Gryos e Giro

I backpacked through Europe 20 yrs ago with my brother Matt. We traveled on a 30 day EuRail pass and a shoestring budget of $25 a day (btw 2 of us), visiting nine countries while sleeping on the train, boat, in youth hostels (Pensiones in Italy) and park benches when necessary. Good God, that was fun.

At the beginning of the trip, we looked like typical tourists: big backpacks, sneakers, tee shirts, jeans, cameras, and such. In the end, we still looked like tourists but smelled more like gypsies.

One thing I learned is that people hate gypsies. I received this free education while renting a room from the sweetest Italian woman in Florence (Firenze). She could have been Munson's Grandma. (I don't have any Italian friends, otherwise I would have used their name in place of Munson's, but you get the point.) In Florence, we had two wonderful days of absorbing the best of the Machiavellian culture: works of art from Michelangelo, da Vinci, etc..., and enjoying great wines, breads and cheeses of Italy. If there is such a place in this world where wholesome goodness abounds, it's got to be there in Florence. Anyway, this sweet Italian woman asks us where we were off to next. I say "Rome". Suddenly, her face became dour and her eyes went inky black. Darkness gathered behind her as she sternly commanded us in Italian/English, "when you see those a-goddama gypsies, you, you -- pfff what you a say?!? -- punch 'em right in the face-a, and a-smacka the shit out of them-a!!" My knees were knocking with terror. Then, a Mediterranean breeze carried opera music through sun-drenched flowerpots hanging in the porticoes just a short distance from where David proudly stands. Grandma Munson's gentile smile returned once again as she bid us a warm farewell. Ah, now that's Firenze!!

I was reminded of this over the past weekend while watching the live universalsports.com feed of this year's Giro d'Italia. While Cavendish was about to make a sprint to the stage victory in Florence, the British (not the American boobs) commentator smartly remarked, "as this stage comes to a close in this remarkable city, there are likely countless American tourists here that have no idea that this race is even going on."

That statement is 100% true. I traveled in Italy in the month of May 1990 and had no idea about this road race. Heck, even two years ago, I was clueless to the Giro. Fred told me about it while on our way to joining (and meeting for the first time) Mike Munson, Bryan Redemske and Jon Randell for a group ride in Ponca Hills. That particular day was also the first day of the 2007 Tour de France. I remember this because Fred was looking forward to finishing the ride so he could make a Dagwood Bumstead sandwich and plop down in time to watch the "prologue" on his (pre 52" plasma flat-screen) CRT television. Prologue? I was confused. What did Julius Caesar have to do with it? Then he mentioned something about the Giro that had completed a few weeks before. Giro? Wasn't that something I ate in Greece right before they smashed a clay plate over my head? As he was opening the door to a world I was completely ignorant of, I kept my mouth shut and silently nodded while trying to muster up something better than a glazed look over my face. I'm quite sure I looked stupid, but I realized at that moment that wearing spandex shorts and riding a road bike was only the initiation into something bigger.

Did you see any of this past weekend's race? Incredible! Seven hours in the saddle in temps in the 90s and still have enough for a sprint finish?!? I'm amazed at the strength of mind and body required to complete one day, much less 21 stages, over three weeks.

Geez, I'm hungry. I wish I had King Kong Gyros. I've got some Kosher Dill pickles in the fridge that have my name on it. That'll do for now.

The Big Stick

When I was twelve, I enjoyed playing the game of golf. I was a short-game wiz. In fact, without being able to hit the driver (3 wood) more than 160 yards, I didn't even attempt to win the Low-Gross trophy in the junior league tournaments. Low-Net was occasionally within reach due to a high handicap. The real feather in my cap was in mastering how to win the tournament's Low-Putts trophy.

I was a realist who golfed to my strengths. Where others in my foursome would attempt to hit the green in two, I'd aim for the fringe in three or four. Yes, even five. That way, I could chip or putt the ball from the frog-hair as close to the cup as possible without having to actually count it as a putt. Then, nearly all of official my puts were "gimmies" (putter to grip length). Now that was strategy.

By the end of the round, you can imagine the carnage of pencil markings on my scorecard. Double, triple and quadruple bogeys were in abundance. Yet despite shooting well over 130, about 20 of those strokes were putts. I didn't care that my friends easily beat me. At the time, what mattered was that while they went home empty-handed, I won another Low-Putts paper-weight.

Ah, golf. So many games within the game itself.

After puberty, my long game improved significantly. That's when I realized that without having any money to actually bet on a round of golf, the saying, "drive for show, putt for dough" didn't make much sense. Hence, the "show" part became of greater importance.

To improve the long-ball, I took lessons and went to the range to work out the slice from the #1 big stick. I learned how to hit the three wood without a fade and spent hours on the two and three irons. To round it off, I even practiced the middle irons and spent some time maintaining in the sand and around the green. Near the end of that summer, the efforts were paying off: drives were straighter and longer; the medium and short games were solid. I had dropped 10 strokes off my handicap. Overall, it was all coming together.

