A whirlwind weekend.

So some useless background information. If you read my very first post, you’ll get the little tidbit that I started off with a GT Aggressor mountain bike, but was pressed into road bike service by a group of friends. The minor details of my transition were ignored as they seemed, at the time, irrelevant. As one learns in life, however, minor details have an insidious way of creeping up from the past to spring upon you at some unknown later date.

In this case, it was the simple fact that I sold the GT to put money toward the road bike. Superfluous detail. Best left unwritten. Yes.

So a few days ago, these same friends that encouraged my transition to road biking and “getting rid of that old jalopy” suddenly had the brilliant idea that we exchange our usual Saturday road ride for … a mountain biking ride. Of course. So I bow out, citing that I had no mountain bike with which to ride. Boooooooooo.

So Friday we hear that the Big Giant Hiking Hunting Boating Kyaking Bungeejumping Cycling Running Walking Shooting Someone in the Asshole with a Dart Gun Outdoor Lifestyle Box Store is having their huge “one weekend only” sale. We decide to go during our lunch hour to get the usual cycling gear – I’m excited because, at that time, I owned one jersey and one pair of cycling shorts.

We get to the BGHHBKBCRWSSADGOLBS and, I tell you gentle friends and readers, from the look of the parking lot you would swear they were giving away gold doubloons upon entry. The parking lot was not only full, people were making up their own parking spots. Some people, exasperated with the effort of the search, would just stop wherever they were in the lot, throw the car into “Park,” ratchet the e-brake, and call it a day. I saw this happen twice.

I parked four lots away at a machining shop with public parking, and hoofed it to the BGHHBKBCRWSSADGOLBS. My mind was tittering with the irony that the people so desperately trying to minimize the exercise and outdoor exposure required to get into the store were buying … exercise and outdoor exposure gear.

Once in the store, I am disappointed that there are no doubloons, however there are great many things on sale. I immediately scoop up some jerseys and shorts. It’s precisely then, when I’ve already given into the urge of the spend, that I am at my most vulnerable. Nearly any purchase can be internally justified at this point, and I am easy prey to any object-predator clever enough to throw itself down in front of my path.

Like this mountain bike, for instance. I was ambushed. Happily strolling toward the check-out line, whistling the refrain from “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” a pack of bright and exciting new mountain bikes closed in on me and tore my resolve to pieces. Before I knew what was happening, I was talking to a salesperson, telling her my plight of being left out of the Saturday ride, and was being told of the benefits of a good front suspension.

I soon find myself looking at an entry-level hardtail whose only gimmick is a set of disc breaks. Disc breaks strike me as being some super-cool new thing that I wish my GT had, so I’m pretty much sold. Due to the “one weekend only” sale, the bike is reasonable, for sure, and next to it is it’s step-down buddy that’s even MORE reasonable. Both are my size. It’s $350 vs. $250 so I’m thinking, spend the extra hundred, get the better bike.

I decide to think about it. I get some lunch, do a little internet reality checking, and find that the bike is legit and the deal is good. I talk to Mrs. Johnny, who informs me that, if I’m actually going to be riding with The Gang, why not get it? I hear the little voice in my head, that of Glinda, the Good Witch of the Conscience, urging me “Visit your LBS … your LBS … your LBS …”

OK OK. I go to the LBS. The Jersey Girl I dealt with and liked before isn’t there, so I’m talking with another guy who promptly tells me that I don’t want to spend $350 on a bike. I want to spend $500. At the very least. Probably closer to $600. Grrrr.

So back to the BGHHBKBCRWSSADGOLBS. The bike is still there, and I’m pretty happy. And hey … his step-down buddy is still there too. $250. Step-down buddy also has disc breaks. Huh. The manufacturer’s web site didn’t say nuffin ‘bout dat. What’s more, Step-down buddy’s breaks are Tektro, while the more expensive one has no-names. Step-down buddy has full Shimano Deore components, right down to the shifters compared to the other’s budget SRAM components. WTF.

It’s then, and only then, that I realize this: The price tag is for the step-down buddy. The actual bike? It’s the step-UP buddy. With the sudden welling feeling of internal conflict, I go through the Seven Steps of Slightly Malevolent Purchasing:

Step One – Surprise: “Holy crap! I can’t believe they screwed this up!”

Step Two – Recognition of opportunity: “Woah … and it’s JUST MY SIZE!”

Step Three – Scheming: “If I can find a way to get this thing purchased without anyone realizing …”

Step Four – Doubt: “Aw, I’ll never pull it off. Someone’s bound to notice this and I’m screwed. I’ll never amount to anything.”

