Hill Climber

Last night I was able to catch a group ride with the big guns from Trek Store Omaha (Midwest Cycling club). It was the second time I joined this weekly 6pm ride but the first time I was able to complete it with the group. Last time, Munson had one of those miracle flats right at Ft Calhoun, only minutes after a torrent pace with numerous attacks that resulted in cramping calf muscles for me. As a result, the group rode on without us and I didn't experience the full ride.

Yesterday, I was able to leave work early, but much later than I wanted, forcing me to TT through the hills of midtown Omaha to catch the group. But I managed to catch them as they entered the Keystone trail near NFM. I don't know very many riders in that group. Munson already told me that he wasn't going to be there. Bryan and Sean ride with another group. Fred? He's disappeared again into parts unknown. So that left Shim, Lucas and Eric as the only people I knew would be there among at least 30 cyclists.

For those of you who've never experience a big group ride, you're missing out on some good fun. The colorful jerseys and bikes, the camaraderie of working together in a pace line, the antagonists who attack and intentionally work apart and the exhilaration of the sprints are easily some of the reasons that keep 'em coming back. Omaha has a few of these group rides that leave from the following bike stores weekly: High Gear on Tuesdays at 6pm, the Trek Store and Bike Masters on Weds at 6pm. Typically, there are two groups and is an unsupported ride. If you'd like to join, it's a good idea to brush up on some group ride etiquette ahead of time.

The Trek store ride begins with a 15 minute easy spin north along the Keystone trail before hopping off at Fort Street and then continuing northwest through state roads towards Ft. Calhoun. By the time you see cornfields, you'd better be ready to step on it. It's then up-tempo, attacks and sprints until you see the gas station in 'Hoonerville (Ft Calhoun).

The return trip from Ft Calhoun meanders its way through some of my favorite riding in Nebraska: the Boyer Chute Reserve and Ponca Hills. Flat and wide as the eye can see, it's a good place to practice pace lines and such while enjoying the scenery. But don't get lulled into thinking it's gonna be easy. There's a pretty good climb into Ponca hills looming in the distance where the men separate from the boys. (To be politically correct, yesterday there were in fact no women on the group ride).

So while I'm riding, Shim's chattering away about Old Yeller. That and nudging me as to how to ride the pace line, as in "follow that guy in front of you and do what he does" sort of thing. Thanks Shim! As we approached the Ponca section and I'm drifting towards the back of the group, he says, "that hill climbing yellow bike aught to be up there in the front." Shim's referring to Old Yeller's rear cassette. He once implied that it was an easier, big-geared mountain bike cassette tailored to climbing mountains as opposed to a road bike's configuration for speed. For the record, it's a Shimano 105 road racing cassette. Anyway, I looked ahead and saw the group slowly pulling away. I retorted that there was a lot of hill yet to climb and felt smugly confident that I'd catch many that were pending blowing up but just didn't know it yet. I mean, I felt good and had no signs of fatigue that I was aware of. But when I started to spin up to reel them in, I simply didn't have it. It was like: clunk-clunk. What?! That's it?! Sure enough, I was toast as I saw the group putting even more distance between them and me. Then there's a longer gradual portion before the final steep ascent that I attempted to bridge the gap. I managed to pull within about 100 meters before the group punched it up the final portion and left me for good.

Dropped.

I am, I am Superman and I can do anything... What a wake up call. What hubris. Old Yeller may/may not be a climbing bike, but I didn't have the engine yesterday.

Thankfully, the ride re-groups at OJ's restaurant a few miles down the road for the overconfident riders like me. From there it's a few more rolling hills back to the Trek store for the group; I peeled off at 52nd ST and quietly limped home.

Still, what a ride! Looking forward to next time.

10 Things I Hated about Sunday's Ride

It all started weeks ago with a nagging knee injury that was likely the result of a poor self-fitting on Old Yeller. I've always known that the bike was a tad large for me as the top tube is 55cm and I'm 5-9". Plus, the 20mm seat tube offset and 110mm stem stretched me out. Riding required locking the elbows to reach the hoods.

So on Saturday, I took Old Yeller to the LBS for a professional fitting. You know, to do it right. Yeah, it cost a little, but the end results are well worth it. If anything, it reduces the risk of an overuse injury due to a maligned fit. In the end, the gap was shortened with a zero offset seat post and the handlebars were brought closer with an 85mm stem. The stem was a bit tricky because of Old Yeller's antiquated design of not having a modern quill that extends through the stem tube. Instead, its quill is cut at the top of the headset, requiring a special adapter piece from Zoom that inserts into the stem tube to clamp the quill. Then, the top portion of the adapter extends above the stem tube so that the stem can attach to it. Whew! It worked. Old Yeller now fits me better than ever. I can actually bend my elbows while riding and generally feel more compact.

