Friday, October 17, 2014

Spin Monkey Spin

My workouts over the past couple weeks have called for cadence drills. Basically, it amounts to a set or two of  five 5-minute intervals at higher than normal cadence. The goal each time is to spin at a high (115+ rpm cadence) as smoothly as possible. This means riding without any bouncing in the saddle. The theory is that a smooth cycle stroke results in a more efficient power transfer.

Until last week, I had done very little cadence work. Ever. This is mostly because I didn't fully grasp the value of it. And I suppose I was lazy.

It's amazing what a small investment in time can do to begin smoothing out a pedal stroke. On my first five minute interval, my form began breaking down at 105 rpm. The second interval jumped up to 115 rpm average. The third: 120 rpm. Fourth at 125 and fifth at 127. That was last week. This week, my first five minute effort started at 125 rpm. That's a 19% improvement from last week's starting point. Also, my best five minute average was 135 rpm, but there was a solid minute in there at 145+ and a max cadence of 151 rpm.

My breakthrough came in discovering the role core strength plays. Actively keeping the trunk firm helped provide a more stable platform for my legs to spin freely.

What was also interesting was how the bike felt immediately upon completing the cadence portion of the workouts. There was a new "understanding" that my legs had for the drive train. It was akin to a special connectedness that felt more familiar, like how a well-fitting glove is supposed to feel on the hand.

These first two session have been a successful experiment. It has been solely to see how fast I could spin with very little resistance on the crank. Next week, I intend to start adding more resistance to see what I can hold at a certain power. The goal then will be to identify my sweet spot where I'll produce the best power at the greatest efficiency.

Certainly one can do cadence drills without a cadence meter. But it sure helps to see the raw data. If you're considering a power meter, add this to the justification list. Otherwise, a cadence meter can still be had for cheap.

And that's all for today. Go out and have a spin. Happy Friday

Friday, October 10, 2014

A Fistful of Quarters, Part II

"You wash dishes?" said a harsh voice that sounded like it was gargling gravel.

I looked up from my magazine and saw an African American male sitting opposite from me on the #4 bus heading downtown. He was around 60 years old, wearing neatly pressed Khakis, a maroon pullover and canvas court shoes. His white-stubble beard betrayed two, maybe three days of growth. Meanwhile, his gentle brown eyes peered at me from behind a pair of protective work glasses.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"You wash dishes?" he repeated. "I notices [sic] your white pants there and wondered if you a dishwasher."

"No sir, I work in an office setting."

"My name is Jerry," he says while leaning towards me, hand extended.

I reach for his hand. He slips me a fish, but I don't mind so much.

"Hi Jerry. My name is Brady. Do you wash dishes?"

"Nah, I work at Lozier in hardware. But I used to wash dishes at Methodist. I wore white pants like those you wearing now."

"Ah, I see."

"Say, you got an dollar you could len' me?" he says without missing a beat.

"Sorry Jerry. I don't have any cash in my wallet" It was the truth. Except for a check to be deposited and a few old receipts, the fold in my wallet was practically empty.

"Okay." he says. A random smile envelops his face as he leans back into his seat. He raises a hand to scratch his stubble thoughtfully.

"They called me into work today." he eventually says. "Tomorrow too. Never know when I'm gonna work more than a couple days out. I'm in hardware, but I used to wash dishes at the hospital."

I nodded in silence. Jerry gazed through the window, appearing to look at nothing in particular. There wasn't much to see anyway. It was Omaha, after all.

We sat quietly as the bus rumbled down Northwest Radial, giving me some time to think about the ethics of altruism. Normally, I refrain from giving money to strangers, because I profile and suspect that it goes towards an addiction. I'd much prefer to offer buying a sandwich if they're hungry. Hunger is hunger, regardless of a substance dependency.

Still, there are times where I fell pity for the addicted. This is where I get in trouble. Half of me wants to not contribute to their vice, the other half wants to give them a momentary break from suffering, regardless of the long term affects. I also find this to be interesting; that it also takes willpower to not "help" someone in this state, just like it takes willpower to overcome a substance dependency (albeit a lot more).