Then Bertha came on the scene. Bertha was big. No, I'm not talking about my third grade school teacher who had enjoyed a few too many pastry strudels. What I'm talking about is Callaway's "Big Bertha".

Until that time, there were few gimmicks that lesser golfers took advantage of. Occasionally, you might catch somebody playing with a "Robinhood" ball with more dimples that'd make it fly farther. Outside of that, golf equipment was relatively equal. Bertha changed all of that.

For those unfamiliar, Big Bertha is golf's equivalent to the German heavy artillery gun bearing its name. Callaway marketing gurus developed this over-sized, extremely forgiving driver for people like me who suffered from #1 wood insecurities. It made tee-box monsters out of the most impotent of drivers.

My friend Jamie had one. He out-drove me by a jaw-dropping 30 yards the first time he was in my group. Even more, his classic hook was gone. In a short order, that club made believers out of skeptics and started appearing in other players' bags. My long game became non-existent once more.

As a result, I grew resentful of Big Bertha. You weren't going to see me with one of those wretched things. For one, I couldn't afford it on a $15/wk neighborhood lawn mowing business. But it was more than that. It was a matter of principle. I felt that if it was my lot in life was to suck at golf, so be it. Bertha wasn't going to sully my bag, baby.

My golf game quickly fell apart after Big Bertha's arrival. I'd shank the ball from the tee-box into the woods every time that chubber-clubber was within sight. Then, when some other kid mastered 18-putting his way to 140 and Low-Putts champ, I hung up the bag for good.

The fat lady had sung and it was over for golf and me.

Anyway, I thought of Big Bertha today after a recent UP Lunch Velo Club (UPLVC) ride. In the post locker room recap, Brant said that he'd be able to hang onto Shim's and my wheel if he replaced his compact crank with a carbon 53 tooth big ring/double.

Intervals with Team Nebraska Triathlon

Training for an upcoming sprint or an Olympic distance triathlon? Want a quick way to improve your next 5K or 10K race time? Gunning for a P.R? Or are you simply looking for a fun group to do some speed work with?

Interval workouts are a terrific way to increase your running efficiency. With better efficiency, you'll be able to carry a quicker pace longer, more comfortably.

In Omaha, one place to do this is with Team Nebraska Triathlon's (TNT). The TNT group meets May - October Tuesdays at 5:45 PM at UNO's Caniglia Field. The practice is organized by TNT's Gerald Kubiak. All are welcome.

Each week's workout consists of a light two mile warm up, foot drills, a main set of three miles of intense speed with active recovery (light jogging) and a group cool down. In all, a total of about 8 miles.

Warm Up
2 miles easy
Foot drills

Main (Fast group goal: 80 sec per 400m)
1st Tues: 12 x 400m w/200m recovery
2nd Tues: 6 x 800m w/400m recovery
3rd Tues: 4 x 1200m w/600m recovery
4th Tues: 3 x 1600m w/800m recovery

Cool down
1-2 miles easy

So here's your invitation: come out and join the group.

See you at the track on Tuesday.

Esprit de Corps

I bought my first bicycle as an adult a couple summers ago from the High Gear bicycle shop in La Vista. At that time, I joined the Midwest Cycling Community (MCC) and received an extra 15% of the bike's purchase price toward accessories. The membership also came with a complete cycling kit as well as a coupon book for accessories, clothing and maintenance packages. It truly was a great deal. Win-Win.

That was two years ago. Since then, I've entered a few triathlons, but haven't had the opportunity to train with MCC's club rides, much less any group on a regular basis.

This spring, however, I've been a regular at the Trek Store's Wednesday Night club ride. I wear the Midwest Cycling Community gear because the Trek store is the club's sponsor and organizer of the ride. It's also a good looking kit.

I give credit to the MCC for their attempt to be an inclusive club. It's even stated as their motto. And as such, the club ride is open to just about anyone who'd like to join in. So on any given Wednesday night, there are people who wear other team's colors, as well as other store jerseys, professional team jersey replicas and the like.

For example, last night's ride had 22 cyclists. Of that, maybe half were wearing the MCC kit. Of the rest, there was a smattering of jerseys: a few from Omaha Velo club's donning orange and blue tiger stripes, a Bike Masters forest green jersey or two, a blue and lime green Team Liquigas jersey, other random bike shops, a Nigel Tufnel skeleton Jersey (Lucas) and what appeared to be a gray merino wool polo shirt worn by Eric Brunt.

You see? All are welcome in such an inclusive cycling community.

But being too inclusive can have its draw backs. It can muddy the waters about who's really on your team and who's just part of the overall community. But since the team is also part of the overall community, it can become some sort of recursive, inbred mess.

Let's back up a step. First, I didn't even know that I was on the team until Shim recently informed me of my status. Was it when I bought the kit? Or did I become a team member when I wore the jersey the first time? I dunno, but I half expected that at some point to be trotted out in the alley behind the store to be picked for a local team grade-school style. But apparently all it took was buying a cycling kit to distinguish myself apart from the community as a member of the team.

