On The Road…. in Italy!

Leaving a place is always the same. You plan exactly ninety-five fun things to do and see on your last few fleeting days. You will visit XYZ for the last time, go to that place you always wanted to go but never got around to it. The last days will be epic and you can almost picture the days ahead in slow-motion, having a dreamlike glow framed with a soft and subtle white vignette that only Bob Ross and that Airbrush artist at the mall can capture. Unfortunately, reality stomps on any notion of nostalgia and hands you a dozen trash bags and moving boxes as the countdown for packing begins.

We managed to move out with few difficulties, although it took about 18 hours to completely pack up everything we own and cram it into the family chariot. Our itinerary has us on a path Northeast, traveling along the Mediterranean dodging in and out of tunnels with volatile glimpses of small coastal villages in France and Italy. Then our route takes us inland and the lake region of Northern Italy. Having already visited Lake Como, we decided to stop for a day in Lago de Garda in the old village of Malcesine. Luckily we escaped France, successfully avoiding all the 1.8 meter parking lots and toll booth overhangs with our Thule box and bike on the roof. One thing you will notice about people from Southern France is that they never have cargo boxes on their cars because they won’t be able to park anywhere and will be relagated to the long “truck lane” at all toll booths. We removed ours for the whole year, using it only when arriving and departing.

Riding around Lake Garda was difficult as the mountains force everyone to use the same busy road. I did manage to find a nice route that went into the mountains with relentless 14-17% grades that quickly took you from 80 meters above sea level to 650 meters. Like many things Italian, the ride flirted with being over-the-top in many respects which leaves you wondering at the end if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Lago de Garda

Malcesine, Italy

Riding around Lago de Garda

Cappuccino mattina sul lago (Morning cappuccino on the lake)

Au revoir, mon cher Provence…

With the final ride complete and a whirlwind of packing, it’s time to finally say goodbye to Provence. And what a wonderful year it was! Watch this space for pathetically sentimental posts in the near future.

Video from the Pyrenees!

Note: Be sure to watch it in full screen @ 720p for full enjoyment.
10 hours before this video I was unable to open my eyes from allergies (didn’t know I had any!) I was reduced to lying in bed at the hotel with sunglasses on and even tried placing chamomile teabags over my eyes. Regardless, it’s a good thing you can’t see my red, swollen, chapped eyes that gave me a nice little preview of what I’ll look like when I’m 80. To make matters worse, I discovered my brand new tubular tires didn’t hold air for more than 1 hour. Didn’t think I’d even bother waking up for the event. But I did, pumped in some PitStop and held my breath. As I stood at the start, a few drops of rain hit my helmet and I was convinced that I’d be back cozy in bed within the hour! After 70km, I thought I was completely done… but after taking it “easy” up Tourmalet (1hr:15m) and resting on the descent, I was miraculously resurrected. Still managed 52nd out of 1250 with 700 or so doing the big 170km 4-valley loop included l’Hourquette d’Ancizan, Col du Tourmalet, and Col d’Aspin (2 of which were part of yesterday’s stage 12 in Le Tour).

On the Road Today (French Riviera)

Video: La Vaujany Cyclosportive in the French Alps

Sadly, only SD resolution on the blog… but view it on Vimeo in HD glory.

La Vaujany Cyclosportive 2011 in HD.

On The Road (this week in Photos)

Just photos.

Bilbao, Spain

Some New Climbing Gear… (Reynolds, MCFK, Veloflex)

My Reynolds clinchers seem to get stage fright as soon as I hit the “register” button for any bike event. This time was no different with the DT240s freehub body imploding after a long climb the day after registering for 2 sportives. I’ve used DT240’s for years and know that it’s not standard practice for them to fail after 7 months. Here’s a video:

Looks like Reynolds will replace it but since I’ve moving in 1 month, I’ll probably wait and send them in for repair in August when I’ll have a stable mailing address.
In the meantime, it looked like a great opportunity to finally get my hands on some nice tubular wheels. With any luck, I’ll have just a few more 400-level classes to complete my degree in bike-snobbery. Here’s my schedule for this semester:

• MECH 438: “Flawless Tubular Gluing Techniques” MWF 8-9am

• ART 408: “When Bar Tape Becomes Art: includes Certification in Bar Tape Critique” Tu/Th 8am (uhhg!)

• MECH 469: “Roadside Tubular Patching While Remaining Sartorially Elegant” Tu/Th 5pm

• BUS 481: “Special Topics in Negotiations: Exuding Your Tubular Superiority Within Clincher Circles” MWF 1-2pm

• TBD: Graduation Ceremony, Velodrome infield for all Masters in Bike Snobbery candidates.

Still not there yet. But I finally received my study materials and just in time for the Alps and the Pyrenees!
Reynolds DV46T UL wheelset weighed in a 1144 grams and was dated 2009-9-25 on the rim’s QA stickers.

Reynolds DV46T UL

Veloflex Extreme

Veloflex Extreme tread

Curiously, 1 of the 4 tubulars had a much longer value stem… odd.

Veloflex Extreme valve stems

I still have yet to complete my tubular installation classes (see schedule above) so I took them over to the local bike shop and handed them to the stocky old Frenchman with a booming, albeit raspy, voice who’s name matches the sign out front. Having and old salty Frenchman install my tubulars my not have the same inveiglement and romance as doing it myself, but I’m going to be heart-broken enough on Alp d’Huez, Tourmalet, and Aspin. The less drama the better. In fact, one of the sportives will cover some of the same roads as this famous incident, which I prefer to watch on TV (not recommended if you’re eating) or reenact with Playmobil sets (preferred), than to try it myself. It’s a nauseating portrayal of what can happen when you roll a tubular:
NC-17 Rated Version:
“G” Rated Version:
I’ll try not to do that. Although this blog might be more entertaining if I do. It’s a win-win, really.

Back to the updates:
The MCFK Carbon Saddle: 66 grams (actual, just as claimed).

MCFK Saddle

Logged 1230km (700 miles) in 12 days on this. So far so good. The carbon has noticeable flex which can be induced simply by pressing a thumb or palm to the rear portion of the saddle. Cornering is very nice and controlled. Multiple seating options. The all-carbon design allows for easy micro-adjustments and does not feel too slippery in any way. Compared to the Tune Kommvor, it’s 37 grams lighter and softer than the Tune which does not flex at all. The small vinyl area on the back of the Komm-Vor didn’t really have any benefits for me.
Specs:
Tune Komm-Vor: 265mm x 125mm, 103 grams (claimed: ~98 grams) [weight limit 90kg]
MCFK Sattel: 260mm x 130mm, 66 grams (claimed: 66 grams) [weight limit 90kg]

MCFK Saddle

MCFK Saddle (underside view)

MCFK Sattel (front view)

MCFK Sattel (Rear view)

Mont Ventoux Cyclosportive Video, Highlights, and News!

This is from the “Le Ventoux Master” Cyclosportive held in Beaumes de Venise every year in late May. Had some trouble with the video as the quality was horrible for some reason at the start. It eventually “fixed” itself until the battery died. Stopped again but also accidentally hit the “low quality” switch so you will notice half way through the aspect ratio and quality change a little.

Mont Ventoux Master Cyclosportive, Beaumes de Venise, France from John V on Vimeo.

But it’s a much longer story than the above 9:59. Thankfully, for those who are not prone ADHD and have a constant hunger for long-winded stories, this is your feedzone.

