The Male Liz Hatch! Biatch

Niwot has a great crit course. Technical, two 120 degree turns, and super fun. I rode agressively, at/off the front and saw my opportunity to bridge up to a lead rider, take a $125 prime, and get him to come with for the final 5 laps. I was dreaming of winning, riding like I wanted to, right up until the rainy wet pavement told me that I can't lean that hard into the corner. Off the front, solo, I went down. And it hurts.

Off to tacos and margaritas (lots of 'em) now though, as soon as I finish this beer. Looking forward to some Ft. Collins riding tomorrow.

Oh and Bubba, I need a new skin suit, this one only got two races.

Nats and Adios Louisville, Hola Kansas

I’ve been meaning to write, really I have, but, I haven’t. Too much going on, not much time for sitting and hunting and pecking.

I’ve narrowed it down to two things, it has to be one, or a combination of the two that explains how it is that I got dropped at nationals road race; too much lube on my chain and/or a faulty pin job on my number. Either way, both can be attributed to Craig. After all, I am a bike racer, and anything I fail to accomplish on the bike, or any race I don’t win, or any bad thing that happens to me must be due to circumstances beyond my control, or at least, as a result of something external, like this is only my 5th race of the year, and it was the heat, the cold, the meal I ate, the pressure in my tires, the over training and lack of riding I’ve been doing. But alas, none of that applies here; it had to be the liberal application of lube (by Craig)! Yes, I was over T-9-ed, I sprayed too heavily and wiped too little. Don’t let this happen to you. The null hypothesis could be that those guys were freakin’ fast, faster than me even (gasp!). But we don’t talk like that, we’re too proud, we’re bike racers.

As I imagined, the course was spectacular. Fast, tough, technical and full force with lots of former pro’s who can pedal, handle and maneuver their bikes. I was thoroughly impressed with Team Specialized. They were savvy, aggressive and competitive in every category; a fun, talented group of guys to train and race with. Rob Anderson got away in his race with one other, for 5 grueling laps, dropping his fellow escapee with 8 miles to go and stretching his lead out to 25 seconds over a shattered field. The grittiest ride I’ve seen in a while and only to be caught, heart breakingly in the final 150 meters, losing the national title by seconds. Billy Innes showed some amazing talent, bridging up to a pro-powered 5 man break away and racing perfectly into a silver medal. His only downfall was the national title went to a 4 time national champion Paul Martin, who had a slightly bigger engine at the end. Kevin Metcalf, Craig Roemer, Wyatt Weisel, and Dean LeBerge all rode like pros. Kudos to them.

Louisville is a decent town, fairly well planned and full of history. But as soon as our race was over, we were over it. Boulder was calling our name and our great pal Lucas Euser, as it turned out, was to be awaiting our arrival in Denver, fresh off the plane from a half season of racing in Europe with Slipstream Chipoltle. Turns out he had a rough go when he got clipped by the medical car in a race there, going down and breaking a scapula. He’s on the mend now, and rumor has it there’s a chance he could be spotted at the San Luis Crit on July 20th. But let’s wrap up with some travel tales.

Life on the road is always boring, until it gets unbelievable.
We knew we’d end up in Kansas, we’d hoped for KC, MO, which is like Kansas, just a tad shy. Of course one of the only ways to get there from KY, is through St. Louis. That’s the way we went. We filled the tank again for way under $4, and hit a drizzly, flooded waterfront city just before 5pm. We got some close ups of the Rio Mississippi and the Arch, both were larger than can be imagined. It was also fascinating to see the old riverfront warehouse district, now defunct and abandoned, and think about what it looked like in its heyday. From there, it was rush hour, pre-4th of July, get outta town west on I-70 along with several million others to get to some destination where we’d be sure to be blowing up some fireworks. It was an LA-ish traffic jam. So I slept through it, awakened by the occasional Craig-curse at an obscene mobile gesture. Our dinner stop including a conversation with a hostess that wanted to steer us in the right direction, after all, she had gotten such a great deal, $500 worth of explosives for just $200. Hard earned money up in smoke?

