GMR to Baldy Village Ride 10/10/2009

The Girl and I hit GMR to Baldy Village from Chino. 55 miles, 4 hours 23 min on the bike, 4600 feet of climbing, and a damn fine day.

Portland Oregon; Back in the Promise Land

Portland, Oregon. Gem of the northwest. Beautiful countryside aplenty. Reusable shopping bags, 55mph freeway limits, tall blond mommies, Obama/Putin 2012 signs, legal pot farms, friendly hellos, hippies, and a damn fine set of bridges; as per.


Upon retiring (at the earliest hour possible) the self will promptly be gathering up his family and U-haling them to the promise land; forgoing the stop in beautiful Bakersfield, Sac-town, or Redding. For to live in Oregon is to enjoy life’s most savory atmosphere. Why sure, the property tax is a mild 87.6% and it rains 364 days a year, but there are other perks. No state tax, $2 car registration, fine cheeses and breads, college lab grown reefer; not to mention skiing, fishing, cycling, and a nifty tram which takes you from the fixie surrounded Borders Books on the river to the university at the top.


Instead of chancing the bike case rental from his local shop, plus the $900 airline fee for transporting a bicycle, son of the OC/IE yours truly decided to rent a bike from the local shop in Lake Oswego. Nice lads down there in Beverly Oswego, they are; renting the self a Cannondale for $30 a day, which was well worth the cost over a three day period when compared to the formerly listed option of self-transport. Mostly, it was worth it simply because the self could not sit inside all day in this beautiful garden of Eden and not hit the pavement.



The rented sled:
2006 Caad 8



Let’s take a look around the components shall we.

Aluminum Frame, Size 54. No 56 was available. Thanks to the boys at the Velonews forum who talked me out of getting a 54 next year as the bike was entirely too small.



The shop had a Fizik Arione test model which I swapped for the no name brand seat on the bike.



Which came complete with 1981 Bianchi seatpost.




FSA Carbon compact cranks, Shimano Ultegra throughout.



Bitchin anodized cages.



And of course, the requisite Fred stem, at a cool 35 degree upswing.




Now the Sprinter is pumped. Who needs carbon fiber, GPS computers, and 7900? Who needs heart rate monitors, $1100 wheels, and hologram cranks? As Max Kash Agro always said, “gritty not pritty.”© The self does not want a speedometer, this way he will have an excuse for the Clackamas County Deputy when he breaks the speed limit on the flats. Time to get back to base, time to enjoy the ride, time to HAMMER. No thinking, no wishing, no wanting, no hoping. There is no HOPE; only a government run free market economy and cash for clunkers. No need for a death panel anyway, the Sprinter will die young and die pritty. That’s the mantra. No Gnosticism, Sadducees, reincarnation, or spontaneous combustion. This is the final act. Enjoy it, it will be over soon. There will be no clapping, no encore, no after party with cocktails and weenies. The Sprinter is a speck on the timeline, but today the timeline gets blown up. 10 seconds to clip in. 10 seconds to launch. 10 seconds to blast off, up and over the forests of Oregon. We are going to make an Instant Rocket in class today kids. Just add Wattage. No need for milk, eggs, flour, or sugar; on account the Self is sweet enough already.

Rant over; enjoy the pics of the beautiful place I was so lucky to ride in.

Hoffman Road, SW Wilsonville:



Huge momma Mantis on the road:



Picked her up and put her in the bushes so she wouldn’t get run over:



Pete’s Mountain Road, 19%:



Top of the valley, Mt Hood not clearly visible due to some fires in the area:



Pumpkin Patch at the bottom of Turner:




Forest area of Turner Rd, 10% grade:




Ride over, legs pumped, soul cleansed.

Steep Hills, Red Flags, and Asshole Arsonists

Thursday morning, Inland Empire; the 909 is surrounded by life taking, property consuming brush fires greedily lapping up everything in sight. Percentage of containment, low 20's; cause of fires; no doubt a filthy, disgusting, scabies-infested piece of parasite trash. (Read: HUMAN.)

The self is overwhelmed with the world. The communist leader preparing to address the "children," deficit in full swing, personal finance future unknown. Time to get away, to make it all simple again. Time to bow to the holy trinity of heart, lung and muscle against gravity. The trio which lets us know we are mortal if not human. The self calls the boss, taking the day off. Why? Well, partly because the self doesn't want to drive 30 miles somewhere he dosen't want to be, but mostly because it's hammer time. A glance at the Garmin cockpit confirms this feeling.