At any rate, Jerry did not appear to be troubled by addictions. His profile indicated to me that he was a productive member of society. He was on an early bus and going to work. He was clean and neat. His eyes were alert. What he needed the $1 for could be anything: the commute home, food. I suppose it could be for cigarettes or alcohol, or illicit drugs, too. It just didn't seem like it.

As Jerry pulled the stop cord on the bus, I recalled that I had several quarters in my messenger bag's coin pocket. I reached in the fold and grabbed a fistful of loose change. There were several quarters in there.

"Is this your stop, Jerry?"

"Yeah. Gotta catch the #18 transfer," he rasped.

"Have a good day" I said, reaching out my hand.

He grasped my hand and felt the cool coins in my open clutch. His grip firmed up while his face transformed into another warm smile.

"Thank you, Brady. God bless you, and have a good day."

"See you around, Jerry"

Friday, October 3, 2014

Cyclocross HUD Warnings

"Your lines are driving me nuts," Shim said as he went around me during the first of five laps at the Oakley Night Cap Masters 45+ race this past Sunday morning.

I wasn't on my strong program that morning.

It wasn't that I didn't know it beforehand. During warmup, the Heads-Up Display (HUD) lit up with a pair of glowing amber warning lights:

It was true. The bad leg report was a direct result from the grueling Open Cat 1-2-3 race from the night before. At that race,  I took it out a wee bit on the spastic side (think Peter Boyd on crack) in order to hang with the alpha pack. Then, after say a quarter lap, reality set in. The next hour and nine minutes was a a wonderful experience of intermingled suffering and humiliation. Man, I can't get enough of this sport.

So anyway, that explained the CHECK LEGS warning on my HUD. The same can be said about the CHECK BALANCE alert. I was cornering for crap at the start of the race. That was mostly due to lingering doubt from a couple sloppy, fatigue-induced wipeouts from the night before. With my confidence still reeling Sunday morning, I felt slightly off-kilter on the bike and took to cornering cautiously. As a result, my turns were slow and with bad lines. This opened up gaps between me and the dude ahead of me, requiring some effort to catch back on. This was so evident that my good buddy and teammate, Shim, couldn't keep his cake hole shut about my crappy turning skills. After he mentioned it for the third or fourth time, I finally just gave in and let him go by.

I followed his wheel from there. Because he rides good lines, my cornering improved rapidly. The CHECK BALANCE light turned off shortly after. And though we had lost contact with the leader of the race, we had a nice gap between us and fourth place. Rather than try to catch back on, we rode a smart tempo around threshold for the remainder of the race. My legs were still fatigued. The wet course and heat didn't make it any easier. As a result, the CHECK LEGS* alert remained lit throughout the remainder of the race. Still, Sunday's race was more enjoyable than the night before. Finishing on the podium helped.

*CHECK LEGS finally cycled itself off during Monday afternoon's taco recovery spin.

Well that's all for today.  Thanks for reading and Happy Friday. 

Friday, September 26, 2014

Donkey Kong and a Fistful of Bicentennial Quarters

It was the summer of '82 when I became somewhat of a subject matter expert of the arcade video game called Donkey Kong. It wasn't easy, because there wasn't a bonafide version of the arcade game within striking distance of my yellow Schwinn Stingray Jr. The closest Donkey Kong was at a pizza restaurant some six miles away. Getting there involved crossing a major inner state freeway and traveling hilly roads with no shoulder. I could only hope and pray that one of my classmates was going to have a birthday party or sleepover or something at that pizza place so I could get my chance to square off with Kong.

Yet while Donkey Kong was miles away, there was a decent knock-off version called "Crazy Kong" nearby. Crazy Kong, or "Monkey Donkey" as it was sometimes referred, was discovered by my older brother Matt at a cut-rate gas station called "Fas-Gas" about a mile from our house. After he told me about it, you could spot my yellow bike leaned up against gas station's pane glass many afternoons while I honed my skills on Crazy Kong. Sure, it wasn't the real thing, but it was close enough. And I became good at it a dollar a time. Sometimes, when I was broke, I just watched others play.