My chauffer was a trooper, blowing through KC, MO and lighting out for Lawrence. We were ready to sleep by then, but the exits for Lawrence (home of KU, I had imagined a happening college town on Massachusetts Ave.) were closed and we couldn’t get off the highway. It was strange. But we figured Topeka is just down the turnpike (toll road, cost us all of $2.15 end to end). West of Topeka, we debated throwing sleeping bags down in a corn field for an 11pm to 6am snooze, but instead we opted for a much stinkier, dirtier, noisier, and completely revolting Motel 6. The non-smoking room smelled of bong water, the carpet was soggy wet with a dripping compressor, the downstairs neighbors were just getting started emptying vodka bottles into themselves – which they had completed by the time we left in the morning – I could tell because they staggered about the lawn with those empty bottles cursing other guests for looking at them, and best of all (not counting the cigarette burns in the linens or the cockroaches on the floor), the car alarms kept going off all night which kept me leaping out of bed and imagining $30,000 in bikes/wheels being stolen. I stayed in better kept places for $2 in rural Burma, where squatting over an open hole was the only way to relieve one self. Dog bless the capital of Kansas. From there, we knew we’d make Denver by the afternoon, and couldn’t wait to get the freak outta dodge.

Manhatten seemed like a logical stop for coffee and breakfast on the morning of the 4th. The Kansas St. university town likely caters to lovers of coffee and breakfast, if not a quaint bar and restaurant. So I thought. I can be wrong sometimes. Turns out getting kids into sports through Jesus is much more their style. The place was dead. It was a holiday, and summer time with school out, but even at its best, that place sucked. We left soon after arriving, and thought the flat lands of Kansas for the next 300 miles would be much more exciting. It was. Tales of riding with the pro-kid, meetings with stellar folk, and being surprisingly impressed with sushi in Denver and pedestrian planning Boulder, forthcoming.

Life on the Ohio, in Kentucky and Indiana

Sunday was a travel day, but the shortest leg yet. All we had to cover was the 3 hours from Mt. Vernon, Illinois to our eastern most destination, Louvull, KY. Aside from a burning semi-tractor trailer on the side of the I-64, a man asleep? passed out? drunk? slouched upright on his pick up tailgate that was parked just on the highway median a foot inside the number one lane being approached by an officer with weapon drawn, the family picknicking in the grassy median in what looked like a 3 car pile up, and the motorcyclist doing wheelies, taunting a following truck by dropping his pants and wheelie-ing some more – it was an uneventful drive. Right up until some kind folk were trying to help some other stranded fellas change a flat tire – on the other side of the highway. Rather than wait for the lane to clear, or even to take the next exit and double back and park behind those in need, they just pulled over on the opposite side, sauntered across 4 lanes of 75 mph traffic, rolling a spare truck tire and causing braking, swerving and 4 near collisions. Dem dars some kind harted folk doin’ some dumb deeds. Darwin awards await.

First order of business was to preview the TT course, and ride the TT bikes. I know there are harder, longer, hillier races, but the TT is the most painful version of racing. I don’t care if it’s a 1 km pursuit, a 112 mile iron man leg or a 40km national championship, that f-in race is all about pain and suffering. The course was windy, rolling, and right along the Ohio River in southern Indiana. Roads narrow, pavement smooth, rollers rolling, we had seen enough to know what to expect the next morning. So it was off to the check in. The Galt Hotel is a splendid house high on the river in downtown. It’s home for these 4 days in Louie.

The next morning Craig popped outta bed as though he has missed his start (I made mine with 15 seconds to spare). And we arrived at the course with plenty of time to true wheels, place numbers and warm up nervously. Metcalfe and Innes of Team Specialized are here with us, each looked to have a good day and a shot at the stars and stripes. As it turns out, they had two very fast times and each earned bronze medals as the 3rd fastest soloist in the country in their age groups, impressive rides with podium finishes. I was more out to suffer for the camaraderie aspect and perhaps to set a time to beat in future years. In my particular case, my glute was hurting like nobody’s business. That muscle is simply not well developed enough for hard efforts in the TT position. I rode as hard as I could, for an hour, in the rain and stiff wind and finished not last. I couldn't walk after the race, literally.

