LAX Circuit Race

The LAX Circuit Race; too far, too loud, ridikilously boring. The Sprinter; (as defined by the title) does not care for surges. He does not care for “yo-yoing,” about in a criterium with the assorted pack fodder, Freds, and other such Sprinter-Food which sign up (and provide excellent wind coverage) for the closers in the group. It should be noted; before the Sprinter is called out by the entire Socal cycling community that this season he has been; with reservation and much denial, said pack fodder. Relax I say! I’m just getting my racing legs back, (cycling excuse #326.)

It is for this reason the Sprinter does not like crits and circuit races because of the waiting. The Sprinter, as odd as it seems, would rather suffer off the back in a road race than sit in and yawn until the lap cards arrive. Alas, we can’t all have slow twitch fibers allowing for long sessions of hammering; some of us are two-pump chumps, cursed from the womb. Jesus presided; stating one by one as each Sprinter popped into the world. “Rise, little sprinters,” He said. “Go forth and hammer, but only from 300 meters out, for this is all the “get-up-and-go” I have provided for you my children.”

(Paul – 53:11)

Well, thank ya very much, being “snappy” and fast means zero if you aren’t there to enjoy and show off your God-given, fast twitch fibers.
Off the digression. Could the race be any farther? Not really. 60 to the 605 to the 105 to the…..
The Sprinter finds black gold, oil that is. Kinfolks said, “Dave, move away from here; LA, now that’s where you oughtta be,” so he loaded up his Honda Accord; and moved to Beverly….Hills, that is.




Now, the Westside is a little different than the IE; too which the Sprinter has much loyalty. The reason being is that the Sprinter grew up in the south OC, and finds the IE comparable in many ways. It should be duly noted that the Sprinter does not live in the DEEP IE, (Riverside, Beaumont, Colton, etc.) So of course the Sprinter does not know the real joy of living in a REAL authentic IE environment, which consists of SKIN stickers, big trucks, dirt bikes, Hurley shirts, and a “Bro-Ho,” complete with black/blond hair, short shorts, tons of make-up, and the Devil/Angel girl decals in the rear windshield. I’ve had worse proclaims the Sprinter, bring em’ on!

In the parking lot, all the Cat 3 studs are sizing each other up on their trainers. It’s the same crowd as last week dipstick, relax. It’s no surprise Kahala LaGrange is rolling deep, this being a Westside race and all. Doffing their USC sweaters and hopping out of their BMW’s complete with bumper sticker stating “My daddy could buy your daddy ten times.” As the Sprinter approaches the start line he is surrounded by a drove of LaGrange pritty boyz and reminded WHOSE race this belongs to; just exactly WHERE he is now. The Sprinter reminds them that Griffin Easter, little brother to beloved LaGrange sprinter Stratton; now attends school in Claremont; and should any ill-will be done toward The Sprinter, baby Easter might go AWOL, (If ya know whatta mean.) This is reflected upon. The grungy, cherub like leader waives the LaGrange mutants away from the Sprinter and the race is on.

32 miles, shortened to 27 due to movie filming on Westside, as per. First couple of laps are surgy, the kind of stuff the Sprinter hates, cuz he knows it will all come back, so why oh why are we all hauling ass out of the saddle for nothing. The Sprinter’s teammate Andy Boscoroni, searching for 2 more upgrade points for Cat2 (which he will score with a third place) takes a flyer. The Sprinter goes to the front to choke it up, noting that the he is driving into a headwind. Smart move. The pack gets antsy and attacks go left and right, forcing the Sprinter to follow. After catching Andy, he looks over at me and says “hey, why didn’t you block for me?” I did! How could not see 182 lbs in a matching lycra uniform! You looked back like five times fer the love.

A Lap later, The Sprinter gets bored and takes an attack himself, “I will take a 17 cog into the headwind up the false flat for 500, Mr. Trebek.” The answer is: A Daily Double! The Sprinter gets a 300m gap, and looks back to see an Allegient Air Rider (who is always off the front) bridging up to join him. Sweetness? Or one of those Pee-Wee Herman sticks of gum that turns gross after a second? The Sprinter and the dark-skinned evader last about 3 miles and then, POP, goes the legs! And who reeled us back? Surely it would be LaGrange with 12 deep in the field? No, a rider with NO teammates in the race. Guess he just felt like it. Ba-da-bing.
The rest of the race was a blur. A break of six went up the road and Bert Glennon from Schroeder Iron went to the front and yanked them all back like kiddies on those stretchy ropes. The Sprinter finished in the pack, seeing as he failed to move up down the backstretch and never got close to the front again. There’s always next week of course.