Step Five – Guilt: “I really shouldn’t do this. This is bad. I should just tell someone that they mis-marked this. I should call my family more often. I’m a bad person and need to take myself far, far away from everyone.”

Step Six – Anger: “Heeeeey … this is a freakin’ Box Store. Screw ‘em.”

Step Seven – Resolution: “Well, it’s a helluva deal. Let’s give it a try.”

That began the agonizing fifty minutes of purchase. Twenty to finally successfully page someone to help me, twenty minutes of them fetching the paperwork (“I seem to be having trouble tracking down the paperwork for this thing …”) and doing “a pre-purchase tune up,” and ten minutes of standing with the evidence-cum-bicycle in line while suffering through innumerable outbursts of fellow patrons:

“WOW! Is that bike REALLY two-fifty?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s … a really big one weekend sale.”

“Do they got any more?”

“Uh … maybe?”

Finally, I’m out the door with the bike. Success! I hustled to my car, tossed the swag into the back, and threw myself into the driver’s seat, cackling like a madman. I had pulled it off!!

The next day, we rode 12 miles of fun trail. I discovered that mountain biking hills are fundamentally different than road bike hills. On the second biggie, my front wheel started coming up, so of course I pushed it down, which took weight off the back wheel and made me slip, so of course I pedaled harder, which brought the front wheel up more. Uuugh.

Karma had caught up with me: The front wheel finally rose enough that both the bike and myself tipped over backwards and your friend and humble narrator went down on his can on a pile of rocks. Of course, when the left hand planted to heave myself back up, it went into a pricker-bush. Three days later I’m still extracting burrs from my fingers. But no matter: A splendid time was had and I’m gooey with the prospect of going back for more trail riding next weekend.

Oh, yeah, and the next day we road-biked from San Juan Capistrano in Orange County to Solana Beach in San Diego. It was my second half-century in as many weeks. My main goal was to complete the 50.1 mile ride in under three hours.

My time? 02:59:58.

I kid you not.

Granny gears and clipless pedals

Yesterday was a study in contrasts. Were she to reflect on it, Ma Kelly might have said, “I got mixed feelings. Good for Tommy. Sad for Johnny.” In my case, it was triumphant in the morning … humble in the evening. Maybe not as dynamic as the Sphinx riddle, but still.

So yesterday morning I set out on my 30 mile loop from La Jolla to Encinitas. I wanted to treat the first leg like a “warm up,” just using what I thought to be a slow and steady cadence. I was barely breaking a sweat when I zipped past the 8-mile marker … a whole minute quicker than I ever have, even when I felt I was pushing or “racing.”

This got me in good spirits, and I made a quick mental goal: I would complete this entire ride without using the Granny Gear. Even on … [rack focus to straining face and sudden blast of tense music] … The Hill.

I’m not sure what I wanted to prove to myself. In all honesty it might be some weird internal “told ya so!” for not going with a double in the first place. (I really really really wanted nothing to do with the triple due to my notion that it would just make for “derailleur adjustment hell.”) Maybe I was just sick of fiddling with the gearing to get off the GG to begin with.

Whatever the reason, his heart or his shoes, the goal was made. I found a few riders here and there to tag along with, and soon hit the turning point of the ride three minutes early. It was going to be a Golden Grahams day.

I hit The Hill at Mile 23. With a full day’s rest the day before, and a measly 13-mile jobber prior to that (which, sad to report, was an abortion of an attempt at a 20k crit run), the legs were charged up and ready. I was gonna get up The Hill, and I wasn’t going to do it spinning GG Allin wildly. Let’s go.

Was I able to do it? Did I make it? Did I complete my goal? Hellz yeah. I charged up that mother averaging high 9s, baby. I stood twice, including a final burst to get over the last few hundred meters. I was winded, panting, drooling, and may have even been wildly shouting obscenities. I have no idea, honestly. But I did it.

The rest of the ride home was cake, and I arrived at Casa Johnny 11 minutes under my best ever time for the same run. And there was much rejoicing.

Around noon, my shiny new Look KEO Sprint pedals arrived. Shaking with excitement, I called the LBS. They had just the shoes I was looking for. In just my size. Could this be the greatest day ever?

Six hours later, I’m clipped in for the first time. The theme from “Rocky” is playing. I blast off with a hoot, feeling the glorious power of proper cycling footwear and the full effect of the promised “25% increase in efficiency.”