As for Craig, he put in a great ride, a PR to be exact. And no one can say he doesn't put safety first in the shower. In the TT he put out a consistent high amounts of power, averaged 30 more beats per minute than I could muster and put a good ten minutes into me. Ouch. His great ride, however, was good for no better than 7th. Turns out about six fellas in his category were just faster yesterday. That’s the way it is some days. The afternoon focus was a coffee stop and a road race course preview. Some words and descriptions for Thurdays epic RR; this course is classic (pdf to course map), and for those (me) who aren't pure climbers, it is a blast. Not a single flat section, fast, technical descents and sharp, short power climbs - trust that the winners of RR Nat's may not be the purely strongest riders in the country, but to win on this course you need an excellent combination of power, savvy, patience, descending and bike handling skills. It should be fun, fun, fun.

Having pedaled for all we were worth in the morning and an awesome recovery ride slash road race course preview in the afternoon, we were 50 miles of calories burned and all set for a pub feast of beer, seared ahi, curry chips, salads, codfish and chips, Sheppard’s pie and tall tales of the day’s seconds lost.

Tuesday was a true vacation day. After breakfast, we had ride plans. But at breakfast, Sharon was pure entertainment. She asked what I wanted to drink, oj, coffee... I asked if she had any bourbon (this is Kentucky after all), and she was thrown off.

"It's a bit early, dontcha think?"

"Well it's 4 o'clock somewhere."

"Where?"

"London."

"Is London that far away?" she wondered. She asked where we were from and proudly let us know that she knows California, it cost her $200 in gas to drive her Geo Prism out there one time... to Riverside. I let her know that Riverside was not representative of California. That took us to a lively discussion about what we were doing here.

"Ya'll came all the way out here, to ride bicycles?"

"Sure."

"Don't ya'll have to work?"

"No, Craig's taking 6 months off, I'm taking two."

"Well, ya'll must be rich, I dunno how ya'll can afford to do that." I think she's right.

Another 50 mile spin along the Ohio River. We did most all of it single file due to lack of shoulders, presence/speed of cars and perhaps less than stellar route choice.

But when all you have on your agenda for the day (Billy also had digging for gold on his agenda) is sleeping in, eating breakfast with coffee, riding, showering, having lunch, having another coffee and laying around the pool reading a great book, then you know it, you know it is a great day. .

"The last clear definite function of man – muscles aching to work, minds aching to create beyond the single need – this is man. To build a wall, to build a house, a dam, and in the wall and the house and the dam to put something of Manself, and to Manself take back something of the wall, the house, the dam; to take hard muscles from the lifting (riding!), to take clear lines and form from conceiving. For man, unlike anything organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments. This you may say of man – when theories change and crash, when schools, philosophies, when narrow dark alleys of thought, national, religious, economic, grow and disintegrate, man reaches, stumbles, forward, painfully mistakenly sometimes. Having stepped forward, he may slip back, but only a half a step, never a full step back. This you may say and know it and know it."
– John Steinbeck

All you feminist out there don’t fret a second, the heroine of this story, the strongest, wisest and lovingest person, is, as we might expect, a woman.

Fireworks (6 for 1), Roadside Porn (or tractor pull) and Needing an Arc

Saturday morning was TT practice. Craig can TT, I can TTT, but somehow, when forced to go it alone, the race of truth tells me lies about my cycling ability. We left the Inn for a couple hours of being in that awkward position. It was my 3rd day in the TT position this week, and the 3rd time since 2001 as well. My ass cramped up on me, but no one cares about the pain of others as we all have our own. I took a bunch of shots of the landscape, us assuming the position (bent over) and of course, of some midwestern (organic corn?) farming.
Other than the impending thunderstorms, we were unconcerned with the 30 mph wind gusts. A quick loop around Maloney Lake and a shot out Brown Road was enough to tire me out. Back we marched into North Platte to pack up for the haul to, well, we weren’t sure where. We were on our way, but didn’t know where we’d end up. If we wanted, we could have stopped every mile for fireworks, every other mile for XX porn (I guess XXX would be too raunchy), and every 5th mile for roadside liquor and church services. After seeing the Fireworks Emporium, Outlet, Warehouse and many signs for "6 for the price of one" (is the one that marked up, or is this just the mother of all bargains?). We later saw a guy with a stand claiming 2 for 1, and wondered how can he possibly compete? In Missouri along I-70, they have life figured out. If you're not at the tractor pull, you can blow things up, get drunk enough to not care what you’re doing, and then get excited enough to touch yourself. Once complete, simply cross the highway overpass to the where Yahweh’s word is being handed out – and bingo, repent, rinse, repeat.