I wish I could say that I planned well in advance to climb the fabled ‘Giant of Provence’ but considering the circumstances, I was pretty thrilled to be at the start line in Beaumes-de-Venise on a beautiful morning without any major setbacks.

Here’s what I knew: The race goes up Ventoux which judging from highlight clips of the Tour de France I’ve seen over the years, I figured it was at a “substantial” altitude and a length of “significant measure”. That was good enough information for me to have a naive smile at the start line. I heard rumblings that there were also 2 or 3 other mountains thrown into the course as well. Really, the only hardened knowledge I had was that the total distance was 144km (at least that was the distance last year) and a quick google search pulled up some blogs from past iterations of the event and most reported times between 5 hours 30 minutes – 6 hours 45 minutes and climbing up Ventoux would take 1:45 – 2:15 on average. So why would anyone want to race up one of the toughest climbs in the Tour de France totally naive to any facts, figures, or idea of what to expect?

Let me tell you why…

You see, I’ve been meaning to ask my girlfriend for her hand in marriage for the past year. The timing has never been quite right… either the seasons didn’t fall in line with my ideal setting, or we were caught up in day-to-day life, or I didn’t have the right ring to pop the question. A few days before the Ventoux event, the ring was ready and the early summer weather in Provence was nothing short of magical. The weekend would be the perfect time to ask but I knew I didn’t want to mix cycling with proposing. The cycling event would bring us to the beautiful Ventoux area and I’d already reserved a nice hotel in the medieval Roman village of Orange. Picturesque? Oui. Romantic? Peut-être. But when I first saw photos of the city and port of Toulon from the top of Mont Faron (specifically this photo from SteepHill.tv, I knew that I wanted to make that our home for a year and I wanted to ask my girlfriend to marry me on the slopes overlooking the Mediterranean. Although Ventoux and Orange are wonderfully romantic settings, Faron is a little like home. The mountain somehow provides a bit of shelter and comfort to replace both of our displaced families. The ring alone took me several weeks of searching and scouring. Once it arrived… well, now it was up to me… Could I postpone another week? Just looking at the ring made my heart race. I couldn’t wait any longer.

After rushing off to the doctor to get a ‘medical certificate’ that said I had good enough health that I probably would not die in a cycling competition and organizing the logistics of the weekend, I turned my attention to the proposal.

My girlfriend’s favorite fairytale to this day is called “Tri orísky pro Popelku’ which is translated as “3 Nuts for Popelka” but the english name of the film is actually “Three Wishes for Cinderella”. It’s a Czech film from 1973 that we have watched no less than 6 or 7 times together and I too have grown to love the classic tale.

Tri Orisky pro Popelku

In the Czech version, a hackneyed chariot driver who attends to the constant demands of the noblewomen takes pity on the scorned Popelka (Cinderella) and wishes he could give her something to cheer her up. He says he will bring her the first thing that hits him in the nose next time he goes to town. On his way into town to fetch velvet for the noble mother and prized daughter, the chariot driver doses off to sleep in the chariot when a bird’s nest with 3 walnuts falls into his lap. Keeping to his word, he presents them to Popelka. The walnuts prove to be magical and each one grants her a wish that help her to shed the tyranny of her step mother and older sisters, allowing her to eventually impress the prince – leading to their marriage and happy ending.

Friday arrived and we packed up the car for our weekend trip. I was so busy with organizing the logistics of the proposal that just before leaving the apartment I said to Linda, “Now lets think of things that would be game-breakers to the whole weekend. Passports, wallet, keys, medical certificate, bike, helmet…,” just then I spotted a lone bike shoe in the closet… “or for example, my left bike shoe!” I had packed a few salads for a late-lunch and said that perhaps we could stop somewhere on the way and take some nice photos and have a late lunch. Traffic getting out of the city was horrendous and our route was mostly on the highway so I suggested having our salad on Mont Faron since it was probably the nicest spot we’d come across on the route. While stuck in traffic, a beat-up van full of construction workers passed by with one guy smiling and waving frantically at me. I thought this was quite strange and was puzzeled at first. That was until I deciphered what he was yelling by reading his lips. “Nashledanou!” the jovial man shouted as they pulled away at the light and I simultaneously spotted the “CZ” hat on his head. I gave a big smile and a wave once I figured out what he was gawking at. He had obviously spotted our CZ license plate and was excited to see fellow Czechs… well, he was half correct!

We found our familiar spot on the rocks near the summit of Mont Faron just as an older couple was departing from the orientation table. With the Provençal sun glistening off the Mediterranean and a slight sea breeze to cool things off on the first hot day of the year, we put the lunch down and immediately started snapping photos.

After several poses, self-timers, and various angles, we finally sat down for a quick bite. I placed the picnic bag next to me and when I reached in for the forks, I said, “What is this? Did we leave this in here from the last picnic we had?”

Sur Mont Faron

I pulled out a tree branch with 3 walnuts dangling from purple ribbons. I painted “Jedna” (Czech for “One”) on the first shell and inside were 30 tiny photographs of my girlfriend and a list of qualities that I admire about her. In the second shell, labelled “Dva”, I packed 30 photos of both of us together. Some were from several years back, others were taken at the very same rock where we were sitting just a few months prior. Also inside the shell were a list of qualities that we enjoy when we are together, past, present, and future. The third shell was similarly labeled “Tri” and inside packed tightly with cotton was an engagement ring.

and she said yes!

Also tucked away in the picnic bag were champagne glasses and a bottle of brut named “Demoiselle” (meaning “Misses”) from a vineyard that happens to be the same as my last name which is quite uncommon and I’ve only seen this vintage in France. We decided to save the bottle until we could fully enjoy it once we got to Orange.

We arrived around 10pm in Orange and found a small outdoor restaurant in the central square that was thankfully open. Although the hotel was wonderful and comfortable, I could not wind down until finally dozing off at 3:30am only to wake up at 5:45am for the event.

Do you feel exhausted by reading up to this point and there hasn’t even been a mention of a single pedal stroke yet? Well that makes two of us. I was actually looking forward to riding and relaxing for the next 5 hours that only involved turning the pedals over.

The Start in Beaumes-de-Venise

The sportive started with about 1200 riders (400 were doing the shorter 94km loop) under a beautiful blue sky and the first hint of summertime temperatures. The pace was quick from the onset and we hit the hills in a matter of minutes – climbing from 375 feet to 1,175 feet on an ascent that wasn’t even part of Ventoux. A quick descent then we volted back to 1,500 feet. “Has Ventoux started yet!? This is getting annoying!” cries the guy who didn’t bother to look at the course profile.

The pack of 800 was still searching for cliques and formations as we ascended up to the Provencal village of Suzette. Although still passing many, I often noticed a few familiar faces kits, finding myself mixed with the 3 good looking guys from Belgium with their hockey-star mullet haircuts, big arms, and hidden tan lines. I didn’t mind riding with them, especially “just in case” a big fight broke out. My youth hockey days have taught me that you never know when you may need to drop the gloves… (actually we never got into many fights, but it sounds good)

Finally, things started to indicate that we were on to something epic. A roadside sign asserted that Mont Ventoux was open… and then the authoritative “0 km sign” broke the “secret” of what was in store for the next 90 minutes or so: “21km, average gradient 7.5%” The guy ahead of me starts inhaling gels like a junky before a police crackdown…

I was very conscious about the fact that I totally exploded 2 years before in the Otztaler Radmarathon (238km, 5500 meters of climbing, an 8-10 hour race) after just 4 hours due to the intensity and heat. Therefore I tried to remain very comfortable and subdued throughout the climb. The major challenge for me is not trying to catch EVERYONE in front… because with 800 riders, there will always be someone “in front”. I tried to realized this and attempted, reluctantly, to sit on some wheels now and then. Thankfully, a guy from Narbonne (a region not far from the Spanish boarder) passed me and I noticed he was passing everyone! “Hmmm, my new pacer! ” I thought to myself. I rode behind the Narbonne guy for what seemed like ages. We passed everyone… eclipsing guys wondering “now how did THEY get ahead of me?” and other guys in varying states of agony. Suddenly I spotted a jersey with a big maple leaf on the back. When my pacer pulled up close I simply asked (in plain English – which I’ve only done 2 or 3 times in the past 5 years):

“So, where in Canada are you from?”