Now, I had been extremely hesitant to go clipless. I view being clipped into your bike as something analogous to kayaking: You’ve locked yourself into a piece of equipment that has the very real possibility of tipping over with you helplessly tethered to it. In kayaking this usually means going glub glub glub faster than a kid whose parents put the Swimmies around the ankles instead of the arms. In cycling this means tipping over like a felled oak with a stupid look on your face.

In either of the above scenarios, the results are at once tragic and hilarious. Having forever found such delight in the simple act of an ordinarily capable and perfectly fit human being falling down, I relish every memory I have of my fellow homo sapiens taking a pratfall, be it on icy sidewalks, down a flight of stairs, or, yes dear friends, while clipped into a bicycle. Never let it be said that I was not a sucker for slapstick.

For the record, I myself have taken a few diggers, and have laughed myself sick while laying on my back afterwards, regardless of conditions. The best one I can recall was when I had left the house to speak at a conference Back East. On the way to the car, in my shiny new suit and carrying my very official looking leather valise, I caught a bad patch of ice and went a-skitter a-skitter a-skitter in some crazed dance of dysbalanced lunacy until I finally crashed with aplomb onto my back. I was laughing the whole time, from the initial slip all the way through the insane reverse can-can into one final explosive Haaaaaa! when my back hit the pavement and the wind went out.

I swear to this day that my beloved kitty PBH saw the whole thing from the living room window. Mortified, she shook her head while slowly ratcheting the blinds closed, never taking her eyes off the horrible horrible spectacle.

Which brings me to my first stop light in my shiny new clipless pedals and fancy carbon-soled shoes.

I went down like a ton of bricks.

I’m not entirely sure what happened, but I think it was an issue of unclipping the right foot, but tilting the bike to the left as I stopped. Either way, I saw it coming in the worst way, and just gave up the ghost even before I actually lost balance. I can’t say with any accuracy, but I’m pretty sure I let out a low, “NooooooOOOoooooooooooo!” on the way down. The next thing I knew I was on my side, my shiny precious bike collapsed over me, laughing like hell. An Asian couple saw the whole thing across the street and were horrified. They probably thought I had concussed myself and was delirious.

I took another good spill after that one, but soon had it down enough to the point where, this morning, I got through my short 16-miles without falling once.

Oh yeah, and I hit The Hill for the second day in a row without going GG.

Sweet.

A half-century and a fistful of perspective

Owie owie owie.

I’ve managed to wedge myself into the easy chair next to Hecubus T. Cat, who now sits nonetoopleased beside me. It’s been said that disturbing a sleeping cat violates the Geneva Convention, so I may have to lay low for a while after this post.

I turned in my first half-century less than an hour ago. I sincerely hope that the mildly overheating battery in my IBM notebook will provide a little heat therapy to my burning quads – we’ll see how it goes. It’s amazing to me that meeting little personal goals like making it up The Hill’s Twin or completing a 50-mile ride (anyone from the Running Chick’s world should take delight in that -- swear to creamed corn -- the exact mileage was 50 POINT TWO) is not met with some sort of fanfare or choir of mewling kittie-angels floating through the sky in little Purina mobile bumper-cars. Instead I wind up with that same nonplussed puss that Heckipoo is now sporting.

On to the next goal, right?

So this ride. It was interesting because it let me know just how new I am to the fun and exciting world of cycling: 10 miles into it I blew a flat. Going up a hill, I suddenly noticed that I was happily bouncing up and down pogo-stick-like in the rear tire area. Wheeeeee! I had no idea what was happening, but it seemed neat at the time.

My riding bud points out the flat, and we pull off. This is job for Bicycle Repair Man!! I quickly dismount and fling the bike up like I’m in the pits at the Indy 500. It’s around then that it dawns on me that I have no freakin’ idea what I’m doing. There I was with my bike flipped upside down on the sidewalk, mountain bike pump in hand and this half-assed grin on my face. I had no tire tool. I had no spare inner-tube. I had no idea that a mountain-bike frame pump is no match for the imperial forces of a 700x23c road tire. Bummer. But hey I looked dashing in my cycling shorts.

Luckily, the good folks I ride with are far more prepared than I and we soon had a tool and spare inner tube and, within minutes, the chunk of glass was extricated from the tire, the tube and tire were mounted, and we were good to go. I’m already planning my next trip to the LBS (did I seriously just use that contraction?) for a tool pouch-pouch, tire tool, coupla tubes, and maybe a new frame pump or those funky CO2 jobbers. This habit is beginning to become more expensive than cocaine. I haven't even gone clipless yet ...