I was thoroughly impressed with the might, mass, and majesty of the Missouri River. Wow. It is filled bank to bank, levee to levee and flowing with alacrity. We crossed before and after Kansas City several times. And all I could think was this is a tributary of the Mississippi. Once into St. Louis, the Mighty Mississippi was earning her keep - pushing Amazonian volumes in late June. The pillars of the RR bridge were barely holding their ground and both upstream and down from the Gateway to the West, she is spilling her banks and causing billions of dollars of damage. Nature bats last and while the banks haven’t been split like this since 1993, the folks along the river might think about backing up again. But naw, this is the U.S., instead, we’ll likely pump out all the mud and water from hundreds of towns, and claim that all we need are stronger, bigger, taller levees. That will do the trick. Go for it.

The day ended an hour east of St. Louis in lovely Mt. Vernon, Illinois. We were knackered, all we could muster was a Roadhouse Saloon dinner, margaritas and another night in an air conditioned haven. The continental breakfast will likely be the same, bagels, oj and a cup of coffee that can be described as “worse that licking the oil pan under a Ford Bronco.” Tomorrow we’ll be in Louisville, riding the blustery TT course and getting ready for Monday’s National Championship TT. My goal is to not finish DFL and if I do, break the hour mark. Craig’s wants to win, conquering his past TT demons. He's got a shot, I'm not an oddsmaker, but if I were, I say he'll have to have a perfect day and his very strong class of competitors will need to be less than perfect. I've got my fingers crossed, he deserves it. Especially after finding this turtle.

Can you tell how big the Mississippi river is, how full, how powerful?

Hit Me, Byyyy… That Much

Our sundowner ride was a refreshing way to end a 13 hour day in the car. Emigration Canyon is popular ride for Salt Lakers. The climb was crawling with riders, groups, males, females and triathletes. Shortly after the ride we arrived at Miss Kotval’s palace, where she and Nate had coldski’s and gin-tonic’s waiting for us. We enjoyed the view westward of the valley, but Craig could not believe the amount of development that had occurred in Park City since his childhood ski adventure days back in the 60’s. Development changes landscapes and makes people rich. It didn’t take long for Kotval to ask Craig, “Can you stand him for more than, like 10 minutes?” To which Craig responded with silence.

“He’s unrelenting,” she added.

"I relent," I rebutted. We chatted, played with Pow-dog and Buster and slept peacefully. The peace would relent in the morning.

Instead of riding with us, Kirsten sent us up to old PC, down Main Street and up to Deer Valley. The Royal climb was filled with vistas of thin air and empty green slopes. All that was left was the descent back to the homestead and saddling up for the leg to Nebraska. About 2 miles from home, I did just what the Safety Buffalo (aka K-dog) and balding Benji would have wanted – I took the lane. There was no shoulder so after accelerating up to speed in the lane I pulled to the right to let an aggressive driver pass. She was on my tale and I didn't want to hold her up.

Only problem is as soon as she did pass, she made a hard right, forcing me to make a right with her, braking hard and bouncing off of her passenger door until the pavement gave way to dirt and I lost my front wheel. I reacted by throwing my right leg over the bars and wound up jumping over my bike as it hit the deck for the first time in its two year life. Rather amazingly I landed on my feet and took it into a dead speedplay cleat run to the black Audi, irate at the either oblivious or malicious driver. She stopped and I approached her driver window letting her know she just hit me (not in such polite terms). She responded in denial, asked where did I come from and said she didn’t even see me. She passed me, swerving around me on a narrow road and turned right in front of me. Didn't see me, my ass.

After cursing her out, I was pounding with adrenaline, as was Craiger, so we rolled away, there was nothing left to say or do. I picked up my banged up bike and not long after, there she was. She had followed us, was trying to take our picture with her phone and was veering into the bike lane, forcing us to brake and swerve to avoid her. Hello? Psycho bitch! I turned around on a two lane road to ride back to Craig and she pulled a U-ee, stacking up lines of cars and city buses as she did so. Twice. She was hunting us down (on the road at the top picture) so we split up, Craig back to the house and me up into Kotval’s hood. We made it out of there, barely, in time to shower for the majestic drive through southern Wyoming and into Nebraska.