Driving home I saw this license plate, which ironically detailed my travel home.

Church or Bike Racing?

OR

Well, in this day and age where only 10% of Americans read the bible every day; of course based on a pole where a majority of those 10% admitted to indulging in the Lord’s diary out of guilt; or even worse just because they wanted to “look good” for Jesus. Fer the love, in my three decades on this earth I have met two or three what would call “good Christians.” So in all brutal and non-PC honesty I think the question is well deserved. Even if not out of mere daydreaming, absent thought, or spiritual pursuit; but based on the simple fact a Godasaurus Rex attempted to devour my soul for racing a bicycle in lieu of churchgoing. I have always joked that someone would find fault in my replacing the visitation of the good Friar Tuck’s house with banging elbows against a bunch of other idiots at a bike race; on God’s day of rest and recovery. Well, someone finally did it.

But therein lies my point. There ARE no Friar Tucks. If there are, they are too hard to find. One cannot simply Google “real ministers” in order to find a suitable preacher of the word. I suppose part of my cynicism stems from my lack of Sunday masses as a child. My religious experience as a child consisted of watching Indiana Jones kill Nazis and find the Lost Ark. Or maybe it was the cultish way some of the families around me attempted to push religion on me. The tact almost always seemed to be one of guilt. “Jesus won’t love you if you don’t love him,” “You’re going to hell if you don’t go to church,” “Real men love Jesus,” etc. Look, The Sprinter is OK with religion part. I just don’t want to go to church. Ferchrist, I’m 30 this year; and I don’t know any of the songs ok? It’s uncomfortable for me. Since when do I have to go to church to love Jesus anyway? One could argue that if your race started later then you could ideally do both. But eventually, you will do one where it is impossible to do both.

A man I knew once said it best; essentially separating the religion from the institution. His name was Doug Goldstein, the former manager of Guns N’ Roses; back in the hot years, (Where do we go, where do we go now, where do we go, sweet child o’ mine.) Doug made the clear statement of “Hey, church is cool and all, but every time I go, God’s broke again. What’s he spend so much money on?”

Doug shared the same gimlet eyed approach after watching the Reverend Robert Schuler Jr. grow in wealth and prosperity in the south Orange County. We both knew him personally, and decided independently that he didn’t need anymore million dollar homes or Mercedes S500’s.


This is more often than not a verboten topic, and I don’t normally engage in public conversation on the topic. But am I the only bike racer who has thought of it? I don’t think so. I’ll put my next paycheck on the fact that many wives/girlfriends have derided their idiot bike racer for not going to church and hanging out/socializing with the “good” people.

Many of the bike racers I know border on the obsessive when it comes to their Sunday races, and I imagine most of them are NOT thinking about church while rolling on their trainer waiting for their race to start.

So will Jesus hate me for racing my bike on Sundays? Will I be denied entry into heaven for sprinting down industrial park roads and chasing the dream? Will Peter stop me and say, “well Dave, you did CBR on this day, and SDSR on this day, and state championships on this day.” I think not.

So with that; I am racing my bike this Sunday. God will not hate me; nor will baby Jesus. See you guys on the road.

Have you held a Swedish Goddess, sir? "Yes I have"

Well, in a sense. Emilia Fahlin, Swedish national road race champion; lined up for the San Dimas Stage Race time trial. It being my sworn duty (sans affidavit, blood oath only) being an SC Velo race, it was my burden to be a time trial holder for the Cat 3, Cat 2, Pro men, (and what?!?) the Pro women as well?!? It was certainly a challenge, and I refused at first, but in the end I managed somehow. It being against my Omishesque way of living to hold tight female bottoms wrapped in tight fitting clopthing. Now if you were a cycling geek, which I am not, then you would be oogling over these women. In fact, I was drooling over some of the bike set ups these girls had more than what was in the Lycra. However, I couldn't help but admire the professional women athletes who I had to (with the utmost professional demeanor) lovingly hold while they waited to launch their time trial up Glendora Mountain Road. Some of these women had lower body fat then the Cat 3 men, and you could sense the power some of them had as they took off. I have to admit they were the pickiest of the bunch, "Little to the left please," "wait, I'm not ready," "when you feel me take off let go really quick, OK?" But, it's their job, so you oblige them with the requests they need to get their mind right. But seeing the road rash scars, tanned skin, and hearing the many Australian accents soon put me at ease.