Confirming my inclination, he pipes back in full Canadian accent:

“Oh, East Coast.”

“Yeah? Which province?” I ask.

“New Brunswick,” he replies.

“Really! I’m from Maine (some Americans think Maine is part of Canada)!”

“Yeah, where in Maine?”

This question catches me off guard as I’ve been usually very happy if people know where my state is located or have heard of Boston or New England.

“Mid-Coast, And you?”

“Edmundston.” he states in a somewhat thick Canadian accent that I usually can understand but combined with the noise and effort of climbing up Ventoux I didn’t quite distinguish the phrase….

“It’s 2 miles from the Maine boarder… near Madawaska,” he reiterates.

Suddenly I piece it together and I marvel at the fact that the region is soo north (one of the most northern points in the US) that I really only know of a few people with connections to the area. I did a bike race once in the region and it was quite nice… rolling potato farmland country… a far cry from the terrain we were both attempting to thrust ourselves up. Turns out he is living in the Netherlands and came down with some friends for the race but will be returning to Edmundston after the summer. A very similar story to my own.

Although my attention was totally diverted, the guy from Narbonne appeared to be taking it easy during the chat and once our conversation landed on a closing statement, he bust out of the saddle and attacked all 6 riders in the vicinity.

I didn’t have time to “bid adieu” to my new Atlantic Maritime friend, but hopefully it was implied that I was marking the guy from Narbonne. He was a bit whirly in his style and was in and out of the saddle much more than me. At one point, he was bouncing on the pedals around a corner and I misjudged his speed and direction, causing a me to carefully maneuver my front wheel to avoid colliding with his rear. We were only going 8mph and I was happy in retrospect to have that be the “closest call” during the entire race.

I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but as we passed dozens and dozens of riders, I found myself in front of the Narbonne guy by accident. I was trying to maintain a constant and prudent heart rate of 165-172 bpm… no more, no less. I was still in the safety zone so I continued on. A few minutes later, I peered over my shoulder on a large curve and I didn’t see the guy from Narbonne…

By now, we were 45 minutes up Ventoux. The slower riders were behind, the faster riders were ahead. I kept pace with 2 strong guys and we passed a few good riders who “exploded” but most of the sorting out had been accomplished in the previous 15 km. I switched on my headcam to try to document the nether regions of Ventoux.

The gradient was a solid 10% throughout, although the roadside markers keep saying 8% for each successive KM, giving me hope that it would be hard for the first bit, but it would certainly level out to a more paltry incline ahead.

It never did.

To me, it was a very steady climb the entire way, hardly any steep sections, hardly any flat sections.

Soon I found myself in the lunar landscape that defines Mont Ventoux, void of trees, void of brush – even grass cannot grow due to the strong winds that swirl around the summit. The notorious Ventoux tower was in sight…

I neared the top of the climb, mostly focused on capturing the scenery on video, but to my surprise I found myself catching more and more riders… along with a large camper-van blocking the way with their listless tourist pace.

I reached the summit in 1 hour 23 minutes from the first 0km sign. It’s not blazing fast but that wasn’t my objective since I knew we still had 3 or 4 hours to go in the race, but not too bad either considering it was my first ascent.

I eventually discovered the feedzone which I might have skipped without the revelation that skipping feedzones is akin to donating your heart and lungs to devil for the next several hours (learned the hard way in Austria). I filled my bottle (I had only drank half a bottle 2:30 hours thus far, but its good to top off) from a giant Nes-tea jug but could have been Gater-aide, Ice-Tea, or some variation, and I grabbed a slice of baguette, a half banana, and as many gooey, sugary, gum-drop-type things I could fit in my mouth. It’s funny how your taste buds and eating habits revert back to a 5-year-old after a 21km climb. For interest sake, I passed on the figs (only because I was so excited about the adjacent gum-drops) and the cheese (pretty sure it was Reblochon melting in the sun, which is a French cheese from the Alps) and the deli meat which seemed to be a salami variant.

Mont Ventoux

Like a common thief, I grabbed as much as I could and hit the road. The descent included many lazy curves, a few sharp turns, and a bit of a headwind. There also seemed to be a lot of car and bike traffic coming up from the other side which meant that you couldn’t use both lanes to maximize the apex. I was feeling a bit guilty about spending so much time (2 minutes) at the feed zone so I tried to make up some time.

I eventually caught up with a group of 14 riders and we worked together battling the Provencal winds. However, my camera battery had died. After about 30 minutes I decided I’d rather have video memories of the event rather than a good result. So while comfortably in the pack, I stopped, took off my helmet, swapped the battery with a new one, and got back on the road. The stop set me back 2 minutes. Once I got up to speed, I tried the camera. Still nothing. Frustrated, I stopped again and flipped the battery around as I surmised that I inserted it up-side-down. Finally, I got everything working again but I was now 3 minutes down and the pack certainly would be able to pull away even more. At one point, I could see them winding their way around a switchback climb. “I’m close!” I thought. But the road ducked into the woods and was further away than it appeared. I was still 2 minutes down when I got to my visual benchmark. Just then, I looked over my shoulder to see another massive pack bearing down behind me.

I remained in “no man’s land” for 30 minutes, trying not to lose focus and get lazy. 25km to go. 20km to go. Just after passing the 15km to go sign, another sign comes into view,

“Summit: 3km”

Sure it wasn’t Ventoux, but still climb. I looked over my shoulder to see a pack of 16 riders closing the gap to just 200 meters.

“Great,” I said to myself in resentment and defeat. “Well, if they want to catch me, which they will, I’ll at least make them work for it.”

I went at a good pace, keeping my HR below 170 to ensure I wouldn’t implode, for the next 3km. As I rolled over the summit and gladly saw the downhill, 1 rider, then 2, then 3 passed me (seen in the video). Thankfully, only 6 or 7 of the riders from the large group were able to join up. We rode together for the remainder of the route, finally finishing back in Beaumes-de-Venise. We spent the night in Orange and walked around the ancient village and marveled at the old Roman amphitheater. On Sunday, we took the scenic route home, stopping off in Chateauneuf-de-Pape (for some wine, naturally) and Avignon. I think I overheard more English in one afternoon than in the past 12 months combined.

Overall, Le Ventoux was not on the same level as the Oetztaler Radmarathon, the event that I learned how to feather my efforts and manage hydration by falling completely off the cliff. I seemed to be using the Austrian event (238km, 5500 meters of climbing) as template to temper my speed and force myself to drink more. Le Ventoux, however, is only 144km and 3050 meters of climbing so I ended the day with plenty of energy and fuel to keep going. My camera battery did not fare so well. All things considered, a great weekend.

Sur la Pont d'Avignon

Complementary Ventoux wine from the race and some Chateauneuf-de-Pape

http://connect.garmin.com:80/activity/embed/87554744

In the Army Now?