Inevitably, the day arrived when a friend invited me for a sleep-over, and we were going to the pizza place that had DK. I was finally going to get my chance.

Now, I have a confession to make. This admission of my guilt is directed to my dear ol' Dad. The rest of you can be my witness. Public confessions are always the best way to handle such things. Just get the mess all out there in public and everything. It's yucky, but sometimes it needs to be done. Anyway, here's what happened.

Before I left the home that day, I raided my Dad's top dresser drawer -- the underwear one -- where a small (single) goldfish bowl had been re-purposed for use as a cache of quarters. Now, they were not just any old quarters. They were commemorative 1776-1976 Bicentennial quarters.

Granted, they were in circulation (not mint), but still. He was collecting them because they were special one-off versions of quarters long before the US Mint had the notion of creating one for each of the 50 States. Back then, and for as long as anyone could remember, there were just two valid quarter dollars: the standard, and the Bicentennial quarter. The former were meant to purchase a postage stamp, the latter, apparently to hoard and treasure.

The fishbowl was Dad's temporary holding queue until he had the time to roll and deposit into the safe in the basement. At any rate, my Dad had a trove of them.

That night, before heading out the door, I purposefully went into the master bedroom and stuffed fistfuls of those Bicentennials into my pants pockets. It felt dirty, but 'Kong was waiting.

And with that, it was on like Donkey Kong.

It took about 40 of Dad's Bicentennial quarters before I blew up the machine's high score that night. There must have been ten kids watching me as I made a mockery of Kong, cycling through his world seven times while he stomped and made futile attempts at tossing barrels at my tiny, pixelated-head. When I finally stepped away, my initials, BCM, were above all the rest. I was the top dog, the #1 Donkey Kong killer at that place: 89,000+ points of pure mastery--

Oops, I got a little carried away there. I believe that I was in the middle of an unfinished confession.

Dad, I regret all of these years having passed and I have hidden this from you. Please know that this was the only time I can recollect taking anything from you. Not that it makes it right. Once is bad enough in itself. It felt as dirty then as it does now. I mean, except for the glory of destroying Donkey Kong for an hour or so. But, uh, other than that hour of joy, it was all wrong. All of it.

So here goes: Dad, I own you an amends.

I was wrong for stealing those Bicentennial quarters from you.

I am sorry.

Please forgive me.

Wow, I feel a lot better now, like having a load of bricks lifted from my chest. Indeed. For the first time in three decades, I think I should sleep peacefully tonight.

Well that brings us to the end of another post. Thanks for reading, especially you, Dad. :-)

Happy Friday everyone.

Friday, September 19, 2014

Omaha Corporate Cup 10k: The Party Is Over

I raced the Omaha Corporate Cup 10k again this past Sunday. After thinking about it for a week, I'm afraid to report that when it comes to running in Omaha, the party is over. At least at this race.

I wish I didn't have to wax nostalgic, but running used to be sexy in Omaha. There used to be lots of races, real races, not those so-called color runs, or mud runs, or dressing up as gladiators, vikings or warriors and pretending to run. Those events may have their place; just don't call them "runs" or "races", because they are not those things. It's actually a disgrace to real running. Real running is where grit in the soul matters more than grit in your teeth from crawling through a sand pit. Ugh.

Anyway, where a runner's true grit used to matter most was on Omaha's largest running stage, The Omaha Corporate Cup 10K.

The Omaha Corporate Cup 10k used to be able to claim they were one of the premier 10K races in the country, let alone Omaha. It used to draw over 10,000 participants. It used to be televised locally in the running heydays of the '80s. But even as recently as three years ago, professionally sponsored runners, and several former UNL runners used to duke it out with local amateurs for cash and all the glory. It was quite a scene, and I can attest how electrifying it was to toe up to the starting line.