So we continue up the PCH and I’m still kinda bewildered by the fact that I’m bicycling to destinations that I previously thought were too far even to drive. We pass a million taco stands, all of which smell like heaven. We even zip by a donut shop. Mmm. Donuts. Soon I start to wonder what I’m going to eat for lunch. Gosh my butt hurts.

Eventually, we make the turnaround and I take some delight in recognizing that, if I am going to get myself home, I’m going to complete a half century. Woo! I got a little extra wind in my sails and cranked up the speed, the theme from “Chariots of Fire” running through my head.

That lasted about a half mile.

After falling back to a more pedestrian speed and passing the donut shops and taco stands for the second time, something triggers in my little pea brain: Between me and home … is The Hill. Dang. I quickly scrambled through my little “Bento Box” carry-pouch. No testosterone patches or epinephrine needles. Crap! Obviously I neglected to purchase and pack them along with the tire tool and spare tube. Wonder if the LBS carries the official “LiveStrong” doping kit.

About five miles before The Hill, we pass these two young ladies who had been cycling down from Canada. Let me remind you that I’m in San Diego. These two had been biking for five weeks, averaging 50+ miles a day, and had already ridden 2,000 miles. Goodness. We tell them there’s a hill coming up in a bit, and they said, “Oh yeah, a small one.”

The Hill. “A small one.”

“We’ve gone through so many hills and insane inclines throughout the trip,” they say, “there was one going up a canyon that was just awful. Every time we get to a hill now, we tell ourselves that it’s nowhere near as bad as that one and we just go right over it.”

Wowsa.

These two young women have cycled 2,000 miles through Washington, Oregon, and Northern California – some of the hilliest terrain around. Carrying almost a week’s supplies. On two of the oldest, heaviest, and clunkiest looking bikes I’ve ever seen. To them, The Hill is just a little speed bump along the way.

So I get to The Hill around Mile 43, fresh legs on a full day’s rest, carrying next to nothing on a shiny new bike that probably weighs about as much as just the wheels alone on either one of those girls’ bikes. I throw it down into the climbing gear and, hum a few lines of “O, Canada” and go for it. About ten minutes later, I’m up on top of the hill, tired, sweating like a pig, and swearing like a wise guy from Providence.

2,000 miles in 5 weeks. “A small one.”

Perspective is an amazing thing.

The Hill, part II

Anyone who’s ever seen Marked for Death knows that the secret to Screwface was that he had “two head and four eye.” Yes, Screwface was actually a pair of insidiously evil identical twins. If I just ruined the film for anyone, I totally apologize and you should watch it anyway ‘cause it’s utterly beautiful in an early ‘90s action flick way.

The point is that The Hill, much like Screwface, has a twin. In this case, The Hill’s twin sister is fraternal, as she’s the more beautiful of the two and probably got more of her mother’s features. However, with that beauty comes a sinister temperament. The Hill, while rough and tumble, is at least a sport about things and will honor persistent effort so long as you gut it out for fifteen to twenty minutes. Her Twin, on the other hand …

To continue our film analogies, The Hill’s Twin is Asami Yamazaki from Takashi Miike’s Audition. From the second half of the movie. Yeah.

The Twin eats granny gears for lunch. She laughs at feeble efforts of ascent and rewards whatever gut-wrenching effort you can muster with a sadistic hairpin twist and … more climbing. Somewhere above all my panting and heaving, I swear I heard my bike snort and whinny: He was gettin’ spooked. I didn’t have time for that, so I gave him a gentle pat and wheezed something about “Hang in there buddy we’re gonna make it.” Honestly I was delirious and I have no idea what I said. I might have just mumbled, “Orange water bucket of plaster.” Either way, I was speaking to a bicycle so something was up.

I wish I could say that when it was all over I was able to soak in a gorgeous view and breath in the triumph of victory, or at least give a sweat-soaked self pat on the back and enjoy a granola bar. Instead I just said, “Sweet mother of creamed corn, that sucked,” and kept on going to get home. For the record, yes, the view was spectacular, and, sure, some day I hope to enjoy it after climbing. Then again, some day I hope not to be huffing and puffing, red faced and sounding like a schoolhouse boiler about to explode by the time I get up the darned thing.

I guess that’s a good goal.

The Hill, part I

Horror ... has a face ... and you must make a friend of horror. Horror, and moral terror, are your friends.

The Hill is not my friend.