Equipe Armee De France

Back in the day I had the pleasure of riding around West Point in one of my very first road bike races while racing in the collegiate ranks. As a die-hard MTB’er, my entire opinion of road biking was formulated on that day and I realized how cool racing on skinny tires could be. I somehow got in a break with 6 guys, including a guy from the West Point Army team, a Princeton guy who I think is still riding pro, perhaps a future US track national champion but I can’t remember… maybe that was the next year…. anyway… I found myself in my first “hilly” road race that filtered out the pack into a small group. It was fascinating to work together yet still raise an eyebrow judging the form of each rider’s pull at the front (or lack there of). After one climb where I didn’t attack (I’m against instigating violence, military or otherwise) but suddenly looked over my shoulder and didn’t see anyone.

As this was one of my first road races, my initial thought was “geez, I’m going to get lost and make a fool of myself!” On the next turn, which was a bit of an American round-about, there was a course Marshall pointing me in the right direction…

“Sweet!”

Then I noticed he didn’t look like the regular course marshalls… dressed in high black combat boots, wide stance, full camo… and, oh yeah, he had a semi automatic machine gun strapped around his neck….

“Holy Crap!” I thought…

Suddenly it became evident that I was the race leader and I was all alone. I huffed and puffed my way around Fort Buckner amid the blooming neon green springtime visage. Before my mind had time to wander and make a noobie faux-pas, a large military issue Hummer H1 pulled out to ensure I had a clear road. This was before the time when you could buy the pedestrian Hummer H3’s with an FM radio and air conditioning at your local GM dealer. At this time, the Hummer was a foreign vehicle to most civilians and the original Hummer filled a regulation size US highway lane – paint to paint. As my heart rate began to climb, I noticed that the Hummer was also outfitted with gun racks with weapons and several Army cadets on-board.

“Geez-us, this is crazy,” I thought.

Despite the toxic fumes the stripped-down, full camo Hummer H1 was spilling out, I felt quite good. I went on to win the race (or maybe I got 2nd caught at the end… it’s all a haze coated in decade-old fog), I realized that road biking wasn’t so lame as my MTB mentality thought it would. It can be EPIC! Sign me up!

Fast forward 11 years and I’m out on a bike ride to escape my regular day-job and nuances of prenuptial life, on a route that I’ve done so many times that it boarders on “boring” except for the fact that its in France, on the Riviera, in the mountains, and the weather is good (for now… thunderstorms in the forecast).

I start out for what I think might be my normal route of 101 miles with 5200 feet of climbing and it might take 5:15 or 5:35 if I’m not “feeling it”. Well, the strong head wind and my strong headache indicated that I might not even complete the ride. During the introductory “bike path” section I had to dig deep just to catch a guy on a mountain bike.
“Maybe he’s really a Pro 2.2 rider who is on his way back from work…?! Yes, I’m sure!”
But when I finally passed him, the tennis shoes and pedals with reflectors really drained all my thoughts that I was any good…

Like a good Trooper, I continued on the normal route, not knowing how much of the planned route I would actually accomplish. My thoughts:

“Wind is blowing 25kph in my face, any push on the pedals makes my head hurt, I’m trying to do 101 miles with a only 1.5 bottles of water, no food, I always do this but…. errrr…. today? It’s going to be lazy at best. Hmm, look at those vineyards over there… I’ve yet to try anything from that Domaine, maybe I should try some… [Meanwhile I’m listing to a french language lesson podcast in hopes that it’ll be burned into my brain if I listen to it for 5 hours]…”

I start to repeat the lesson out-loud, trying to perfect my accent (which is never going to fool anyone)! My heart rate dips to around 125bpm as my mind tries to focus on something other than the wind and heavy legs.

Just then a guy passes me in a full camo kit. Yup, camo! If I hadn’t watched the Tour de Mediterraneen this February I would have thought he just had a crazy kit. But I recognized it immediately. The kit of the French Army Team that competes in Continental Pro races. Probably won’t get into the Tour de France, but good enough for most races against the big name teams.

I sucked wheel for a minute or two and then pulled to the front (nothing worse than a wheel-sucker, right?) We swapped turns a few times until a small mountain top village, Pierre-Feu-de-Var. He didn’t attack up the climb and I didn’t implode which were all good signs.

We then entered the real Provence countryside. Few cars. Many vineyards. False flat roads. Beautiful. We again traded turns at the front but I still wasn’t sure where he was headed… I was only 20 miles into what could be a 101 mile ride… if he was up for the full route then that would be fantasique (anything to get my mind off my headache and poor form)…

I was doing my part at the front when we approached the one (and only) “T” intersection where I usually continue straight-on… ignoring a Col that I’ve never done despite the fact that I see waves of old cyclists coming and going that direction. Straight-ahead is a 900 foot climb with an epic descent into the Golf of Saint Tropez. To the right is the unknown Col that incidentally was used in the Tour de Mediterraneen. How bad could it be?

Just before the intersection, the French Army rider places his hand on my left shoulder and says:

“Voulez-vous monter ce Col?” or something to that effect…

Having disregarded the Col dozens and dozens of times, I thought riding up it with a Pro Tour rider would be a good excuse to try it out. In addition, the way that he approached me with his hand on my back and polite demeanor somehow conveyed to me that he actually wanted me to ride up with him. Me, the lackluster desk-job computer geek who thinks “intervals” and “training” are both 4 letter words.

“Mais, oui. Bien sur!” I said.

There is always some trepidation on starting a new climb. Is it 40 minutes? 20 minutes? Less? More? I had no idea. The climb I was skipping was 12-15 minutes so I assumed the same since we were in the same valley. We did a few switchbacks and went fairly hard, nothing too crazy, but at one point I had to stop myself and draw back the reigns in case it was a long 40 minute climb… opening a gap of 20 meters. Around the next turn I noticed the large red and white open gate (often situated on French Cols incase they need to close one side or the other) which is a good marker of the summit of a climb.

“Really? Already…?” I looked at my altimeter… “640ish feet”… this is not a real Col I thought to myself.

I closed the 20 meter gap at the top as our military friend composed himself with a few nasal sniffs, and visible sweat discharges from his helmet (I wasn’t really sweating at this point but I think it might be genetics or some problem with my sweat glands which never really kick in unless it gets above 25C or 78F…)

We started descending and I felt bad about not proving to be a worthy sprint opponent at the summit so I quickly took the lead… despite the fact that I’ve never been down this mountain before. I turned my Garmin onto the map view so I could at least hammer while seeing a picture of the road turns ahead. We passed a few cyclotourists groups who gave us a long stare…

[Update: Part 2]…

Once things started to flatten out we started chatting, in French, which isn’t my forte but it’s fine for most simple discussions. He asked me if I did competitions but I said that I don’t but just ride when I get time away from work. He had done Mont Faron in the morning and was now doing another short ride up this one Col. His name is Matthias Collet and rides for the Armee de Terre. His profile photo on the team page indicates that he is the French National Champion (for firefighters). Still pretty cool. After a while, I started liking the camo kit. Then came an odd situation when I was pulling pretty hard and we came to a red light. I’ve been told by cyclists in both Montpellier and Toulon that “in France, cyclists don’t ever stop for red lights”. I can confirm this as on the group rides, all 30 riders blasted through no less than 12 red lights, even in the city. But, since this guy was on the Armee de Terre team, I really didn’t know what to think. “Is he a cyclist first, government representative second, or vice-versa? Do I stop, do I roll through?” I pulled to a full stop and paused for a second while still clipped in and he pulled in front and we proceeded once the intersection was clear. A moment later, we passed a Gendarmerie van, and it felt pretty good to blast through town with the reassurance that I wouldn’t be hunted down. During the hour or so we rode together, we managed to average 21mph and even with 1000 feet of climbing. I was doing a pull up a small hill when he pulled up beside me and offered his hand. Noticing this would be his turn-off, we shook hands and I wished him bonne route. Very classy, very fun.