Unfortunately, those years are now long gone. The run has since moved from downtown. It now features a course filled with hills and off-camber turns. It doesn't flow well for a 10k course. As a result, attendance is dropping: only 2,630 finished this year's 10k. That's down from 3,116 in 2013 and 3,901 in 2012-- the last year the race was downtown. I could only find numbers going back to 1998, but the trend is telling:

10K finishers (data:
Year 2003 was an aberration due to a heavy thunderstorm. The uptick years between 2008 and 2012 was a result of larger cash prizes for winners and/or breaking course records. Years 2013-2014 coincided with relocation/new course and the decision to drop the cash prizes.

The Omaha Corporate Cup used to be a fun race because it rewarded the runner with a 10k PR on the flattest 10k course most will ever run on. There was no better place to get a PR than the downtown course. The best runners regularly ran under 31 minutes (4:59/mi avg). It didn't matter if you were elite or not. If you wanted to know your fastest 10k, that's where you got it done.

Fastest Male/Female times (data:
While the original downtown course was flat with one turn (a turnaround), the new Aksarben course is the exact opposite, featuring 19 turns greater than 90 degrees, and seven hills having a grade of at least 5%. As a result, the fastest male/female times are off by 90 seconds from the downtown course.

The Omaha Corporate Cup used to be a fun race because it awarded prizes. There used to be a cash purse: $500 for the male/female winners and $1000 for the course record. One year, they had a Fiat as a door prize.

Now, without cash prizes or 10k PRs, runners are deciding not to do this race anymore.

One thing for certain: it isn't due to a lack of running interest. There aren't any less recreational runners out there than there used to be. At least it doesn't appear to be so. But the trend for 10k races has been slowly declining for several years.  For some reason, either shorter distances (walks) or ultra-distances: half-marathons and above, are more popular. That, and the color/mud/warrior events.

The decline of the Omaha Corporate Cup 10k is a harbinger of bad things to come for the Omaha running community. Unless the race organizers redesign the course and infuse prize money back into the mix, this race will fade away from its once greatness.

I hate to wax nostalgic, but the Omaha Corporate Cup 10K used to really be something. Judging by this year's lackluster attendance and mood at the starting line, I'm afraid this party is over.

Thanks for reading. Happy Friday

Friday, September 12, 2014

Knowing That You Have Already Arrived

Earlier this summer, my buddy Fred gave me a hill-climbing tip. He said to simply go light on your pedals and you'll spin right up the hill. He swears by it.

Now Fred's a smart dude. I'm quite sure he's aware that this pedal lightness/uphill paradox is in dire conflict with the general theory of relativity. Though skeptical, I tried it anyway, and to Fred's credit, having a lightness-on-pedals mindset seemed to help get up that hill faster. There might have been a stiff tailwind that day. Who knows?

Lately, I've been training my mind to cope with the challenges of cyclocross. Here's something that works for me: mentally picturing the next feature before arriving there. When I'm on my 'cross bike, 80% of my focus is on the here and now, and the other 20% is scanning my memory of what's up the road. If for nothing else, it allows me to be prepared for a snarky feature, a needed gear shift, some wheel-rubbings from Shim, etc..

Cyclocross is an obsession. To be good, really good, requires a single-minded focus on the sport. It can consume you, if you let it. When in season, I can make a cyclocross connection to almost anything.

Take this as an example. On a recent taco ride, I randomly pulled this can of coke from the cooler:

A "Soulmate" is something that Richard Bach wrote extensively about in two of his novels: Bridge Across Forever and One. Finding his soulmate was his obsession. But before that, Bach wrote a short story about the titular character Jonathan Livingston Seagull. In it, Jonathan (a seagull) is obsessed about the art of flying. His preoccupation with flying, and not doing other seagully things like eating, ultimately gets him ostracized from the flock. He wanders for a bit before eventually finding other gulls who are equally consumed with the passion for flying. It's there where he meets his mentor, Chiang. Chiang then takes Jonathan under his, uh, wing --

-- Timeout. I just realized that Richard Bach missed a golden opportunity here by NOT stating that Chiang simultaneously took Jonathan literally AND figuratively under his wing. I mean, this is quite possibly the only place in all of literature where one could argue the case that literally and figuratively are both plausible at the same moment. Pfff, what a shame.