But Somehow in the hustle and bustle of running a shop while doing a professional fitting, the final tightening of the lateral stem bolts was skipped. It was firm, but not tight.

Hated #1:
As I found shortly after beginning Sunday's ride, there are at least two parts that you don't want to fail while riding: 1) brakes and 2) steering. but you see, when your steering fails, your brakes are pointless. In my case, I was fortunately only starting to accelerate from a stop to cross busy Pacific street. The torque that I applied on the handle bar twisted the stem while the front wheel went the other way. Oh yeah, there was a truck coming, too. Fortunately, instincts prevailed as I kicked out of the pedals and let the bike fall out from underneath.

Hated #2:
At the other side of the street, I discovered that I forgot to transfer the tool kit from the commuter to Old Yeller. No tools to fix it.

Hated #3:
Only a mile from Munson's house, I called for support. I misdiagnosed the problem as a loose top stem bolt and not the stem's lateral ones. As a result, he brought the wrong allen key. He TT'd back to his place to get the right one. Thanks, Muncie!

Hated #4:
Now that we were behind schedule to meet with the other riders at Crane coffee shop, there was a certain amount of angst in getting there. In the haste to hop back on the Old Yeller, I failed to check the rear dérailleur. That was a mistake as it took the brunt of the fall and bent the hanger hook inwards. Of course, it would have been nice to know that before I shifted the chain into rear spokes and then had to stop to back it out. More lost time, but it was cool seeing Munson go Incredible Hulk on the hanger to try to bend it back in place. While not perfect, it was enough to get me going again.

Hated #5:
For the next 4.5 hours, coping with a rear der that would not want to stay in the lowest gear (largest cassette sprocket) under any amount of strain. That made hill climbing very squirrelly.

Hated #6
About 45 minutes into the ride, my right knee starts acting up. Good grief: they're taking turns being injured. Same issue as the left, but now on the right. What's funny is that the left knee felt great throughout the ride.

Hated #7:
...And that old north wind should begin to blow. For the last eight miles into Blair, the double whammy of a stiff north wind and dropping temperature provided character building opportunities.

Hated #8:
The high road outside of Ft. Calhoun. This one came right after hovering at around 175 BPM for a solid ten minutes as we tried to pick up the tempo to get Bryan home on time. And I was being pulled--just trying to hang on to Bryan's wheel. Dang those guys are strong! Then we got to that hill. It turns out that the high heart rate didn't matter as I shifted the chain again off the rear der and into the spokes. I admit: it was a pre-climb moment of desperation that I forgot about the bent hanger. By the time I got the chain back on, my heart rate had returned from insanity. Mike and Bryan were not to be seen. But to my relief, they were waiting for me at the top.

Hated #9:
More torture as we took on the high road rollers in an effort to pick up lost time. My right knee was toast by this time as it shot pain with each downward stroke.

Hated #10:
Post ride recovery: after the ride, my right knee felt relatively fine walking around the house. However, the left knee was now sore going down steps. Whatever.

--//--

Despite these ten rants, it was still a great time and definitely worth all of the hassles.

The highlight reel was that ridiculous hill climb on Dana College road. While the chain was dancing all over the rear der, I was in a full pursuit of Bryan. Both knees were feeling good. Meanwhile, Munson had fallen off somewhere behind. I wanted to believe that I was making small gains on Bryan but realized that the top of hill was coming too quickly for me to catch him. Just then, Munson goes flying by in a full sprint sneak-attack and catches Bryan as they crest the top. Bryan and Mike say that it only takes dropping it into that extra gear for that last 200 meters. What gear? I was already at the redline and had nowhere else to go.

Like the shanker who grooves only one drives down the center fairway, that's the one that will keep me coming back for more.

My belated apologies to Chris for my part in delaying Bryan's return home. Thanks to Bryan and Mike for waiting for me at the high road and the subsequent dragging me back home. Plus, I owe Munson a few more burritos for the on-the-site mechanic worx to keep me rolling.

Weekend Recap: 59 on Bike, 11 on Foot

Friday night was date-night with Ms Katherine, which amounted to dinner at Little Saigon -- she had the special soup, I had the awesome tilapia onion fish -- and then a viewing of Michael Clayton. That's a rental I recommend.