Mistral.

Le Mistral.

Mistral

Even folks from across the Atlantic have heard of this term and stories of the associate wind that it holds… perhaps from reading “A Year In Provence” by Peter Mayle or from another source. It’s legendary. And when I decided to move to Provence, I practiced a firm white-knuckle grip on the bars just so I’d be prepared.

Like many places, the South of France has windy days. The wind can come from the sea, the west, the east, the north… it really doesn’t matter to mother nature. Not wanting to sound like a total tourist saying “Ahhh, le Mistral!!” every time the wind speed cracked above 25kph, I decided to so some research.

Winds of Provence

No, a Mistral is not just a “hard wind” in Provence. In fact, there is an ancient compass rose in Provence that names the different winds depending on their DIRECTION, regardless of the velocity. There’s a different name almost every 10 degrees. A Mistral is generally from the NW (shown as “NO” on the image above) and due to the combination of high and low pressures over the Atlantic and the Baltic Sea. However, to add to confusion, a true Mistral, or anticyclone, will have a slightly different angle depending on where along the coast you are, as well as how much the front has progressed.

If you venture to educate yourself on Wikipedia regarding the Mistral, you’ll see photos from the sea around Marseille (which we attempted to ride) and the bell tower in La Cadiere-d’Azur which we also rode by. We’ll chalk our naïvety up to the fact that Mattias and I both come from far away lands and we had no idea that today was a recipe for a Mistral. In our countries, nasty weather usually comes bundled with nasty clouds, nasty temperatures, and nasty precipitation. No so in Provence. When the Mistral is in full swing, the temperatures are mild, the sky is blue, and everything looks great!

On the ride out we encountered some stiff headwinds. Mattias had just gotten back from his UCI 2.2 stage race in Mallorca (covered by cyclingnews here) and I had just spent 2 solid days staring into an LCD monitor but since I was somehow in-charge of the route today, I decided to pull through the wind. We charged through La Cadiere-d’Azur and the wine region that you can find at your local wine shop from AOC Bandol. The roads got progressively narrower as we continued along the winding roads that pitched up to 15% grade steepness in sections. My goal was to show Mattias a really beautiful climb between the villages of La Ciotat and Cassis. He’s been having lower back pains for many weeks now so we kept the plan flexible.

After battling along the waterfront in La Ciotat with sunbathers so close that you could almost inhale a few SPF laden calories just through basic respiratory breathing, we started up the penultimate climb. At first. the climb was just like any other nasty 15% climb. Slow and steady. But soon we got out of the wind protection pocket and had to contend with a 12% grade and a 40mph headwind. If you are doing the math at home, your graphing calculator should produce some sort if very low average speed number, if not EEEEEEEEEEEE.

Still, I knew Mattias was a really strong climber, and I can survive most anything as long as I’m not cold or wet. As we climbed higher and higher, the wind kicked it up a notch or two. Normally, we could both march up this climb with abandon especially after surviving the steep 16% section at the start. But the Mistral had transformed our Pro 2.2 rider into what probably appeared to be an old salty dog on his way home from the bar after polishing off a bottle of Richard — and me, well I’m sure if Sarkozy was biking nearby me (like he was [at the same exact spot on the same day I was] a few days before [also here]), he’d probably initiate the first French Prohibition.

There are few times when I’ve actually felt the wind hamper my ability to stay upright. Once was in the Czech Republic at high altitude surrounded by tree-less farmlands and a gust grabbed my Spinergy Rev-X wheels so tightly that my handlebars were nearly ripped from my fingertips. The second was today. It was a testament to bike handling abilities just to say upright and still climb the mountain. However, I was eager to show Mattias this great climb and the wondrous views that enchant me on every ride through the area. While leading up a mountain stretch, the wind lashed from both sides so hard that I was pushed against the wooden guardrail (one of the few guardrails around on roads like this) and I had to stop and put a foot down. I looked back to find Mattias in the exact same stance… stopped dead in his tracks. He was wondering if this climb was just an “up and back” and I tried to say that we’d go back a different way, although I’m not sure if my words that emanated from my mouth with a 60kmp wind and 165bmp heart rate were clear enough for a non-native english speaker.

After being blown to a stop and I looked back to find Mattias one meter behind also stopped, I simply laughed at the epic nature of the situation and forged onward. The wind was so strong and whirling that it took all my years of road biking and mountain biking experience just to say upright and moving forward. After a minute or two I peered back briefly for a split second (otherwise I’d lose balance) and I didn’t see my Swedish riding partner. A moment later I tried again between large handlebar-wrenching gusts. Still no Swedes. I stopped and waited.

“Maybe he got something blown in his eye?”

So I waited.

Nothing.

“Hmmm…,” I eventually gave up and headed back to see what the problem was. No Mattias. I continued downward. No Mattias. At this point it was clear that I wouldn’t be going BACK up the hill. Still no Mattias. I entered into the village of La Ciotat and made my way through traffic and traffic lights, lonely due to the wind that ripped away my riding partner.

“Maybe he was blown off the road and fell down the cliff!” I wondered.

“Geez, I’d be a really big idiot if I passed by and he was holding his life in his hands gripped to his last resource, a small lavender bush with his cycling shoes dangling over the 300m cliff.

Just when I was thinking the worst, I heard a small whistle behind me and a cyclist closing ground.
“Thank goodness!”

But not only did we have fierce headwinds on the way out, but after 20 minutes on the return trip, we again faced a strong head wind.

“How can this be???” I yelled to Mattias over the roaring wind.
“I remember leading out this section and having a huge headwind. Now on the way back we again have a headwind!!”

Turns out that the anticyclone almost attempts to shoot toward some target out in the Mediterranean and over time, it changes it sights and can seem to have change direction, especially from the start to end. We appeared to have found the perfect storm.

Spring Training 2011, Part 1

I used to perceive Spring (or Winter) Training differently.
Several years ago it was synonymous with “opportunity”.
Other guys would get old or lazy or have other things on their mind while you could train indoors and get fast.
No longer the opportunist, I’m more interested in the “fun” factor of spring training and being based around the Mediterranean coast it seems like I’m well positioned.

Make no mistake about it though, I’m more interested in the scenic road to “”success” than actual results from a race. Focus on the journey foremost, everything else is coincidental bliss…
Not long also I looked in the mirror and decided I needed a long road ride to “clear” the system.
I set out on a 100 mile road ride with 5300 feet of climbing. The day was overcast and nothing special. I had a good chrono up the first of 3 cols and was feeling good enough to take the rest ride easy. On the second col I rounded a switchback and got a glimpse of a sportive rider in the adjacent turn, about 200 meters behind.
I looked at my Heart Rate Monitor which said “128bpm”.
Sensing my laziness, I decided to pick up the pace incase I was being used as a carrot.
Once I hit 158bmp I thought my pace was good enough to stave off most local aging cyclo-enthusiasts that I see everyday.

After a few quiet switchbacks my moral and ego grew even though I disregarded my official climbing adeptness or my somewhat skeptical take on training that often revolves around local wines, thinly sliced meats, and various junk food.