Back to our story. Chiang then enlightens Jonathan with super secret knowledge that will enable him to fly ludicrously fast, so fast that it enables him to instantly travel to any point in the known universe. The secret, Chiang tells him, is to "begin by knowing that you have already arrived."

Now the other day I was practicing my cross skills at Roberts park. There's this hill that isn't particularly long, nor steep. But because it's immediately after a speed-scrubbing, off-camber turn, the hill demands one's respect. On approach, I pictured the sweeping turn-hill combination. My brain then called up a motivation routine. It was Fred's, "light on the pedals uphill" program. I shifted weight towards the back of the saddle and leaned into the turn. But just as I was going to go light and easy on the pedals, my mind jumped to Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I had a vision of Chiang, and he was speaking these words directly into my soul: "begin by knowing that you have already arrived." I did just that, focusing 100% of my brain into believing that I had already arrived on the hilltop. At that moment, a flash of searing white light engulfed me while I felt my atoms scrambled and reassembled from the every point in the universe. When the veil of light receded, I was cresting the top of the hill.

Now here's what really happened. Before I even took a single pedal stroke uphill, Lucas came around me and dropped me like I was standing still.

Cyclocross is difficult, my friends. There are no short cuts. Just grit and cowbells.

Now excuse me, a bowl of steel-cut oats and a cup of black coffee awaits at the breakfast nook opposite of my soulmate, the exquisite Ms. Katherine.

Thanks for reading. Happy Friday.

Friday, September 5, 2014

Triathlon Vs Cyclocross

I'm going to attempt to do what very few, if any, have ever attempted.

Now I know what you're thinking. Sorry to disappoint, but it's not going to be attempting to perform a 3 1/2 back flip into an ordinary eight ounce glass of water. That's too easy.

What I'm about to do to your bewilderment is to compare triathlons to cyclocross. Be forewarned, your smart phone/PC monitor could blow up in your face at any moment.

There are so many differences between these two sports, where do I begin? The only commonality between them is that a bicycle is involved in most of both races. Aside from that, there is nothing. The two sports couldn't be any more different.

That said, we'll stick with the bicycle comparison.

In triathlons, one gets on the bike after nearly drowning for 20+ minutes beforehand. It's a horrible way to start a bike ride. Sometimes I wonder if this is what the onslaught of death feels like. I'm not kidding. Especially those first few steps out of the water. Oyi.  Anyway, once you're on your bike, it usually takes a few minutes of ramping up to your functional threshold power (FTP) before your body has adapted to the demands of cycling. For those who don't have a power meter, FTP is the point at which your quadriceps begin to burn, and you have shortness of breath. Since everybody who's ever ridden a bicycle knows what that burning sensation and shortness of breath feels like, we have established a common reference point. Good. Now imagine that while pushing the crank for the next 5,400 revolutions. And as a bonus, run a 10K after that. Meanwhile, the course is so flat and straight, it's as if the scenery never changes. What that means is that it's boring. Really boring. Therefore, you must distract your mind with things like bunnies, or bow hunting carp, or my recent favorite -- pinkzilla cyclocross bikes --  to keep the agony from shutting you down. In conclusion, the overall feeling of triathlon goes like this: nearly drown, then suffer while cycling and running for the next 90+ minutes.

In cyclocross, there is zero ramp-up time on the bike. It's simply mad-as-hell, full-throttle burn right from the whistle to the first turn. Congratulations, if you're smart and disciplined, you've managed to prevent burning your entire book of matches on that first 200m sprint. That's important, because you still have about an hour to go, and you need as many matches as you can get your grubby mitts on for turns, barriers, fly-overs with stairs, hills, gravel, mud, heavy mulch, sand and snow. And whereas triathlon's cycling time trials require distracting one's mind from pain and boredom, cyclocross involves mentally picturing the challenging sections ahead. Now, you still suffer in cyclocross. But because the mind is engaged so much, there isn't enough brain power to account for misery. In conclusion, you just keep burning your matches until there's none left. It's at that point when your body says no more. If you've timed it right, the finish line is around the next corner. Otherwise, head for the beer and dollar hand-ups. Either way, you're good.