Back to Emilia Fahlin. You know, this one:
























The Sprinter is not usually a fan of his own likes of Blond hair/Blue eyes; as a rule I have been a brunette lover a majority of my life. But it was not hard to see why Team Columbia's Internet home page had doubled in visits since Emilia joined the team. She upheld the classic look you would picture if some said "hot Swedish girl." There were plenty of other lookers to be sure. Some of them talkative, some of them focused and quiet. Cath Cheatly and Tiff Cromwell of Colavita were HOT, and in desperate need of post TT rubdowns, but my offers were snubbed. Tina Pic gave me a very flirtatious "Hi" and for a moment I thought I blushed. Tina of course a famed and feared sprinter, with enough confidence to share for everyone. Mara Abbott was SKINNY." I mean, ripped to the bone. It was no wonder she scorched the time trial and took the yellow jersey. Moving on to the Goddess; fine display of Third Reich poster child perfection.


Now under protection of the Sprinter's graces, the blond bombshell's balance is in my capable hands. Note my VERY serious look.





















Off she goes. Note the sprinter; checking out the smooth lines of her, uhhh; bike..
























Later on, the Pro Men lined up. I was a little surprised at some of the set ups. It seemed many of them were absent the power meters/GPS units/fancy wheels. In fact, the Cat 3's and 2's had WAY more expensive rigs than most of the pros. Yet, the pros went MUCH faster up the mountain. Guess that says alot about ability vs. gadgets.



Here is Bahati, who is always super cool. As a sprinter he wasn't sweating any of this uphill TT stuff. You could see he was just here for fun that day. Bahati had a new Kestrel, as many of the Rock guys did. Although some still had the Scott bikes they used a few years ago.





















Here is Rory Sutherland, Ouch/Maxxis. Big guy, and how he got up that 3.8 mile mountain course in less than 14 minutes is beyond me. Not the little guy with the glasses talking to him. Didn't bother looking him up, but what a prick. He had an OUCH shirt on and was apparently one of the staff. Didn't do much but stand there and tell people good luck. Asked him to take a picture of Rory and I and he said "I'm not comfortable with that." Huh?!?! Yeah, ok dude, go spank yourself.




















Here is Lucas Haedo, JJ Haedo's brother. I always liked the Colavita kits, especially with the big olive oil bottle on the back.























And here is my hero for the day. A bonifide Cat 1 racer. SC Velo member Josh Webster, our local rider. Josh is cool, humble, and a strong guy. While the rest of these guys ride bikes for a living, Josh is a full time teacher and still finds time to mix it up with the pros. It's guys like him I respect the most.























And who was there? Henk Vogels! Part of the new managment team of FlyV Australia. Henk was kind enough to pose with the sprinter. Thanks mate! Well, what a day. I kind of wished I was racing as I held the Cat 3's, watching them take off. I'm on the mend so hopefully I will be racing again soon.

SDSR TT today

Not really wishing all that much I was there, seeing as it's UPHILL. But I have my SC Velo volunteering duties to do so I will be a TT "holder" for the Cat 3, Cat 2, and Pro field. Which, will be very cool to watch the pro's as they get ready to take off. You can tell someof them are really sweating it, especially the GC contenders who's bread is earned with the stuff. It's super foggy out so I'm heading for a quick ride before I head up to Glendora. It will be interesting to see the times today, the climbers will be having their day today for sure.

Crash at Murrieta+Cracked Frame=NOT HAPPY

Can you really console someone after their brand new custom SC Velo/Incycle team bike get’s completely ruined? Would you even approach such a volatile and emotionally emptied bike racer? Especially given the terms on which the bike was ruined; nimrods attempting to negotiate a turn at a higher speed then the skills granted by God in place.