As I imagined that my lead had grown to insurmountable amounts and began to contemplate my joyous trip to the market, I felt a wind and a “wooshing” sound to my right.. in full out-of-the-saddle sprint style.

The speed and violence that he passed me was rather shocking.

2 thoughts shocked my brain as he passed by…
Either I was:
A: Aging so fast that younger guys seem to resemble martians from another another planet sponsored by Amogen
or…
B: This guy was pretty #$#^# good

One glanced revealed that the latter was correct as I noted his Bretagne Schuller kit from the Tour de Mediterraneen.

His kick was so furious that I knew my feeble acceleration could never keep up. I never try to “keep pace” with guys who pass me on regular rides (seems lame) but he passed me with so much speed and out-of-the-saddle sprinting power that I noticed that if I didn’t go NOW that I’d never see this guy again…. so I accelerated. Not out of the saddle… just upped my pace a few notches…

To my surprise I neutralized the gap for a few seconds and then actually got on the guy’s wheel. We rounded a switchback and he promptly attacked again and it was clear to me at this point that he was doing intervals up the climb before the ‘Haut Var’ race the next day. I’m not much of an “interval guy”… meaning that most 12 year old girls with Barbie bikes might be able to out-sprint me.

I dug deep and amazingly I caught up just before he recovered. We rounded a turn and sure enough he launched into another attack. I remained in the saddle and gave a good effort and once again was amazed to have only a 3-6 meter gap. But this time his recovery was very sudden and abrupt such that I found myself accidentally passing him on the climb.

I took the lead and basically rolled my eyes as awaited the next sudden interval. Sure enough he attacked with 400 meters to go and I was already too deep into my reserves to respond.

School was in session, hopefully I paid attention.

That Secret Spot…

January.
If you go to the lengths of looking up this word in a cycling dictionary its masked by the blasphemous symbols #%#*@!&$.

True Story.

I thought back to previous January’s in my cycling history. Yes we all want to start the year on the right foot, we might even make ‘training plans’ for the New Year and ways in which we will trump our own feeble performances from the previous year. Goals. Milestones, Victories. Plotted out in pure perfection. “This will be the year!”. You gear up, knowing that it’ll be chilly (it’s January after all which will keep all those other losers at home watching Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwin footage until April at least…) and you push off. 5 minutes later, the -5&degF temperature whispers the phrase in your ear:

“Did you really think you could dance with me?”

Sensing your impending and unintentional cryogenic freeze, you hammer home with such amazing fervor that would possibly qualify you for a spot on the newest Pro-Tour Team selection (unbeknownst to you because your winter bike or MTB doesn’t have a wattage meter). Safe and sound you arrive home and let out a big ‘ahhh’ as your spouse/non-cycling family member looks on and says “what the… you spent 50 minutes getting ready and finally left 2 minutes ago… geeez you’re such a wuss.”

It’s true that winter riding should never be confused with statements that may include: “heroic riding”, “epic victories”, “fastest time ever”, or “bludgeoned the entire club to death leaving them in sobering agony – audible only for a fleeting moment as my gap became so vast that their whimpers were overshadowed by the Megadeath song in my head”.

That doesn’t happen in January.

January 1998 - What happens when you cover 1 foot of snow with 6 inches of ice (courtesy of http://bangorinfo.com/Focus/focus_ice_storm.html)

And a quick look at my cycling history reveals that actually, nothing happens in January. No rides. Nothing. Trainer rides a plenty and some XC Skiing round out the bleak month. The lone exception is when I visited my parents and an ice storm caused the power to go out for 2 weeks. You can use your imagination as to exactly how boring life can get when you have no electricity or hot water and the sun sets at 4:45pm. As such, I ventured out on my mountain bike and had 2 amazing rides on 2 feet of snow with a crusty and fast surface to ride on and chew through… much like a Butterfinger, or for our Czech and possibly European readers, a Fidorka
The hard outer coating transformed unridable territory into magical rolling snow-glass. It WAS epic. It WAS 6 miles. It LASTED until 4:45pm. Bed time. No hot shower for you!

Now I’ve taken this game over to Southern France and although it is very possible to ride every day, there are certainly days when it gets a bit frosty. Today was one of those days.

I looked at the forecast and the mountains out my window that showed signs of snow and decided this was a full-alert cold weather riding day. The forecast said it was 48°F but there are many mountains and cold valleys on the route that defy forecasts. I opted for my coziest jacket on hand, a full windstopper jacket – probably a size or 2 too large, but I’ve never-ever been cold wearing it. Next up was the decision for the legs… I reached for a pair of Pearl Izumi Am-Fib shorts that I haven’t warn in several years but also could never remember being cold in them. Add to that, 2 bib shorts, regular jersey, arm warmers, full fingered gloves, and ear bandanna thing and I was good to go.

It was a bit warm for most of the ride and the oversized jacket had always been a leading cause of many ultra-slow rides due to it’s ability to catch wind (WindStopper says it all) and I generally don’t ride fast unless I’m already riding fast. (good rule of thumb)

Nothing too crazy on this ride with the exception of the dreaded north side descent of Col de Babaou. Even when temperatures are good this descent is awful with it’s incessant turns and perpetual wetness that feeds green slime and moss that work in concert to try and put a spoiler on an already glorious 75 mile ride.

This was the scene that greeted me today and old kit that I never wear but suddenly makes sense in this terrain (it may look like slush, but that’s rock hard ice):

To quote my favorite Hans Rey VHS movie, "Frosty This Time"

Not too bad, I guess, but if every curve on the descent for the next 4 miles was like this, I’d surely be in trouble (or at least sideways with a foot out on all turns).

Luckily the snow deteriorated and I simply had to combat the usual slimy wet moss switchbacks.

Earlier this week, I did the same ride. I was feeling like I was boring myself by doing the same route again, but it is an epic ride on all accounts. Temperatures were warmer but I only saw a few cyclists the first 50 miles. I’ve found a new website that tracks times (or chrono’s) up every Col in France. Naturally I decided to try my luck and give an effort up the climb. To my surprise, even with leg warmers, arm warmers, 2 bib shorts, heavy vest, digital camera, tons of tools… I still managed to post the best time up the Col at 13:30 (beating the previous best of 15:09). I was so happy with this that I planned to ‘spin out’ the next 70 miles and revel in my accomplishment of beating the previous best time posted by my feeble self earlier in the week.

The next Col started and I realized that I had passed the ‘official’ starting point of the climb (which was much earlier than what I would consider the ‘start’). But since I wanted to play by the rules, I decided to turn around so I could get a ‘baseline’ time up the climb – even though I’d just ride tempo most of the way.

The Climb

While circling back to the start, I saw a group of cyclists also heading up. They all had matching jerseys. My initial thought was “great, if I try to ride hard they’ll think I turned around just to race them”. I heard some ‘Eyyyy’ from the group as I passed. However, I immediately realized that would not be a problem when I spotted ‘Cofidis’ on their jerseys. I somehow remembered on a random article on CyclingNews that Cofidis was holding their training camp in Var starting on…. “what was the date…, oh Jan 19th, that’s today!”. The Cofidis team car passed not too far behind and I finally made my way back to the ‘official’ start of the climb so I could turn around and start my timer. By this time, Cofidis was out of sight. The last time I spotted a Pro Tour team was in March on Mallorca when I came across the Milram team also going the opposite way. I got to the point when I was scheduled to turn around and there was no hope in catching them with a 2km uphill lead. I thought this would be similar. Out of sight…

Surprisingly, I was actually able to close the gap. With the team approaching, I forgot all about the ‘TT’ and busted out the camera to take a few photos. The team car pulled over so the managers could relieve themselves while the team began the climb. I took several photos as the clouds crowded overhead which sadly didn’t not come out as my camera appears to be functioning much like a Sud de France retiree – only able to be productive under the sun. I found myself in an awkward stage where I didn’t want to ride up behind them and disturb their training (or more importantly, look like some sort of recreational cyclist looking to prove himself to the big boys) so I just kept a safe distance and respected what they had on the agenda. The climb is about 3.5 miles at 6-9% grade and the entire climb snakes around, making it difficult to see those in front.

