crossings, sew-ups, 52 x44 Stronglight cranks with drilled out inner chainring! Mon Dieu! French diameter tubes, French threads, French components, all evidence that the French should not be operating so many nuclear power plants. French or not this ride was a totally different experience from the mongrel bikes I had owned or borrowed before.

Bella. 1984. Ed Blank, a Somerville, Mass. builder built me a standard 60cm Columbus steel lugged road frame, a Bella. Ed was a one-man shop. His decals were outrageously detailed and beautiful. He had apprenticed in Italy and his decals were homage to it. I picked up the frame, put it on a table and stared and stared. It was the most beautiful thing in the Universe. It was then built up with Campy Record, the ride was smooth, the handling quick and precise, a profound improvement from the factory produced Peugeot.

Merlin Extralight. 1998. It was the result of the shop owner asking one of those loaded questions, “What size frame do you ride?” My local shop was the second largest Merlin dealer in the state so the town was totally contaminated with shiny Ti bikes. These frames were so expensive my best friend(also my clone) and I went in together on a used frame and fork. I went to the factory to retrieve it. An employee and I buffed it with scotchbright pads, reapplied decals and I walked out with a seemingly brand new Ti frame. That evening my clone and I met at a bar, which had a quiet upstairs. I put the frame on a coffee table in front of us and we toasted our new bike and ourselves repeatedly. We owned a Merlin!
We would go on rides with the co-owned Merlin and one of our steel bikes where a midpoint switch over was required. Moaning ensued but this direct comparison was amazing. The Merlin was much faster for the same effort on the flats and going uphill was completely different, faster effortless floating up. It was the death knell for our trusty steel bikes.
Since then I have assumed I owned the last bike I would ever own. This Ti bike would never rust or fatigue and it was the pinnacle of cycling materials and design.

Last Spring my wife and I were behind the scenes at the Tour of the Gila in New Mexico and every racing bike was carbon, if one poor suffering bastard was on an aluminum bike I didn’t see it. I was slightly off put, “really, titanium? Is it that retro? Am I that retro?”

My local shop rarely sells a Merlin now and Trek is its main line. My friend PJ, an ex-racer who puts in 6,000 miles every year on one of his two Merlin Extralights threw down money for a Madone and sent me this report. His reference to the scene of the crime was where a car recently hit him.

The Madone is simply amazing. I’ve owned a whole pile of bikes, but I’ve never ridden anything like this. First time down the street, it felt stiffer and faster.

I’ve ridden 280 miles since getting back on in a little over a week. 150 have been on the Madone. On the usual bridge ride, the Madone feels light, comfortable — the 2010 bikes have a little bit longer effective top tube and it is exactly what I wanted so the fit is perfect. The BB stiffness is very noticeable. It handles very well, very crisp, likely due to the stiff front end. The BB just doesn’t move. At all. It just feels like all effort goes into making it go.

On the Service Road, once I passed the scene of the crime, the thing just came alive. I was just going along up and down, and got to the end thinking “how did I get here already?”. The thing just jumps up hills, and when I’d get near the top after a normal effort, I’d still have a lot left to just spin the thing up and over. I did the ride in just about three hours, about normal time, and felt a lot fresher than usual after — even after two months off the bike — the thing seems to soak up road shock. Not feeling soft, but just that the shock doesn’t get to you.

All in all, the thing is just incredible. It makes the Merlin feel sluggish if you can believe that. All in all, I’d be loosing some competitive advantage if more of ‘em started showing up on the bike path.

The whole point of this overworked wordy ramble is two-fold. For each of the new bikes I have owned they seemed an order of magnitude better than what came before. Each new one has brought happiness and renewed my love for cycling.
Secondly, I really thought the Merlin was IT, this carbon thing was a nutty fad like Vitus frames, it would pass. OK, I guess this is no surprise to everyone else in the world but I’m wrong and that means I get a badass carbon frame sometime in the future. Oh sweetness.