On Saturday, I went for a four hour bike ride with the gang, riding with all kinds of people for a first time, including: Captain Extreme (Matt), my neighbor Sean, Legg, RF, Roxy, Bryan's wife Chris and about 40 others including a guy who was wearing jeans, polo and a pullover while riding his Bianchi. Fantastic! It was like the good old days when the circus came to town.

Oh, and Fred saw me. I'm like a rock star!

As for the ride, it turns out that massive group rides are like an amoeba trying to replicate and then reabsorb itself. The lead pack hammers and stretches the group until it snaps, then recoils upon itself for the tail to catch up. When the tail arrives, the entire group starts riding again. After about two minutes of warming up, the dysfunction cycle begins again after the hammer group has pushed all the lactic acid out of their muscles and start whaling on the pedals again. This cycle repeated every ten minutes until someone finally flatted. Fortunately, we were just rolling into the sleepy town of Waterloo, NE when that happened.

If you've ever been anywhere rural, you've been to Waterloo: it has four bars, a laundry mat and a convenience store. When 40 cyclist roll in, the convenience store is more than likely able to make the month's rent.

After waterloo, there was one final hammerfest that broke the chain for good. I settled in with Bryan, Mike, Legg, Sean and Matt for the ride back to Omaha. In total, about 59 miles in under four hours.

After church on Sunday, Katherine and I cleaned house. Next, I finished building a PVC workbench bike stand from instructables. By the time that I was ready for my 90 minute run, the weather had turned nasty and dropped twenty degrees while picking up 25 mph winds with 34 mph gusts of rain, sleet and snow. I still went out, but didn't enjoy it as much as yesterday's ride. In fact, it wasn't much fun at all.

Which brings me back to yesterday's ride. It was nearly 60 degrees and sunny and I was rolling with friends. I remember passing an oncoming runner with a gaunt look and strain in his face. I saw a little of me in him from years past and felt a twinge of pity for the poor sap. If he only knew how much more enjoyable it is to bike than to run.

Riding is ruining my affair with the mistress Nike. I'm guess I'm becoming more of a triathlete with each passing day.

Welcome to Iowa

Today I had a few firsts on the afternoon bike ride with Munson and Bryan.

For instance, it was the first time that I rode my bicycle in Iowa. Yeah, that's some braggin' rights. As the crow flies, Iowa is only six miles from my house, but the thought of going there is like traveling into Eastern Europe. For one, you have to ride nearly 20 miles to get to a bike friendly bridge to cross the mighty 'Mo. What's funny is that bridge requires bicyclists to pay a toll (another first) to cross it. Um, could you stamp my passport too, please? To top it off, after crossing the bridge, you're greeted by a go-go bar in a corn field. Awesome! It's no wonder that former Mayor Hal Daub labeled Iowa a Triple-X rated state.

It was also the first time I crossed a major river (Missouri) on a bicycle, and I did that one twice. Yee-haw!

However, it wasn't the first time that I bonked. That happened about five miles before paying the troll at the bridge. I remember at mile 52, right after Munson announced that we'd take the next few miles easy into a stiff head wind. Moments before, I had just ridden a longish stretch in a pre-bonking panic. You know, the type of panic where your brain is telling you if you just ride a little faster, you can somehow get done quicker, eat like a pig and sleep the sleep of the dead. Heck, when the brain is in that fragile state, it makes sense. What a rookie.

So thereafter, I was struggling to hang on to the wheel in front of me. I think Munson was riding no hands while Bryan was doing wheelies. Meanwhile, I'm back there in a stupor of self-doubt while the quads are a raging 5 alarm fire. We were only going like 11 mph and then the tiniest of tiny hills leading up to a graded RR crossing pushed me over the red line.

BOOM!

Mike and Bryan were gracious to slow to allow me to latch on their wheel again. Then, the next three miles and a hellish climb to the bridge loomed. I snarfed down my final Gu and gulped the remaining Gatorade. That sugar lasted all of 30 seconds, or enough to clear my head to fully comprehend the doom that awaited. It's sad. It's funny. Whatever it is, blow up #2 happened about 200 meters before the climb at the bridge.

Oh, the agony. The suffering. Yes, I'm going to wake up in a cold sweat tonight remembering this one, fellas. Guaranteed.

So there it is. 69 miles in 4 hours. The heart rate monitor recorded 2900 calories. Dang!

There aren't too many things that I enjoy doing for four hours. Or three. Or two or even one for that matter. OK, let's be real. There aren't too many things I like doing for more the three minutes. But somehow, this four hour ride to Glenwood, Iowa was a lot fun.

Thanks for the ride, Bryan and Mike.