It was just a matter of time before turn #2 claimed flesh and carbon from the Cat 3 pack, the cycling Gods were above and salivating at the riders in front of me taking corners like a drunk hillbilly driving a lawnmower.
So with 3 laps to go, it finally happened. The self about 2/3 of the way up the pack, heard the sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Like an earthquake ravaging an IE suburb, it’s something you hear before you feel. The click clacking of spokes, the screech of brakes; lycra clad, waif like humans launching into heaps of sheared carbon and artery slicing chainrings.


Well, sweet baby jesus if I didn’t do my damndest to get out of the way. I moved off the road into the dirt swinging outside. I thought for sure I was going to get around it, but the people in front of me had other ideas. They all moved over too, and before I knew it I was airborne.

You know, it’s a sad thing when you are flipping upside down and actually have a few seconds to think, “f..k, this is going to hurt.” Wham! First impact on the top of the helmet and back of the shoulders as I slide upside down, the sunlight blinding me. Just skidding along and still thinking, “Jesus, I cannot believe I crashed.”
I come to a halt and slowly pick myself up. The stinging on my skin where I skidded along is developing. My handlebars are bent all the way down and curled underneath my top tube. I cannot move the steering tube. Oh well. Paramedics show up and take care of the walking wounded. About now I’m thinking “no big deal, I will be back tomorrow.”


Then I see it. The CRACK.























My heart sinks to the doldrums. I mean LOW. You got to be kidding. I got this bike a month ago; it has FOUR races in it, and is now utterly useless. Now my spirit sinks. Later on Mother will offer:

“At least you’re ok, the bike can be replaced.”

“Hey, the important thing is you’re not hurt bad, don’t worry about the bike.”

REALLY!?! I don’t see anyone offering to front me the money to fix it! FERCHRIST’s sake I have medical insurance I could get a freakin' lobotomy tomorrow and it will be a $5 copay. Like I give a shit about me. Losing the bike is worse, but I still love you mom.

Crystal Lake Climb

Azusa California, Hwy 39, Elevation 753 feet

Temp is about 62 degrees; clouds look like they are burning off. I elect to go gloveless and take a wind jacket and arm warmers. You will read very soon here that I later pay dearly for this decision. Up Hwy 39 I go towards East Fork/Crystal Lake. I have never gone past Crystal Lake, and today I had time to burn and wanted to reach the Angeles Crest Highway (Hwy 2.) This would be a total of 28 miles. I know; this doesn’t sound like much, but it would be at an average gradient of about 8%, hitting a max of 15%. Mathematically, moving 183 lbs up this mountain took 2400 calories, and 2 hours 23 minutes at a heart rate of 170 bpm. The ride starts with some rolling 5-7% grades over the Morris and San Gabriel reservoirs, about 9 miles until the East Fork Rd/Crystal Lake split. The ride starts here, once past the first camp and OHV area the 8-10% climbs start.

Elevation 2000 Feet, 12 miles

The Snowy peaks can be seen in the distance, but the clouds that were supposed to burn off are actually getting heavier. This is now the part which is past the closed gate, which means I can ride up the middle of the road and know there are no cars on the road. There is a slight downhill and now the tough part begins. I am by no means a climber, and the 12% grades which I hit for the next couple of miles hurt me. I have to stay out of the saddle to stay at 170 bpm, which is exactly one beat under my Anaerobic Threshold. Why is that important? Simply because any higher of a heart rate and my body stops flushing the lactic acid out of my legs and the gas tank empties. If I want to last the whole climb it’s all about pacing myself.

Elevation 3000 Feet, 15 miles

Just after Coldwater Campground the grade eases for a couple of switchbacks and the climb starts again. The road is getting more and more desolate. The road continues to wind over the river which is flowing strongly from the melting snow. The switchbacks are coming thick and heavy, as you ride you can see the climb above you, and below you.

Elevation 4000 Feet, 19 miles
I stop to put my arm warmers on. It’s starting to get cold, but I am still comfortable. I stop at the Josh Webster water fountain, named of course after the person who motivates me to do this ride. Josh actually does REPEATS up and down this mountain which, unless you are elite athlete it is impossible to explain the effort he puts out.

The hefty sprinter hits the watering hole. Webster claims the Native American burial ground above feeds spirits into his bottle adding 20 watts per kilo. Currently unfounded claim, however, what harm could Chumash Indian ashes be? (20 minutes later I begin hallucinating and believe the Red-Tailed Hawks are my guides up the mountain.)