Both racing requires thinking and strategy. But while triathlons are more steady-state and proper, cyclocross is more beastly and chaotic.

After a summer of being conventional, I'm ready for some chaos.

Somebody ring a cowbell already.

Thanks for reading. Happy Friday

Friday, August 29, 2014

Godzilla Rides a Pink Cross Bike

At swimming yesterday morning, the topic of discussion during the ten seconds of rest in between 200 m repeats was a recent study suggesting most people daydream 47% of each day.

There's no way that could be true. At least not for me. I'm a prodigious daydreamer. My daydreams are daydreams within daydreams.

Allow me to illustrate. At cyclocross practice the other night, my mind was racing all over the place right after we started. One minute, I was hammering it along a 200m straightaway, the next minute I'm daydreaming of lollipops and bunnys, and Ramno'ing bass. While my mind was actively adrift, I heard this fluttering into my consciousness:


That sound was not part of Ramno'ing no [sic] bass. It came Fred's cantilever brakes on the pink cyclocross bike he was riding that evening. The pitch, high and nasally, sounded exactly like Godzilla when he's pissed.


The scenery in my mind morphed from Ramno'ing to burbling water and white foam on the Missouri river. The water erupts into a vigorous boil as dark-spiny ridge appears, then a pair of enormous eyes and a long snout. In a rush of rippling waves,Godzilla's head, neck and torso appears. He steps on to the bank --



Did you see Godzilla (2014)? If not, and you'd like to rent it, then consider skipping the next paragraph.

Godzilla 2014 was terrible. Not Amazing-Spider Man II terrible, but worse than that because I had such high hopes for it. 80% of it was boring dialog, 20% action. They killed off their best actor, Bryan Cranston, in the first 20 minutes. The other actors were horrible. I take that back: Godzilla carried what was left of the movie. In fact, I got a little choked up on the scene where Godzilla got has ass handed to him and was left for dead by the other evil monsters. But like all Godzilla movies, you can never count him out. And when he comes roaring back, he has mysteriously gained the ability to shoot blue fire out of his mouth. He could have sure used that about six minutes beforehand when he was getting pummeled. Anyway, after a couple deep belly-breaths, Godzilla torches the bad guys with blue fire and then rips their heads in half by their jaws. Unfortunately, that was 20% of an otherwise boring movie.



Back at 'cross practice, that sound could only mean one thing: Fred and his Pinkzilla 'cross bike were on the counter-attack. Gritting his teeth, Fred's was charging Eric O'Brien (EOB) with a vengeance. At this rate, there was no doubt he was going to catch EOB. The question was when: before or after Eric dispatched David Randleman, who was undermatched on a steel-is-real road bike with 28cc slicks. It was going to be close. Well, it would have been close until --


Blue flames suddenly shoot out from Fred's backside. EOB wasn't the only one not expecting this. Nobody saw this one coming. 

In the ensuing pandemonium, EOB goes over his handlebars after ditching to the right to avoid getting blue-flamed by Fred and Pinkzilla.

Errrrrrrrnnnnh! Errrrrrrrnnnnh! Fred's has the blue-flame afterburners on full throttle, frightening the daylights out of Randleman and everyone else who showed up for cross practice. As the screen in my mind fades to dark, Fred and his Pinkzilla ride off into the twilight until all that remains is a tiny blue dot before being swallowed up by inky blackness. The credits role. At the end, there's a final trailer: it's of David Randleman silently changing his underwear. 

By the way, Leah's dog Gander bears a resemblance to Godzilla. See Gandzilla for yourself:

Thanks for reading. Happy Friday.