I must have slept half of the drive. But what I saw of the Continental Divide, the Red Desert, and the Snowy Range was impressive. A stop in Rock Springs, Wyoming was enough to convince us that we were blessed not to live there. Much the same feeling we got when we rolled into North Platte, Nebraska to have our "supper" at the Whisky Creek Steakhouse Grill and Saloon. What a cultural experience that was. We were the only two men (on honeymoon) out together. The restaurant was filled with families, robust adults, well mannered children, and a few courting couples. Absent were any same-sex tables, any blacks, any Mexicans (not even in the kitchen or bussing tables), or any other non-anglo, non-Christ loving persons. The pulled pork, the briskets, coleslaw and bake beans (that’s twice now!) were tasty and filling. The Hampton in was calling our name and we got a king bed to share and prep for time trial practice on Saturday morning.

Chasing Pussy, Getting Stiffed

I wanted it, I couldn’t get it. If I was to get it, I couldn’t decide between spanking it, loving it, or leaving it. I searched, I hunted, I cat called, but that pussy was elusive. I was getting desperate and blue, like the Pacific over Malibu.

I knew not to let it happen. I corralled Che when I was about an hour away from departure. The previous month was filled with big time decisions, the previous weeks with life’s transitions and the past few days with backbreaking hauling, cleaning (spank you black hammer) and condo improvements (spank you gym rat and Isaacs). All I really wanted was to be done with home and on my way to wine country to start the bike racing adventure of 2008. What I got was a beyond frustrating day of testing my patience (I have none) and figuring out if the trip would even happen. He's a good kitty, when sleeping.

Up ahead lies roads not traveled (I’m 72 miles from Winnemuca as I type), behind me the best group of peeps within the first real community I’ve ever been a part of. The future holds a promising planning career in the resplendent wine country of Sonoma County with its proximity to both the city and the rugged Mendocino Coast – that place has culture galore and rides to die for. The trade off has been letting go of landscape, rural roads, perfect weather, and an utter absence of traffic, crime or pollution. But in this moment, none of that mattered. The car was packed with three bikes, all the goods needed for 10 races in 4 states, a gimpy dog and work clothes for the first few weeks in Santa Rosa. What was missing was Che el Rey, el gato revolucionario. He smelled the departure and like all good revolutionaries, he rebelled. So there was no way to leave. I had to wait, and wait, and wait. One, two, five, six hours went by. No pussy kitty.

For ten years, the most predictable, loving, caring and smelly (pussy breath - ewe) creature in my life was gone and not coming home, not with all the landscaping leaf blowers, paint guns, and construction around the complex. Because I was dumb enough to let him out, I was paying the ultimate price. The irony! I was imprisoned in SLO town, the place I most hated to leave until the very moment I was ready to go. Much like the time I forgot to set the parking break on my car in my steep driveway and let it roll into my neighbor’s kitchen, thus prompting a $30k “remodel,” I was once again reminded how expensive it is to be dumb. Many of you know, others can only imagine, stupidity is so spendy… need any proof, look at our national economy!

Miss Hernandez to rescue. I found a lovely lassy to, in the event the pussy returns, keep Che fed and watered until mid July. So off like a prom dress – after six hours of dancing and cat calling, the spaghetti straps were torn and the silk hit the ground as fast as gravity would accelerate it (9.8 meters per second, per second).

A sundowner ride awaits in the Wasatch, an evening with Kotval in Park City. Craig is in good spirits (shown here with a message of sorts and the backdrop of the Bonneville Salt Flats) and despite Karen’s farewell dinner of baked beans and coleslaw, he’s not too gassy so far. The minivan has two racers in the front, five steeds in the back (Clapper!) and the adventure has begun. The motif of the trip, as we cross out into this great nation of ours – liberal, progressive, conscientious (that’s the hypothesis) – is that Craig and I are “on our honeymoon from San Francisco, courtesy of Gavin Screwsome, Mayor extraordinaire.” You should have seen the looks on the faces of the gals at the counter in Reno, Nevada when I let them know such. We about died of laughter. One turned bright red, giggled, and said, “Yeah, I guess with the new ruling in California, we’ll be getting our share of San Francisco honeymooners up in the Tahoe area.” Wildfires aside, Craig quipped, “It’s all about a smokin’ good time this trip!” The lady to the right had a cartoon caption coming out of her head, “OH MY gOD, dem dar’s some gay folk!” She didn’t look at us, didn’t laugh, didn’t smile. All she could muster was a nervous manning of her computer screen. She was as anxious for us to leave as I am to try our skit out in a diner in Lincoln, Nebraska.