Elevation 5000 Feet, 21 miles

As evidenced by the photo, I am at 5000 feet, and freezing. My hands are becoming more and more numb as I go. There is NO sun, despite desperate pleads to Mother Nature for just a few precious warming rays. I pass the Crystal Lake exit and keep going. I figure I will just go as far as I can stand the cold, and turn back. I am above the snow line and inside the clouds around the peaks. At about 5500 feet I almost turn back. I have pulled my arm warmers over my bare hands like a kid with his sweatshirt. The grade is only about 4% here and I am cruising pretty fast. Surprisingly, it starts to get warmer and I break out of the clouds into the sun! Ahh, how nice! My spirit has lifted and I think I may make it to the crest.

Elevation 6000 Feet, 25 miles

The snow is getting very heavy now, I start passing through walls of cleared snow.

Now, the walls are getting really high. I slip over a couple of areas of black ice, and my front wheel almost makes me go down.

I figure I’ve got to be close so I keep going until…….

Well, that’s it. Now I can see why the snow tunnels were so big, this guy has been clearing this stuff all day. I can barely feel my hands and after suffering I get stopped a cruel 3/4 of a mile from the crest. **Sigh**
Ending elevation, 6311 Feet. I will save the rest of the story for you, but I can say it was the most miserable time I ever spent on a bike. I couldn’t stop shaking, and just kept watching my altimeter praying for 2000 feet to come as soon as possible. Finally I got down to the reservoirs and warmed up. I love my bike but sometimes I wonder what the hell I was thinking. I get back to my car and blast the heater on the way home. 52 miles, 3 hours, 37 minuites. The mountains are beautiful but they can conquer you if you are not prepared. I will be back again to battle with the crest again.

Lunchtime therapy/hammerfest

If you work in an office environment, it’s only a matter of time before you flippin’ lose your mind. Humans were not meant to sit in cubicles and stare at computer screens all day, fueled by espressos via IV drip. Ferchrist, I am getting claustrophobic just thinking about it. Bosses, moron coworkers, and socialist bureaucracy which has a single motivation to stop the productivity of bright, energetic individuals. It’s fundamentally a step backward from communism. I would rather have a Russian tractor with no reverse gear than bosses whose sole purpose is to make your job more difficult. But; my digression has led me astray, back to the issue at hand.

The view toward of LA from Turnbull

Lunchtime. No, you are WRONG sir! It’s HAMMERTIME. As in “drop the hammer,” or in cycling words, watch your heart rate stay at 90% of its max for 1 ½ hours and feel the lactic acid seep into your legs. Note**: For non-cyclists it is important to understand why we say “hammer.” You see, many of our rides are “low intensity” meaning low heart rate, which allows us to go longer and stay fresh. There is only so much time you can stay at a high heart rate, and then you are toast. Thus, the difference of RIDING vs. HAMMERTIME. This is my “therapy.” This is my “couch time.” My lunch time therapy/hammerfest is my Turnbull Canyon/Whittier Heights loop by work.

Break out of the box! Out of the office building I go. I can smell the freedom as the fresh air engulfs my senses. It’s a clear, winter day in Southern California, which means a chilly 60 degrees at 11am. The fact that it is winter is laughable in all respects. Off I go, warming up in my small ring as I head north from Norwalk on Bloomfield. I head east as I go towards Whittier and turn north on Painter Ave, going through downtown Whittier by Whittier College. I climb slowly up by the large trees and old city business structures. It becomes less and less busy as I climb into the heights, and hang a right on Beverly Blvd. The road becomes Turnbull Canyon Road, the chief climb of the day.