By the time I took several photos and put the camera away, most of the team had attacked up the climb, leaving only 2 guys within visible reach of 300m. I finally caught one of them and rode behind him for a while judging his pace and contemplating cycling etiquette and if it was ok to pass a guy on the first day of spring training. It’s hazy now, but ultimately I decided it was acceptable. I took a pull in front of him and he held my wheel for a while as I could hear him behind as we marched up the rough tarmac and switchback roads – no wider than the average SUV though it was 2 lanes. At some point, I detected he was no longer on my wheel so I decided to look for the second rider. I pushed as hard as I could with legs already full of lactic acid placed on credit from my previous PR climb and asked for an additional loan to make it up this climb without exploding catastrophically like a typical weekend warrior cyclist would.

Cofidis Rider

Luckily my legs held out and I reached the top in 16:06 which was 1:12 faster than the previous (amateur) record set in 2009 and another PR. I never did catch the next Cofidis rider but the rider I passed finally arrived more than 1 minute later. At the top, all the riders were gearing up with vests and jackets for the descent. Sorry about not getting closer or better images, I really don’t feel comfortable in a paparazzi role especially when these guys are basically ‘on the job’. Tried to respect that without being… well an *&#*$@^&%^.

Cofidis Conference at the Summit

Back when I was a teenager, I remembered a conversation I had with some of my friends while we were trying to build some epic singletrack behind my house.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if we accidentally discovered some secret singletrack where pros like Miles Rockwell, Tinker Juarez, Missy Giove, Allison Syder, and Julia Furtado were hammering on pristine singletrack?”… while we bushwhacked our way through dense brush and spongy loamy soil. Although we fought against nature with our machetes for days on end, we never did find the secret training ground of the pros.

It’s fun to be a kid again, even if only for 16 minutes and 6 seconds.

Here are a few more photos from January expeditions:

Glimmer

What are You Doing Up Here?

The Edge

KM 152 Cool Down

Video: Bosses du 13

Finally got around to editing some footage from the Bosses du 13 Cyclosportive in Marseille from this past September.

Exploratory Studies

There’s a lot you can learn from exploratory studies. In fact, it was my official major back in 1997 in Upstate NY. It was a nice phrase that private universities used at the time, replacing the previous [rejected] designation, “this Student Is Completely or Kind of Lost Evidently, but We’ll Accept their Cash and Keep it”. Within the admissions office, they whispered the acronym “SICKLE WACK” when they hooked one on the phone.

True story.

Flash Forward 13 years, and I’m still a bit of a “SICKLE WACK” at heart. I’ve learned a few sweet routes on my own and was introduced to new stomping grounds with the local bike club. But the other day after a long day of computer programming at work (which I ultimately deviated to), I wanted something new, different, undiscovered. Indeed, I was seeking to explore once again.

Although I am not the biggest fan of Google (don’t ask me why, unless you want a long non-bike related paragraph), I appreciate that they dumped a boatload of cash to outfit a fleet of cars with cameras and filled them with gas so they could take photos of roads just so that I could analyze the photos and decide it if was a “sweet road” or not. So I logged into Google Maps and dropped the little “Yellow Guy” just once on a road that looked squiggly and interesting. The first image I saw was an amazing panoramic of mountains, switchback roads, and a group of aging cyclists taking photos of themselves to commemorate their achievement. I sent the waypoint to my Garmin.

On Friday night, my GF said she wanted to go swimming at the pool and I was given the O.K. to ride as much as I wanted. Time to study!

Enough writing. I always hated English. Pictures are better. Here’s what happened. Take notes for the next 100 miles.

Chapter 1: Localize

Chapter 2: Roll With The Territory

Chapter 3: Find a Niche

Chapter 4: Follow The Rules

Chapter 5: Work Ethic

Chapter 5: Reap the Rewards

Chapter 6: Sometimes You're Up a Tree Without a Paddle...

... so find a way to roll with it.

Chapter 7: Grains and Carbohydrate Filled Gains Go a Long Way

As Long As You Remember History

... to get you where you want to go.

Still 33 miles to go… but with pictures like this, why not keep playing with self-timers?

There are many more photos… just make a contact request on Flickr to see them.
[bell]
Quiz tomorrow.

Cheese Pizza, Chocolate Éclairs, and Other Fun Ways To Ride Like A Pro

Remember those photos a few weeks ago of our first visitor to Wayward Cyclist Headquarters? I think I promised to write a follow-up but never got around to it. You can get up to speed by reading part 1 here.

After our first twilight 50-minute warm-up that went from 0 to 1600 feet and back again, the next day held limitless possibilities for getting a real ride in. Being a big dirt fan, AC was really trying to persuade me to use one of his 2 mountain bikes (he had both an Anthem X and Trance X) but I didn’t have Mt. shoes or pedals which was a bummer. He thought my full float Speedplay X1’s with tread-less carbon road shoes might work shredding rocky singletrack at World Cup speed. Hmmm, maybe. Maybe not. Eventually we decided a nice road ride in the mountains and along the Mediterranean wouldn’t be too awful either. We climbed through the mountains well out of reach of the sea and the tourists. I didn’t want to wear our star visitor out for the weekend races so I kept trying to gauge how far he wanted to go. He wasn’t feeling great on the first climb even though we had a huge 30mph tailwind that we milked for the first 30 miles. Hitting it full-force on the way back could be a nightmare. We decided to head back home by cruising along the sea but we first had to climb a nasty Col where AC started to feel feisty and my legs started to feel the fire. He got to the top a solid 10 seconds ahead of me and we were rewarded with beautiful views of the sailboats enjoying the wind out on the Med. We descended down a narrow and twisty road and decided it was time for some beverages and fuel. A little family market with a few kids bikes out front looked like where local cyclist go so we followed suit. We got a liter of water and eyed some blue PowerAid which I hadn’t had since… the 90s? I was searching for a good looking apple when I saw AC over at the counter chatting with the proprietor / cook. Sure enough, he had bagged a winning combo of a slice of pizza and a chocolate eclair. We made our way back only stopping for when AC’s beefy cross tires got a flat from a big ol’ thorn (and not from urban assault curb jumping as we first thought). We arrived home to a wonderful fresh avocado salad my GF had prepared.

The next day he shredded down Faron after spotting the trailhead from a YouTube video we found as I caught up on some stuff at work. For the races, he got 5th in the Enduro race abut didn’t fare so well in the XC race on Sunday. I guess AC was feeling a little smoked – as most anyone would in October. He deliberated taking a few days off to explore Provence with us before heading to a Cyclocross World Cup in Switzerland, but then realized all the errands and duties back at home that needed to get done (as you can imagine how things can pile up when you travel around the world for 6 months straight) and he could kill 2 birds with 1 stone. I’m pretty sure our 85 mile road ride wasn’t to blame, right?