And by the way, the rides up East Canyon, Emigration Canyon, along with the sunset in Park City come highly recommended.

Keep it Simple

Simply put, i have an amazing dog. Actually, I have two amazing dogs, but they cause amazement for very different reasons. As complicated as life can be at times; refi's, redo's, relationships...to slash and scoop or to drive and dish? How much should I train, for what purpose? Who and what should I invest in? How we spend our days, is how we spend our lives. Ah yes, all of this and more is why sometimes, it's so nice to stick to what we know for sure - Eddy is a sheppard/chow genius and Merckx is pointer/lab instinctual hunter and prolific runner.

Eddy knows what she wants, how to get it, and makes everyone fall for her in the process. She likes affection, her way on her time. A scratch here or there, but no cuddling. She loves swimming in the surf, herding anything on the move (cars, bikes, dogs, cattle), and of course her greatest pleasure (also one of mine) - eating. She is kind, caring, very much in touch with all human energy and extremely patient and tolerant.

Merckx, um, er, not so much. He is more anxious and demanding than she is calm and enduring. He's kinda dumb. He is bred for a singular purpose; to flush game (birds and small mammals) in the field for hunters. He is a true field dog; tireless, unbridled and knowing no distraction when on course. He won't come when called, he won't tire when run, and he won't stop whining until he is turned loose to be the dog that he is. He can clean a 6 foot high fence like a low hurdle or a 12 foot wide ravine as though it were a stepping stone. He'll scale any slope and occasionally slams his face into the ground while descending hills and misjudging the dips in the terrain. But this does not stop him. A shake of the head to regather, and off he dogs.

Eddy is an Alpha, she will let you (other dogs mostly) know that she thinks she should be in charge. If you disagree, prove it! I lost a lot of blood one time, breaking up a true dog fight (as opposed to a loud barking and dancing match) between her and a ripped pit bull. I had to save the pit from the jugular hold it was under. The great thing about dogs (and most people don't know this) is their language is deep and complex. Full of statures, smells, glands, pheromones, postures, poses, and showing of ass or teeth, their communication speaks volumes to one another. Most humans don't recognize this and feel the need to intervene. But neither dog wants trouble - the alpha doesn't want to risk injury or loss of status and so signals to others - I am the one, you are at least two or 4 in the hierarchy. The others signal, belly open, or head or tail down - "ok, agreed." It is only when there is a disagreement, rarely, that things must be worked out. And even then, a shouting match is about all it takes before the dance settles into play.

Merckx and I will partake in one of our favorite pastimes for lunch hour - Mt Biking. He'll do 20 miles and I'll do about 10 on the same route. The only thing he enjoys more is a wide open beach full of birds and the only thing I enjoy more is, well, not part of this post. We are keeping it simple, remember. As a rescue project last summer, he has come a long way. Extremely demanding and far from ideal, it is time to accept him for who he is, all his wonders and all his shortcomings. I am learning to appreciate both, and it feels good. He will never be able to calmly stroll about on voice command, unleashed and focused on me. He will never be secretive about where he drops his doggy bombs, nor will he leave the room to pass gas. He will simply be himself and the truth about that is, he brings lots of laughs, companionship and smiles to anyone who experiences him just being himself.

Eddy is due for some surgery, soon. The queen has a torn cruciate ligament. She has had a hard time with the lack of mobility and lack of opportunities to herd Merckx. She knows she's hurt, but doesn't care, would rather just run till she can't anymore and limp there after. I struggle with doling out $3000 for a canine, when so many of my own species are struggling to eat, breath, survive. What would that Burmese family I stayed with say if they knew I was going to spend that much money (more than they make in a year!) on my dog's knee? They would have me committed.

Probably not a bad idea.