That Old Team Kit

That old team kit, the one with the faded colors, stretched hems, small tears and see-thru britches.

That old team kit, the one that once was draped proudly over flesh and bones -- strictly on race days -- and representing an entity much larger than the rider themselves.

That old team kit, stained in blood and sweat while closing the gap, chasing down attacks, and sprinting for all the glory.

That old team kit, once as fresh and vibrant as the day it was dyed with its team colors.

Ah, that old team kit.

Alas, its time has passed. Teams changed, designs refreshed, fabrics and cuts upgraded. The old has been tossed, relegated to training, or nearly forgotten at the bottom of a dresser drawer. 

Will our fate be any different one day? While our DNA does wonders at repairing and mending the wear and tear, we cannot escape this destiny. Each will end up not unlike that old team kit: haggard, stretched, sagging and faded.

Though the morning sun shines upon the open road, beckoning to take it in anew, let us first pause to honor that which has passed. That old team kit evokes stories and memories worth recounting.

Indeed. It's better to wear and wear out than to never wear and tear at all.

Zen and the Art of Whataburger Maintenance

As I mentioned in my last post, we were on vacation last week in Texas. One of our stops was at Padre Island.

It was there, in a Whataburger restaurant that I met a master of Zen Buddhism. I don't remember her name, but it was Gayle or Carol or Vicki or Deb, and she worked a local fast food counter like none other.

Our time was short and we were on a tight schedule to get to the beach. Though the GPS map showed in great detail the highway and its beach access points along the sliver of Padre Island, I thought it'd be best to check with the locals for the best beach location. So at Port Aransas, I sauntered up to the Whataburger counter and ordered a vanilla shake and asked Gayle where the best access to the beach was.

Gayle's head tilted sideways when she looked at me. I say looked "at" me because it was sort of a vapid stare in my direction. Yes, it was definitely in my direction, but her gaze was fixed at a point through and beyond me, on an event horizon thousands of miles away.

"Oh honey, I'm not too sure, I haven't been there" she said in a voice as thick as sorghum syrup.

What? Hadn't been there? You could practically hear the surf crashing over the sizzling patties back in the kitchen. I reasoned that perhaps she didn't hear me properly.

"The GPS shows that the road at the next intersection will take us up pretty close. Do you know if we can access the beach from there?"

"I'm sorry. I really can't tell you. I don't know where the beach is."

As she spoke, I leaned in a little to look into her eyes to see if she was telling the truth. What I saw there was a sort of freakish depth unfold before me, like staring up at the Milky Way while camping. As I looked, it felt as if I was falling forward as the planets and stars, galaxies and swirling jets of plasma gas nebulae whizzed by. It should be noted that I feel the same way when riding on Chris Spence's wheel.←That might be a bit of hyperbole (Spence, not Whataburger), but you get the drift. I shut my eyes and caught myself on the counter before I feel in too deep.

Looking back now, the Whataburger Gayle experience has left me both humbled and horrified.

Humbled because Gayle was apparently content. Content at what? A static existence? Telling customers a thousand times over that she had no idea where the beach was? I suppose it's possible. I mean, she was seemingly indifferent that an awesome force of nature was tearing down and rebuilding a shore line just a stone's throw away from where she stood. She just didn't care. Nada.

I was horrified for all the same reasons.

From this, I have concluded that I could never be a Buddhist  Yeah, life is a struggle. Life involves pain and suffering. But there's some good stuff worth living for, too. Emptying oneself of all cares, good and bad, is like throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

No thanks.  Don't throw Barry out with the bathwater.

Back From Vacation

 Katherine and I were on vacation in Texas this past week.

The first half of the week was spent helping move a friend from Omaha to Houston. We rented a car, packed it full of stuff and drove down Monday. It took the better part of 15 hours. We got a late start on Tuesday, then helped get settled in. The next two days were spent in Houston.

While in Houston, I was able to jump in with the Rice University Masters swimming team.

