Thank you sir, may I have another?

Yeah, it was that wet...

The email went out Friday. The ride rolls out from the cobbles at seven AM sharp. It was supposed to be wet. 100% chance of rain wet. I was up early and checked the radar map. The map wasn’t green; it was yellow. It was raining hard. We usually think there is fine line between stupid and epic, there was no line today; this ride would be both.

As I was gathering my stuff for the ride I spotted my camera. “Not today, it’s too wet” I said out loud. On the drive to the rendezvous, I plucked a pair of toe warmers out of the glove box. I game them a kiss before opening the pack and sticking them to my socks. The rain was slapping my windshield as I drove.

We gave each other fist bumps like most morons do just prior to all manner of foolish undertakings. It was raining pretty hard. Like solders following orders we rolled out with minimal emotion.

We stopped for a moment whilst Sam made a brief clothing adjustment. As I was stopped, a drop of water from a power line fell as if aimed by a sniper, and went down the back of my neck and chilled my whole body. A cold rain continued to fall.

I looked out across Lake Washington. It was so dark and grey it looked like a black and white photograph. The ride was going to be so epic, the story should have been told in monochrome.

As we crossed I-90 there were whitecaps and the wind was blowing. For the first time in two years I closed the pit zips on my rain jacket. Dave kept going off the front. We three chasers; El Hefe, Hardman, and Evo spent the early miles trying to catch him. It seemed to be raining harder now.

The rain was unrelenting and we found ourselves crashing through puddles the way one does the last lap of a cross race. We seemed to have a mindset of, “I’m already soaked, and it’s almost over.” The only problem was; we were not nearly done; we had just started.

We were in Medina when Dave needed to take a natural break. Considering the neighborhood, we stopped at a gas station. While Dave was using the bathroom, Hardman bought a cup of cocoa, to show some patronage while El Hefe hung out in the walk in beer cooler to try and warm up. He passed the cocoa around and we all savored a sip or two.

Dave contemplated taking a bus back home and his body language revealed how cold he was. He mentioned how his feet were soaked. The store clerk, I’ll call her Marge because I could believe she was a Marge, offered Dave her socks. She said they were men’s socks and that her feet were clean when she put them on before her shift. Even with all of the sarcasm I have, I can’t say anything except that was among the nicest things I’ve seen in a long time. It was bombing rain outside.

Dave did take her up on her offer of two plastic bags which he promptly inserted between his shoes and his failing Pearl Izumi Cyclone Shoe covers. We scarfed food in hopes of stoking a fire in our bodies and warming up. With our bellies full we again set out.

The road was being resurfaced, so it was as rough as the cobbles we had started on. We kept the pace conversational and asked about each other’s gloves and shoe covers. Today was the test for all of our gear. I opened and closed my hand. My (waterproof) gloves were soaked. The temperature was in the upper thirties. The rain wasn’t ever going to end.

We climbed out of Kirkland and my glasses fogged up. My feet were now cold. My core was still good. Our bikes were covered with road mung. They looked like they had just finished a Cyclocross race. Mud on the chain stays and seat stays and down tubes.

We stopped in Kenmore for a second natural break. Would the bathroom have hand dryers that blew warm air? No such luck. For a moment I thought the rain had stopped. It hadn’t.

As we pointed south for the return to Capital Hill we were greeted with a stiff headwind. We had the weather trifecta; cold, wet, and windy. We plodded toward home. We were on the home stretch and each of us suffering quietly. I took some solace that there would only be thirty-nine more days and thirty-nine more nights of this biblical storm.

Dave kept popping off the front, not so much because he was aggressive, but because he was trying to warm up. After passing through the University of Washington we began to climb. Standing on the pedals only served to stir the water in my shoes and pump the warm water that had been close to my pruned skin away, and draw the colder water close to my skin.

“Guys,” Dave offered in a tone that concerned us. He sounded like he was about to confess something serious. “I’m just going to go straight home and sit in my hot tub.” We continued to climb and as we neared Dave’s house he bid us farewell. I don’t know if Dave changed his clothes or just dropped his bike and stepped into his hot tub in full kit. Either way, I respect him.

Hardman, El Hefe and I stopped at Fuel and started to acknowledge reality. I wrung out my waterproof gloves and then winced at the resulting puddle. I searched in vain for my second cleat cover and had to concede I had lost it somewhere along the way. It was still raining.

We were all soaked. What was the best part of the ride? The end was the best part. We all knew exactly what we were getting into when we started. It was as rough as expected. We didn’t whine and our bravado was all tongue in cheek. The warm coffee was good, but we were so cold we knew the path to warmth involved a shower, and so our respite was brief.

I didn’t even think about putting on my soaking gloves, I just wedged them into a back pocket and rode the half-mile back to the war wagon with bare hands. At the car I plopped my wet clothes in a pile and climbed in.

I drove home sitting on a towel. Once back I had to do the full Post-Cyclocross Race routine. I hosed my clothes off and washed everything. I hosed off the black gunk that coated my rims.

The shower was welcomed and the washing machine did its job as well. My boot dryer was called to service and my shoes are there right now.

I think I’ll get up early tomorrow and do it again.

Kevin's birthday ride

It was a great idea; celebrate Kevin's 56th birthday by riding 56 miles.

We met 24 minutes before sunrise and rolled out. It was 37 degrees and raining lightly. Six brave souls were out to honor Kevin.

The rain increased and it seemed to get colder. We were riding amazingly slow but our spirits we high. We were exploring a few hills and somewhat circling Lake Washington. I drank my Hammer products and did NOT mix the Sustained Energy with any simple sugars and all was good. THAT is a lesson that can have nearly crippling impacts if ignored.