I am used to climbing GMR and Baldy Rd for miles, and this is only a two mile climb. The tough part is it hits grades of 11% and screws your rhythm up. You’re cruising at a 5% grade and as you turn a corner it becomes 9%. If you haven’t ridden these grades at speed, the difference between 5% and 9% is ridiculous. If you are a larger sprinter like me then it sucks even more. This makes it perfect for intervals of half miles, making it a true hammer fest.
The descent is technical and fun, as I pass the elementary school at the bottom I turn through the neighborhood and head over Hacienda Rd. This is another 8-10% climb which is about a mile and great for an interval at the top. Down Hacienda and a quick right on West Rd. Now a series of sharp upward turns which, if you feel good this can be done in your big ring (biggest front gear ring.) I soar over the 2-3% grades and descents in the big ring hammering over the hills in the drops. It’s a great feeling when you’re having a good day and flying over the hills.
Through the last part of Whittier heights and back home to the office. My therapy is complete; and now I can put on my shirt and tie and not lose my mind for the remainder of the day. I down a protein shake when I get back, and then pound a meal of shredded chicken, rice, and mango salsa an hour later. Just another day in the office.

Ontario Crit #1 Cat 3

Sunday, 02/22/2009, Ontario GP #1, Cat 3 hack fest.

“I’ve got suuunnnnshine; on a cloudy daaaayyyy.!” Which is the Ontario Crit #1 - stick n’ flick.

Location: City of Ontario, Fontucky County, California.

A mere 7 miles from home, making the sprinting slugfest geographically desirable; minus cow patty stench.

7 corners, 15 sprinters, 55 assorted breakaway artists, sled dogs, and other such pack fodder. Good parking, and smooth warm up aside from not pulling the skinsuit down far enough during the porta-potty visit, resulting in annoying yet warming pee spray into chamois. The thought of Bear Grylls drinking his urine on Man vs. Wild comes to mind. Maybe a new episode idea, using bodily fluid to warm up before an IP Crit? Primetime material or a Pro “no go?”

Bosco's shades force everyone to
where dark glasses on the cloudy
day, while Dom ponders Miller's

new "grunge look."

Lined up at the start. Beefcake sprinters, Crit monkeys, and burly track stars salivating at the plethora of skinny legged roadies surrounding them; slightly akin to placing a handful of starved mountain lions into a pit of tiny fawn. The tweedy birds fly away from the 180 pound monsters during the road races; now the waif like whippets had clipped wings. Revenge is sweet, Shroeder Iron tattooed beast forced to wear muzzle for fear of cannabilistic agression. Teammates are here, the usual SC Velo hole in the wall gang.

Andrew Bosco (I’m still adjusting from the Spanish jet lag)
Nate Swift (Hasn’t ridden bike in three weeks, for the 27th week in a row)
Kevin Miller (“Wolfman” transformation nearly complete)
Pat Torres (Perpetually skinny sprinting machine, heavily gloved)
Ryan Cleveland (80% legs, seatpost at minimum insert, curly locks becoming afro)
Dom Galenti XXXV (Vows to go easy on dad during training rides)
Sam Simmons (import from SB, donning world champion socks for intimidation)
The Self (183 pounds in a skinsuit; crit star or wannabe Batman character?)

SC Velo juniors still seeking bitter revenge from relegation at Mothballs for safely celebrating the cycling lesson they gave the other juniors. Itz all good! The gun goes, and SC Velo is in the break from the start. A handful of breaks goes up the road, but the pack is a huge Teflon pan and nothing is sticking.

"Does this skinsuit make me look fat?"
Note Clevie in the back, looking right at the camera, a born star!

**Note: about halfway through the race Miller yells “Right Side!” as the attack goes up the LEFT side….The resulting self correction was “uhhh, I mean LEFT!” Classic.

Three laps to go and now every nimrod in the top twenty is tossing around F-Bombs left and right. “Hold your line!” “Hey, watch it!” “Hey now, come ooon DUDE!” etc, etc…..Going into the last turn I am forced into west side gutter by a small, hobbit-like creature refusing to sprint. Some of our other brothers fared better and cracked the top ten, which of course was decided by tarot cards due to “something wrong with the camera.” Which is a rough translation of “We forgot to turn the camera on; again.”

Cat 3 money board:
1. Kit Karzen-All Opportunities Wasted (Nat’l track champ showing the Cat3’s whatz up)
2. “Hey Ron” Takeda-Plutonium (Getting younger every day)
3. Ely Woody Woodpecker-Giant (hails from unknown Victorville desert)
4. Andy “Spanish Fly” Bosco-SC Velo (Orange sunglasses added 14 watts to threshold)
5. Unknown face
6. Ryan “Goldilocks” Cleveland-SC Velo (Snappy sprinter can slide n’ glide, jump n’ dump)