Rice University's Swimming Pool

While the team size and coaching was similar to what I experience at Omaha Masters, the pool atmosphere was much different. For one, the Rice Masters team swims in an 8 lane, 50 M Olympic sized pool. It's also an outdoor pool. That means that in the winter months, the Rice swimmers start morning practice under a canopy of stars in the dark of night. Only the pool is illuminated from within. It was like swimming in Sea World or something. That was wild. And with an outside temperature at 50F , the chilly air on one's skin and in one's breath made for a much different tactile experience than swimming in an artificially lit and heated indoor natatorium.

I also brought my road bike to Texas. I found that riding a bicycle in Houston was a frustration experience. Granted, we were in the heart of downtown/galleria area. But still, other cities manage. Houston's congested roads and aggressive motorists made for a hostile and dangerous cycling environment.

Fortunately, we also spent a couple days in San Antonio, and that was a delight.

If you have an opportunity for a road ride, do the 20 mile Historical Missions loop. While there, see about visiting the Alamo's basement. Tell them that Pee Wee Herman sent you.

Our final day was spent at Padre Island. The forecast called for sun and warmth (80F), but what we got instead was 50s with clouds and strong winds. That didn't prevent me from plunging into the churning tempest for a dip.

I made sure to bring my gun show along with me when I did. It was Texas, after all.

So there you go. You made it through the dreaded vacation slide show. Congratulations.

Now I hope that you can forgive me for not posting last Friday. Interestingly, what I found was that in my absence, a couple other blogging newbies have stepped forth and delivered their own perspectives.

One is from teammate Jonathan Wait.

The other is Shim. Oh boy. Fred's gonna like this one. I sure did.

Happy Tuesday everyone.

Why I Continue to Ride Through Bad Ju-Ju

There is a lot of animosity in the professional cycling world right now. Cheaters and liars. Filthy money. Egos. Yuck.

Thankfully, I will never know what it means to be in those circles.

Still, these issues cause one to step back and ask oneself what are your motivations to ride. I suppose if I had to put percentages, it would go something like this:

• 30% Social aspects
• 30% Physical/Mental Wellness
• 30% Outdoor Awesomeness
• 10% Racing/grueling training/ HTFU (rule #5 )

You may be surprised that I consider racing only 10% of what motivates me to ride. Don't get me wrong, I like being all buff and stuff. YPG, but that's not why I do it.

When racing, you have little time to appreciate the route, social aspects or how awesome your gun show is since there isn't any floor-to-ceiling reflective glass alongside any road course I'm aware of. Instead, you spend the majority of time facing down a host of internal demons, all of whom are having a good time telling you how weak and puny you are. I truly don't understand why people love racing so much. Must be sadists.

But bad riding is part of the game. You must find ways to cope with it if you're gonna stick with it. I ride through the bad ju-ju mostly because it's a pleasure to be out on the open road with friends. It's for the exercise, the fresh air and natural wholesome steel-cut beta endorphins produced along the way that I do it.

Given the above, here's a tip how Barry copes with grueling hammer sessions. It's vitally important when he's dog-tired and on the verge of bonk-- err -- dawdling off the back of the pack so as to not disrupt the pace-line that he leans on friends to get through the rough patches.

The same applies to crappy weather rides. Who here has endured riding in the cold and wet, and through miserable cross winds only because your friends held you accountable to such folly? I know Barry has.

Last week I encountered one such occasion while riding with Leah Kleager after work. At 34 F, it wasn't that cold. But it was extremely windy (+25 MPH w/35 MPH gusts), and humid (85%). That humidity made it bone-chilling cold. And because the forecast called for warmer temps, I was poorly equipped. I wore a nylon skull cap, non thermal gloves, a light weight long sleeve jersey over tech shirt, bib shorts, knee warmers, wool socks and mountain bike shoes. I was miserable right from the start.

About 40 minutes into the ride, we came upon an unplowed section of trail that required us to hike our bikes throw snow. Nice. After the hike, I flatted a quarter mile down the road. It gets worse. I then discovered that dufus here didn't bring a pump and didn't have a spare tube (rule #83). Hi, I'm stupid. Thankfully, Leah lent me a road tube for my cross bike's 32 mm tires. On first attempt, the tire didn't seat properly onto the rim due to the tire:tube difference. Rather than riding a clown wheel, I deflated and burned the second of three co2 cartridges to get the wheel rideable. Meanwhile, my hands. Oh, my miserable hands. Handling a snow-packed cross tire and a cold aluminum rim turned them to blocks of ice. They were shaking uncontrollably. My brain mistakenly took this as a sign of hypothermia and told my entire body to follow suit. I must have looked like I was having a violent seizure while reassembling my bike in the driving wet wind.