The local liberal controlled/paid weatherman proclaims a "RED FLAG" warning. Stay inside! Lock your doors! Don't breathe! People of Southern California duly warned and lovingly protected.

Red Flags!?! I eat red flags for breakfast! Don't think so? Look!



Red Flags=Red Tape. Bust through! If the self was a lemming he would be kicking back watching his bretheren walk off the cliff. If you're not leading you're following. Don't want to think about what's going on in the world, just want to blast off, just want to hammer, just want to feel the acid fill the legs; lactic/lactate, and perhaps even lactaid. It's on, off to Chino Hills I go looking for the steepies. I casually roll westbound down Chino Av up by the theatres and to Chino Hills pkwy. Feeling good...The self goes to the steepist climb in Chino hills, an undisclosed road where masters studs such as Chris Demarchi perform countless intervals to let off steam and prepare to hammer the family men racers.

The road, 13% grade for 1/2 mile. It's a LONG 1/2 mile. Takes 4 minutes on this day. The self's blood organ quickley jumps to 180 bpm. It stays there. At the top the self feels vindicated, even soothed. Until of course, I see this at the top of the hill:



Well....I guess it does..Since, THIS is what it should look like:




A HUGE thank you to humans. Although this rant may seem conservative, the self is VERY liberal when it comes to planet earth, animals, and our environment. A random thought:

I fervently wish I did not live in this era. Make me a caveman if you have to. I am through with the fast life. It's old. I could live on a ranch growing my own food and slaughtering my own cows. If it meant no smog, trash, and most of all; people. Sure I love my internet; sure I love my blackberry, sure I love my 15lb bike; but I would give it up in an instant.

So in the end, the ride clears the head, but muddles it at the same time.

Cheers

Paramount GP

The sprinter contemplates an honest question: Am I here on this earth soley to pound these peckerheads?

First race back in two months...Pressure if off for upgrading this season. All focus will be on next season to make Cat 2, and will be done...Oh yes my little kupcakes, it WILL be done. Field is decent size, 80 or so riders my guess. Usual hack n' crack crowd. Didn't see much of the race, as the sprinter was off the front in every break that went. This was on purpose, before you ask. I didn't feel like sitting in the field and waiting for the sprint. Just felt like hammering. No sitting, no drafting, no waiting for the dinner bell. I break from the gun, and three small, cherub-like creatures latch on.















First break is off, and my companions blow faster than a 12 year old reading the lingerie section of the Sear's catalogue. The Sprinter glances at the small flock of rabbits and wonders why they even came with him. Two seconds of glory? Your mommy or girlfriend was watching? I could just hear it now later at the Starbucks. "Didjaseeme? I was off the front hammering, then I just cramped up, it was really wierd."

I continue on solo and a group of seven or so bridges up:

Now The Sprinter is thinking we have a little more firepower, and we'll get rolling.

No.

Leave it to a Cat 3 to move to the side when it's his turn in the wind like we're in the final kilo of a Tour De France stage. So, once again, The Sprinter goes to the front to keep the pace up.

The group catches and now the Sprinter sits top ten for little while. The Sprinter soon gets bored. Off the front we go again: Notice the fervent fan on the right pointing; proving the attack must have been so violent and powerful in it's excecution that he became excited and overwhelmed with the Sprinter's furious pedal strokes.

A teenage boy wonder spinning his junior gear with all his might came with the sprinter down the finishing straight. The Sprinter waives him forward, he oblidges. Out of all the breaks the young kid haz the nutz to pull through; kudos to you, young Jedi. Note the size difference, I wonder if I am getting ANY draft at all:

Here's where it goes wrong. As the attack passes the start/finish line a $25 prime is announced for the next lap. So now the poor college kinds are hunting us down with all there might. The Sprinter goes for the prime, and smacks the right knee on the stem bolts. How on earth this happended, seeing as though it's never happened in the last two years is beyond the Sprinter's scope of knowledge. But it did happen, and it hurt. I keep pedaling but realize it still hurts. Not wanting to risk injury for season since it's already winding down, I do something I have NEVER done in a crit; I pull out. I don't feel like a quitter, because the long term is more important than the short right now, but still, it felt strange. The shame of it was I was having fun racing for the first time in a while, and wasn't feeling too bad.

Such is life.

The Oregon Trail

Up in Oregon for family business. Not positive business, a family loss in fact. My little brother was found dead off the coast of Fiji where's he's been living. Don't really feel like blogging, and writing that last sentence was difficult; but eventually I have to confront it. At the moment just trying to make light of the situation and the time up here; which has now been extended until mid-May. I drove here from SoCal because I wanted the time on the road to think. I decided to take my bike, which was a great choice. Getting out in the Oregon countryside has cleared my head a bit, and I am able to put 3 hours a day in the saddle.