There's this hill, see ... it's pretty intimidating to neophyte riders like myself. Climbing over 400 feet in just over 1.25 miles, this mother looms over Del Mar like a curse. Oh, sure, she’s a dream to ride down … but when you wake up, it’s back … in the saddle … again. It’s the chair for you, kid!!

Anyway, I just call it The Hill. With capitals. Some day, I’d like to not have to capitalize it and replace the particle “the” with “a.” Until such a time, however, The Hill continues to be the New York Yankees to my Pedro Martinez: Every time I go out there it seems to get harder instead of easier, and just when I think I’m going to have a breakthrough and finally win one, Hideki Matsui blasts one into the left field corner, Manny’s pants fall down as he flails to scoop it up, and Jeter and A-Rod round third to exchange high-fives. The only consolation I can take is that, in my case, there’s no walking involved. I might granny-gear it the whole way, but at least I stay mounted.

The above analogy is made slightly sillier when you consider that I am one of seven people in the nation whose two favorite baseball teams are the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees, not necessarily always in that order.

Back to The Hill. Today’s climb was no different than any other: Spinnin’ the bejeezus out of the granny gear and inching up the hill at around seven miles an hour. Whooooooooooooo. Putt putt putt putt putt. The nerdy guy on the Vespa scooting up The Hill is pointing and laughing at me. Snails are blowing past me screamin, “Get outta da road ya bum!” Good times.

As Dan, a friend from Back East, might have said, “Friggin’ The Hill!”

Nothing boosts your self image after getting your tukus kicked by The Hill like hitting every red light on the way home after it. Booooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

Nevertheless, I finished up and managed to get myself into work.

Friggin’ The Hill.

Welcome to the monkey house

Okay. So I've got this friend somewhere in Connecticut who runs a lot. I mean ... a lot. Marathon type stuff. She promised she'd never run a marathon. Promised. She lied. She's run a couple of 'em now.

She's insane. She's got this blog, see, and she chronicles her fun running adventures and marathons she was never going to run and stuff through it at Running Chick with the Orange Hat.

So one day I move out to San Diego. Home of the Cyclists. Hundreds of the little buggers -- thousands on weekends -- are crawling all over the joint like a bad pack of aphids on a rosebush. Now you have to understand that I always thought that bikers were super fruity ... what with their silly shorts and "Eat At Joes" rolling advertisement jerseys, dressed for a race on a total non-race day. I swear I once saw a guy by himself along one of the roads here with his race number pinned to his jersey ... and there wasn't a race anywhere that whole month. Puh-leease. I would laugh at them and drive a little too close to the bike lane. Woo!

This was all good, because I knew I'd never be a cyclist.

Just like my friend would never run a marathon.

Right.

So I work two miles from home. It costs $100/month to park at work. Now, Back East, I was driving 60 miles to work ... each way ... so this 4 mile round-trip commute is like ... bliss. Nevertheless, I start to realize three things:

1) It's kind retarded to drive to work when I live two miles from my office.

2) I'd love to find a way to not pay $100/month to park my little NISSAN.

3) Did I mention that it's retarded to drive two miles to and from work?

I get the brilliant idea to ride my bike to work. Hooray. Life is good. I dust off the old GT Aggressor and ride it in. Within a week, I've swapped its big giant knobby mountain bike tires for slicks and find myself fantasizing about putting drop bars on it. Uh oh. Something's going awry. Meanwhile, work buds are sniffing out the scent of bike chain lube and beginning to ask questions about when I'm going to start riding with them.

This could get ugly.

So this friend of mine from Back East with the blog who promised she'd never run a marathon and all that and I start talking about the whole thing. I've always been very inspired by her and admire her accomplishments, and she's very supportive of my pining to take my cycling beyond the commute. Very quickly find myself shopping for a road bike. Two weeks and many test rides later, I have a little fire-engine-red cutie and start piling on the miles.

So here's the freaky part: I start riding. Not thinking much of it, but having fun. Soon I'm riding with my work buds. Slowly, inexorably, the transformation begins to manifest itself. One day I'm riding in Under Armour and soccer shorts with an A.S. Roma jersey on ... the next thing I know I'm sporting a goofy cycling jersey bearing the logos of companies that don't even know I exist, let alone sponsor my efforts, fingerless gel-impregnated gloves, and those appalling Lycra shorts with the stuffing in the butt. What the hell happened to me?

The horror.

But that is neither here, nor there. The point is that I'm pedalling around southern California and having a hell of a time, and yer all gonna hear about it.