Finally back on the bike, we turned back home into a cross-headwind. With the wind screaming constantly in my ears, and buffeting gusts nearly pushing us over, and while my hands were transitioning in and out of freeze/itch/burn cycles until we got home, I remember thinking at least a half billion times that I wouldn't be a cyclist if this is what every day on a bike entailed. No HTFU way.

That was third worst ride I've ever had. For the record, Kevin Limpach was present on all-time #1 and #2 worst rides; Shim was also present on #2. Redemske and Munson were there for #4 and #5. But those stories will have to wait for another time as the editor is screaming at me to get this turd to the press.

I tell you, if not for friends, for beta endorphins and for great scenery, I'm not sure I'd be still riding a bike.

Happy Friday everyone.

Palmarès

As many of you already know, local cyclist Mark Savery recently won the cyclocross Masters 40-44 World Championship title in Louisville, KY. In doing so, he's earned what many covet and very few receive: the World Champion's rainbow-striped jersey.

I have no rainbow jersey. I never will. I will never understand what it truly means to have one.

About the closest thing I have in comparison is a trophy I won in 1977 for the Most Improved 12 and Under Swimmer. I was seven years old when I received that distinguishing honor. That was thirty six years ago, but seemingly as fresh as if it happened last week.

I remember it so vividly because I couldn't believe that I actually won it.

It's not that I didn't work for it. I attended two-a-day practices that summer. I did 20 push ups after each practice. That's 40/day for those keeping score. Not bad for a seven year old. And then there was the time that our team showed poor sportsmanship during a swimming meet, and Coach Jim Wheeler disciplined us the next day with butterfly. An entire practice of it. Actually two entire practices of it. I attended the morning and evening practice that day. That's a lot of butterfly.

By summer's end, my puny seven year old body still looked puny, but it was strong. The stop watch proved it: my swimming times dropped in huge chunks from the previous summer. But I thought nothing of it then. I was just doing what I thought every other kid who was serious about their swimming career did to hone their skill. I worked it.

At the awards celebration, our coach highlighted a few accolades of the 12 and U Swimmer of the Year. Among others, the list included:

• Swimmer who attended the most practices
• Most push ups: >1600
• Attended both butterfly-only practices
• Biggest personal record time drop from previous year.

I was clueless about who he was talking about. Truly. Hey, I was seven and naive. As I followed along, I can remember thinking that I did two-a-day practices, that I did a lot of push ups and I even went to both butterfly-only practices. I reasoned since I was there for every practice, I only needed to scan my memory and pick out who did all of those things. It must had been one of the fastest swimmers, Stevie Robbins, or Pat O'Brien. And since Pat had undergone puberty hard the previous winter, and could grow a full beard at age 12, he was most likely it. At any rate, I was no match for those giants.

So when coach Wheeler peeled back the electrical tape covering the engraved name plate, and proudly revealed to all in attendance that that year's Most Improved 12 and Under was seven year old Brady Murphy, I was like whha wh wha what????

To my left, friends Jeff Griege and Tim O'Brien were leaning forward, already grinning back at me. To my right, Tom Chiapelas and Mike Cicci were nodding and slapping me on the back in congratulations. I was stunned. Just stunned. How could it be? I'm wasn't the fastest, I didn't have a beard, heck I wasn't even aware that the coach knew my name. But there I was, the improbable kid from lane one who busted his tail all summer long, hoisting up a sparkling trophy with my name engraved on it.

Most Improved 12 & Under Brady Murphy celebrating with Tom Chiapelas and Tim O'Brien

Like it was last week, I tell you.

If that's even remotely how Mark Savery feels about winning a world championship, I can kinda, sorta relate. Geez, I hope it's not offensive to him that I'm comparing winning the Most Improved 12 and Under Summer leaguer to a Masters World Championship, but that's all I've got, and I'm going with it.

Anyway, it's late, the 5AM deadline looms. Congratulations Mark Savery.

Happy Friday everyone.