That brings me to my next point: who are my teammates?!?

The kits are a good start. But what happens when a dude shows up wearing the red and black MCC jersey AND clashing orange 'n blue tiger stripe bibs from Omaha Velo team's kit? <== that really happened. Am I to embrace him as my teammate? And if so, am I to embrace his upper half while Omaha Velo takes the lower extremities? And what about the Skeletor and Mr EB Woolie Polo? Do they have MCC kits hanging in their closets too? Or, is there an unknown secret handshake/grip and Greek phrase to be muttered before races that I've yet to learn about? These are things that are still left to learn about my team, my teammates.

Don't get me wrong, I like all of the wholesome goodness that inclusiveness brings, but please help me identify where the line is drawn, 'cause I've been thinking about racing soon and I wanna know who's with me.

Go Team.

Forecasting

Wednesday's forecast called for thunderstorms all day. With that, I planned to take advantage of the pending downtime for some overdue maintenance on Old Yeller.

It had been over a month since 'Yeller's last cleaning. And with likely rain/thunder in the forecast, there wasn't a rush job on the order. So the night before, I had removed the chain (Wipperman Connex link) and dropped it into an old Gatorade bottle filled with Simple Green. After removing the wheels, I washed and shined Old Yeller's frame and crank. Then I went to town on the wheels, scrubbing outside-in to remove all that lovely filth. Then I brought back the factory luster to the cassette. Finally before going to bed, I re-assembled everything on the bike except for the chain. It was going to soak overnight.

Just in case the weatherman was wrong, I got up a early Wednesday to finish cleaning and installing the chain. After its scrubbing, I checked for chain-stretch and found it interesting that it showed little signs of wear. That was odd since I've had it for over a year. But it wasn't until I went to attach the Wipperman Connex piece -- and found the SRAM powerlink instead -- that I realized what had happened. In a pre-coffee stupor, I had inadvertently grabbed the other Gatorade bottle containing my commuter's 8 speed SRAM chain. Crap! Yep. There, still sitting on the shelf was the 9 speed Shimano chain still needing to be scrubbed. And now I was now out of time and had to leave for it for later. Double crap!

Later that morning, I called the LBS to inquire how an 8 speed might fare on a 9 speed cassette. It wasn't advised. Although I could probably ride it once without doing too much damage to chain or cassette, the shifting wouldn't be crisp and there may be jumping issues. I took note and decided that since the ride was likely to be canceled, I'd replace the chain later that evening.

But at 4:00 PM, I looked out the window and saw that the streets were drying. The radar also looked promising. I sent an IM to fellow rider and carpooler, Shim, to see what he thought. He said to make the call.

By "the call" I assumed that he meant to call the weatherman. So I did. I called KETV and asked to speak with weatherman Bill Randby, who was preparing a fresh forecast for the 5:00 PM news. They patched me right through.

Bill: This is Bill Randby
Brady: Hi Bill. Say, I was wondering if you'd give me a personal weather forecast for Omaha and Ft Calhoun between the hours of 6-8 PM this evening.
Bill: Well, that's hard to say. There's a chance that we could have a couple bands of rain coming through yet this evening. I wish I could tell you something more concrete, but that's about the best I can say.

Now I appreciate the fact that Bill Randby took my call <== He really did. But gosh, I mean, was that it? A chance for a few rain bands? Anyway, I thanked Bill for his time and decided that it was time to get busy.

That next moment, I realized that I wasn't mentally or physically prepared for the ride. Mentally, because I had spent the past 24 hrs writing off the ride. Physically, because I hadn't taken care of nutrition: just thirty minutes prior, I polished off a bag of Jimmy John's extra salty potato chips. Delicious. And prior to that, downing my third cup of coffee with practically no water for the day. My kidneys felt like a couple sacks of Morton's.

On top of that, I had to get my driver, Shim, to swing by the house to pick up the bike, assemble a bag with riding kit, shoes, helmet, food, water bottles and saddle pack from my TT bike (just in case I needed to offer Lucas assistance). Oh, and the chain! Couldn't forget the chain.

But there I was at 5:20 PM heading from the house to Shim's car with bike and bag of gear. Then I remember the chain. Crap! Quickly, I fish it out of the Gatorade bottle, wipe it down and stuff in a plastic sack for a last minute installation at the store.

By 5:35, we arrived, got changed, filled water bottles while stuffing nutrition bars in mouth. I then reinstalled the chain, purchased a bottle of Dumond Tech oil and lubed the chain. Meanwhile, Lucas was tapping his foot and saying, "Any time you're ready, Murphy."

Finally! While rolling down the Keystone a few minutes later, I relate to Paul Webb that it was everything I could do to be able to make the ride that evening. The only thing I didn't accomplish was topping off the pressure on the tires.

Paul said, "You really aught to plan ahead."

Well Paul, my long range forecast says that there's a chance that I'll be ready next week at 5:45. I wish I could tell you something more concrete, but that's about the best I can say.