As the miles rolled on the rain increased and those who had extra layers put them on. We were all flirting with hypothermia and found ourselves happiest on the climbs. With less than ten miles to go the rain turned to hail and my nose felt like it was raining X-acto knife blades.

As we neared the end, for the first time in all my years of ending the weekly ride at the Volunteer Park Cafe, we took a short cut. The road was snowy and when Tom's rear wheel spun out, he stopped, dismounted and walked the super steep climb. A final right turn and we arrived at the cafe. We were all hungry and cold and wet.

Hank was so cold he couldn't get his blue fingers to turn off his blinking light. We stood in line to order food and everything looked good. I wanted to reach over the counter and start eating then and there. I managed to hold off until I reached the front of the line and it was socially acceptable to chow down. 3,800 feet of climbing. It was fun in a type 2 fun kind of way.

My old reliable PI rain jacket kept me dry and the rain beaded up on my arms like a freshly waxed car. My PI thermal tights were almost okay, but it was not a sustainable situation. I could mumble about "micro-cilmate" but all I would be saying was even when I wasn't cold, I was wet. When we stopped, even for a minute to fish out a snack; my legs started to get cold. My Castelli shoe covers kept my feet dry until my tights got soaked and then the water ran down into my shoes. My secret weapon, Hotties Toe Warmers made the first three hours pretty tolerable.

Only two more days till Summer starts

Tux completing the swim portion of the Event

Although it was a soggy morning, hope prevailed and the sun came out.

Bicycle Maintenance and the Zen thereof..

Style is in the eye of the beholder..

I find myself oscillating between the romantic and classical views of bicycling; ala “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.” While I love the freedom of being “at one” with a bike and just spinning my legs as I journey along the roads (the romantic), I am also intrigued by the workings of the machine that converts my energy into forward progress (classical).

My daily goal is to have my bike de jour in such a state that I can forget about the complex workings and enjoy the simple joy of locomotion. One of the great pleasures a cyclist enjoys is to come to a short rise in the road and gently get out of the saddle and power up the short hill with no loss of momentum. The efficient transfer of power into motion gives a feeling of satisfaction that appeals to ones romantic and classical senses.

When the blissful marriage of man and machine is shattered by an unwelcomed creaking or clicking sound the romantic perspective is suspended and the classical mind begins to dissect the sound and undertake a search for the solution. My first instinct is to back off in the hope that the noise goes away. Then a few moments later I repeat the action that precipitated the sound. This could be getting out of the saddle or shifting into a particular gear, leaning the bike this way or that, or just applying maximum power. When the sound returns the feeling of dread settles in.

Basking in the glow of Carbon fiber...

Once the sound has repeated itself, I instinctively begin to baby the bicycle. I don’t pedal as hard. I don’t brake as late. I recall a passage in “The grapes of wrath” where Tom Joad is driving and is constantly employing all of his senses to monitor the function of the vehicle, which is on its last legs. While driving Tom was smelling for burning oil, listening for odd sounds from the engine, trying to sense unusual vibrations through the floorboards or seat that might signal any number of things. I recall my own brown Volkswagen bug that would leave a cloud of smoke when you floored it. Just the other day I found myself accelerating sharply and once all was under control in front of me I compulsively checked the rearview mirror for that cloud of smoke that hasn’t been there for thirty years.

My rain bike had developed a creak a couple weeks ago and I suspected the bottom bracket. I removed it, cleaned it, greased it, and reinstalled it using the proper torques. I then loosened and then tightened the headset. It still creaked. I concluded (though I was not confident in my diagnosis) that the sound was coming from the rear hub. I injected some grease into the hub’s grease ports (perhaps Jonathan Page or one of the many professional bike mechanics who follow my every word can deduce the type of hubs I have on my rain bike) but the sound persisted.

Last night I found a loose nut on the rear hub and tightened it as appropriate. Today as I rode, I was finally able to give my classical side the day off and enjoy a low key recovery spin. I threw in a couple bursts just because I could, and my bike was as silent as a stone and as solid as a rock.


If is isn't raining, it will be soon....

Today’s ride was much more typical of February. It was 42 degrees and raining. I was prepared; having cleaned my bike and lubed the chain with a lube from Pedro’s that was aimed at wet weather riding. To my great dismay, when I finished my ride my chain was black as if it had been lubed with 10/40w oil. I don’t mean the golden liquid you pour into your engine. I mean the black gloppy stuff that comes out of your engine three, five or eight thousand miles after it went in. I wiped down my chain. Although the rag was dirtier, the chain appeared no cleaner. Why, why do I stray from Pro Link Gold ?
I was, as always, glad to have ridden.

2010 The winter that wasn’t

Here is a shot of Paolo riding along the waters of Puget Sound. It took us about thirty tries before the pole lined up with his head, but I think the wait was worth it !

Humming along I tap my shifters to add a gear. My legs are spinning and I feel rock solid on my saddle. My speedometer indicates I am flying, but it feels easy. I recall George Hincapie’s favorite line when the pedaling is easy, “is my chain still on?” It feels that nice today.

The ground is dry and I left my fenders are in the back of the car. I’m riding on my lunch hour through rolling hills down to the waters of the Puget Sound. The residents of this neighborhood are at work and the streets are quiet and only a few cars pass by. We have been able to squeeze in more than our share of lunch hour rides, and every time we make it down to the water, and we stay dry, I feel like we are playing hooky.

We had some cold days in Mid December and since then it has been pre-spring around these parts. The ski resorts have had some nervous days, but our heating bills are way down. We still have February to get through, and I’ve seen some cold days in February so I know we’re not out of the woods. I do enjoy leaving my monster gloves and wool beanie in the box at home when I go riding.

Last winter was an endless series of 34 degree team rides. I have set my sights on a ride in California in May that will drive my springtime training and allow me to dream of riding with the sun on my back.