This is my therapy. Some drink, some take drugs, and some see professionals; I have just been waking up, grabbing my Cannondale and looking for the steepest climbs I can find. I believe physical suffering has benefits; both mentally and physically. Of course as an athlete, you must condition yourself. But there is something spiritual about feeling the acid seep into your legs and watching your heart rate hit 180. It was cold when I first got here, and my mother told me not to ride it was too cold. I didn't say anything but I thought to myself "my little brother never gets to feel the cold again, and I am lucky to be alive to feel it myself." The next day it was 75 degrees, and I went for a nice hilly ride.

I headed out through Wilsonville west to Bell Road. I took Bell Rd up to Ladd Hill, which gave me a view of My. Hood to the east of me.




Normally I have a pretty clear head when I ride. Many times I talk to myself like a crazy person. But today I found myself riding along and zoning out. Every time I would think of my brother I would have to hold back the tears. It's still just too much for me to soak in, and it's going to be a long road ahead dealing with all of it.

I dropped into Sherwood and headed north toward Scholls. As I road I began to feel better.

I passed berry farm after berry farm:



And orchard after orchard:



If any a place was perfect for clearing the head, Oregon is it. The scenery was stunning, and it was nice to be away from cities and people. I hit the 219 and headed south toward a city called Newburg. This is what the start of the climb looked like:



The climb was a nice steady 4-7% grade, and climbed into a forested area where it hit a couple of 9% sections. The view around the climb was unreal:



Top of the climb:



There were tons of Alpaca farms:



And the nice weather brought out the snakes:



Headed back home after dropping into Newburg and back into Wilsonville. Don't have much to write at the moment, but I am sure it will come back. In the meantime, riding and spending time with the family are the priorities.

IES

Dominguez Hills Crit

Dominguez Hills, which technically is not a city but an unincorporated County area; and rightfully so. The crit should more aptly be called Carson or Compton Crit, which are the closest (and most beautiful) neighboring cities. The DH crit is now a Socal classic, it’s inception making the beginning of CBR, (Chris Bicycle Racing) which is our grassroots local organization. The DH crit was also my very first race, and I remember it well.


30+ 1/2/3

Turning 30 this year meant I could mix it up with the big boys, however at the present moment I getting mixed up rather than being a contender in any way, shape, or form. When a cyclist attempts to explain what a “30+” race is to a non-cyclist, the sedentary person equates “30” with “old.” Now, if you are a slobbering fatass then this may be the case, but at 30 years old these mofo’s are just getting started. In fact, most of them are 40 or nearing 40, and normally stick around for the Pro race to hammer many of the youngsters. I have deep respect for these men who sit in the office and handle the family all week, and then slice and dice with the best of them on the weekend. Chris DeMarchi was there with his motorcycle complete with bike rack. The set-up is sweet and always gathers attention from people when he brings it. Chris is one of a few who has a “sport kilt,” which aids in changing from race bibs to boxers before/after a race. As he was explaining how the Velcro worked, the kilt slipped off and allowing for a gracious salami shot to a group of young ladies walking by. (It was later determined that none of them were offended, but sad to hear he was married.)


Now I was there for the training. Unlike a Pro Dreamer trying to downplay a race for make an excuse for a bad performance, I REALLY was there just for training. I was planning on doing the Cat 3 race right after the 30+, so for me there was no reason to burn up. The pace was fine for about 5 minutes and then heated up as attacks went off the front. The field was huge and I was mid pack the entire time, moving up here and there when I had a chance. Halfway into the race a break had gone with DeMarchi and two others, and they had soon checked out for good. They gained a couple of seconds every lap and at one point were coming close to lapping the field. It was about this time the field decided to have a yard sale on the back stretch. I heard someone yell “crash” and the pack began splitting down the center. The sound of skidding bodies and $7k carbon frames resonating against the pavement always follows, and I saw that I was coming up on the crash. I saw bodies and bikes flying and someone weaved through and made a safe path. On the following lap I saw about 5 Schroeder Iron guys on the sidewalk. Like a good team they were together, which means they all go down together on something like that.


During the crash I hit my knee against my bars as I was trying to get around everything. I didn’t feel the pain until after and decided to not race in the 3’s to make sure I didn’t aggravate it any more. There’s a crit every weekend so next week will be another shot. I may even have my new bike back from Calfee by then which would be terrific.

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.