My friend Robbie is no slouch on a bike. He is a former Mass-Rhode Island district road race champion, he has been beaten by the likes of Steve Bauer and Davis Phinney. The man can always get on a bike and haul ass, he always will. He drove by two days ago and was hot to go for a ride. I looked in his car to see only cycling shoes, a helmet and a small lumpy bag, he removed the bag from the car and looking like an off-duty magician, pulled out what appeared to be the remnants of a bad kid’s-bike-versus-snow-plow accident but was instead, a Dahon. A Folding Bike unlike any folding bike I’ve ever seen. This magic trick continued as he unfolded this little transformer into the most unlikely thing that would still fall under the definition of ”bicycle.” Everything was hinged and telescoped and yet it had a serious racing saddle on it. To my eye this was an inexpensive, carbon fiber free, heavy duty-commuting machine.

Robbie is an old school racer who rode a fixed gear track bike everywhere in the off-season to improve his spin. He rode his track bike through the Callahan Tunnel in Boston, a highly illegal feat I suspect never done before or after, for every reason.

But I digress.

Now he prefers to get across NYC on bike rather than wait for the next crowded subway car but his commute into NYC requires a trip on the Long Island Railway and having wrenched his back man-handling his regular bike around, by necessity, dove into the world of miniature bikes. Robbie is also a silversmith and unafraid to work some metal. This Dahon is now a fixie and to make it a smaller package it needed smaller 14” wheels, which meant a larger chainring, which meant a modified chainstay, which meant a modified shorter front fork, one thing leads to another you understand.

We did go for a demonstration spin. His position on this bike is his regular road position in the drops. He easily whipped up to 23mph and claims he has hit 35mph on this contraption. With the tiny wheels he could draft me so close he could put his hand forward and touch me. Road riders are quite horrified to be unable to get rid of Robbie and his clown bike on a 40-mile ride. The bike can be checked at a coat check! He rides much more now because he always has this portable bike that is fun, fast and safe to ride.

This has changed my thinking. I always assumed the S and S coupling of a standard bike was the only serious way to get portable. I guess it’s my 700C paradigm. It’s nice to see it from another angle.

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The White Ladies

Did I need new cycling shoes? Absolutely not. In fact, as I rode that day I planned a product review post for my one year old Specialized road shoes. A year seems like a good long time to get to know intimately one’s cycling shoes. My review would be quite positive: light, comfortable, not too expensive, great Boa tensioning system. Would I regress into the long (and tedious) tale of shoes past, my old leather Marresis from Italy-shoes so great they deserve a post all their own or my Le Mond Carnacs or my second pair of blue and yellow Carnacs?

I may have issues with cycling shoes. Not an Imelda Marcos collection issue, more along the lines of a Jewish mother’s thinking that no prospective-woman-is-good-enough-for-her-son sort of issues. Do I need to explain who is the mother, son or prospective woman in this?

Riding is a good time to work these complex subjects over, my brain is using only lower functions to ride… dog!… faster fat boy… gun check… piss off!… other sectors of brain can freewheel on things subconsciously. I do some of my best thinking on a bike.

Before I ride home I wheel into Corner Cycle, my local shop to pick up cleat covers. It’s summer and the shop is crammed with people and bikes as I enter. I clip clop in, sweating profusely. George, the owner, approaches and asks the sort of unbidden question we all love (and fear) to hear. “What size shoes do you wear?” He leads me to a quiet back corner of the shop and pulls out the White Sidis. Too large for him, barely used, do I want them? Do I want them? Sweet Jesus……..the White Sidi Ergo 2, gleaming uber-white, shoes so Italian they have three different buckle systems per shoe. Past lust springs anew in my bosom. I’m safe from this lust as I know these are too expensive, they won’t fit and I already have nice shoes. George confers with his computer and quotes me a wickedly huge discounted price. Gulp. Still sweating from the ride, I slide feet into the white devil slippers. Whew, too snug on the left foot, “Sorry George, thanks for thinking of me.” My brain is still in low function and now “tazed” by this turn of events, I can’t deal and ride home.

Two days later, like an overgrown pervert sneaking into a peepshow in broad day light, I make my furtive return. A flurry of fittings ensue: with insoles, without insoles, different socks, different buckle system tensions, repeat ad nauseam.

The good news is, I’ll have another high end pair of shoes to compare to my Specialized shoes in the Great Product Review Posting, one year hence. The bad news is, these are so damn white all my short white socks look highly dingy, I can’t stop shaving my legs now and these shoes may be too snug(*?!).