Well turns out it just took a few weeks for that training to kick in… here are some pictures posted from a cross race half way around the world in Los Angeles that might look familiar (PS: I’m stealing images from his blog because he stole some from me!) Congrats AC!

 

What's in the sock?

 

 

Victoire! Quote from his blog: "I'll credit the super-ultra-rad course that not only encouraged hooligan riding techniques but rewarded them, and didn't require much "pedaling"... Perfect. "

From Cote d'Azur to the Hollywood Hills

New Wheelset Arrives: 2011 Reynolds Forty-Six

After my DV46C UL’s had a little melt down, I was able to choose between another set or wait 1 month for the 2011 Forty-Six. I had only spotted a few photos from Euro-Bike at the time and specs were hard to find but the rumor was that the new rims, combined with the blue brake pads reduced the temperature on the carbon braking surface by 100°F… which is what I was interested in. Funny though, journalists at Eurobike and Interbike seemed to focus primarily on the improved name (vs DV46C UL) and the cool new stickers (???) Do they even ride bikes?

They finally arrived today. 3 minutes later, another delivery guy handed me a new 17″ MacBook Pro with 250GB SSD Hard Drive and i7 Processor. For a split second, I was at an impasse.

Dueling Deliveries

What would I do first? I managed to mount the veloplugs, tires, tubes, and cassette while the Macbook was transferring data from the old 17″ Macbook Pro. The old Pro is in very bad shape… the battery exploded and doesn’t work, the trackpad is busted, the cd drive eats discs for breakfast, the screen has weird spots all over it, the machine runs slower than a Tandy, and it doesn’t even boot up, you have to boot it from the command line! A benchmark test using XBench scored my old Macbook as the #49050th fastest Macbook Pro… out of 49140 machines. I checked the computer that was ranked next to me and it was using a copy of OS X loaded onto an 8GB SD Flash card! Yeah, it’s that slow!

The wheels looked pretty nice.  According to the distributor, this is one of the first sets to hit the road in Europe. I was pretty excited to try them out. Out of the box you notice the carbon weave braking surface and Paul Lew’s “Swirl Generator”. The “Swirl Generator” is very tiny and I know Lew has a background in Aerospace Engineering but I’m much slower than a 747 or Challenger so I really don’t think a few millimeters is going to reduce enough airflow drag to make me faster. I tossed them on the scale before mounting the hardware and to my horror(!) they were WAY overweight compared to my DV46C UL (although now the Reynolds website is listing the 2011 models and listing the claimed weight at 1474 grams… but I did not have that info at the time).

Reynolds Forty-Six on the scale

[Mini rant: optional reading] The DV’s had a claimed weight of around 1410g but mine came in at 1359g and have an equally impressive price tag of ~ 2000 €.  They were pretty sweet wheels and survived dozens of big mountain descents.  These new Forty-Six wheels tipped the scales at… 1512g!! Not even in the same ballpark. In fact, they are even 3g heavier than my old Assaults (~ 1000 €).  I started to think the 2010 Top-of-the-Line clinchers probably were not replaced adequately, perhaps something from the new RZR line would be more appropriate (at least based on weight) – but they don’t make a clincher (yet).  Maybe I should have opted for the RZR 46 Team tubulars at ~1200g and learned the joys of glue sniffing. If these fail down the line, it would be great to replace them with something more in-tune with the DV46C UL set that can climb big mountains…  It’s not that I’m that big of a gram-snob, but it was a fun upgrade going from a 1500g set to a 1360g set as the DV’s felt more energetic than the Assaults and could easily be leaned into corners and maneuvered around sketchy roads, not to mention the climbing benefits. [/rant]

Pretty disappointed with the weight, I pushed off.  Time to ride bikes!

Reynolds Blue Brake Pads

After riding with an American Classic 350 Sprint on the front for 2 months and the rear for a week or so, the Reynolds are amazingly solid, probably even more than the DV’s. Pothole here, roadwork there, cobbled roundabout, dug up dirt sections… these are smooth wheels! After 15 miles I stopped trying to pretend that I needed to dodge road hazards and just kept my line, letting the Reynolds do their thing. I know it’s still a road bike, but compared to riding on aluminum clinchers, it sure felt like a sweet freeride bike. (Road bike = freeride bike? Yeah, I’ve been off the trails far too long!)

I passed through an old village at the base of the mountains and wondered if I’d notice the 150 gram penalty, hardly noticing the cobbled sections through the narrow street. I passed by the cozy square, spotted the old men talking at the cafe, and nodded to the guy roasting local chestnuts the way this town has done for hundreds of years. After 3 days of steady rain, the roads were a bit slimy but illuminated with golden sunshine and orange ferns under the chestnut trees. The Forty-Six wheelset was super-stiff and begged to pushed hard even though I hadn’t planned to. My 14:53 minute stint up the 3.1 mile climb was the fastest I’ve ever done without a tailwind, even 30 seconds faster than when I rode up this pitch with 12x National Champion in tow.

Down the other side of the mountain and into the Gulf du Saint Tropez, I started hearing strange noises as I descended down the windy road that balances on the side of the mountain. I realized that it was the sound of wind, almost like those things you put on your car so you scare deer away (What?? You don’t know about those? Everyone in my town had one!!) Anyway, it was actually that little “Lip Swirl Generator” that was churning up the wind over the rim. “Ah, guess that Paul Lew wasn’t so crazy after all.”  [Edit: just checked the wheel, it says “Swirl Lip Generator”… oops.  I’m getting a cold sore just thinking about all this lip swirling]

Whether the Lip Swirl Generator reduces enough drag to translate into actual speed is something I’ll leave for wind tunnel testing and folks who actually know. But I can tell you that at around 26-27 mph is when the sound starts. I kind of like it. Reminds me of a stormy winter night, but I start to get Egg Nog cravings on long descents.

The braking was also very solid and I was quite impressed.  Better than even the aluminum American Classics I was using.  The real test will be in wet conditions but so far in dry stuff, they are very confidence inspiring.

I checked when the exact time for sunset is on my Garmin (always tricky this time of year but even trickier because with the switch to Daylight Saving Time a few days before). I wanted to know how much further I could ride because I was having a blast! I had just enough time to go to the beach and check out the waves… but not enough time to go shopping in Saint Tropez for a new Hermes bag for my toy dog… nor an extra 5 miles to fit a century ride in. Oh well.

I turned around and the ride back was even more beautiful with gorgeous views of the misty mountains in the late afternoon sun. Passed a few vineyards, the mountain top monastery, a couple waterfalls, and realized that these are those lame scenes you see on those motivation posters. ‘Serenity’, ‘Enlightenment’, or the ubiquitous ‘Goals’ would all fit well.

But this wasn’t a poster at school or the office… this was the real deal.  Here’s a quick sample:

My Journey

I got home just as darkness set in (perfectly timed!) dodging the bike path folks and city traffic. On the lift ride up to my floor, I looked over my wheels with a new appreciation for them. But then noticed something weird on the tire. It was hard to see with my orange tinted glasses which were now fogging up, looked like orange or pink bubblegum. Instinctively, I tried to wipe it off with my fingers and it came right off… I peered over the orange sunglasses to see that it wasn’t bubblegum at all… and it smelled funny.. and then I realized….
Maybe these wheels really are the sh*t.

Don’t worry, in the end that MacBook got some play time too… 5 hours for the wheels, 4 hours for the Mac and my XBench standing jumped from #49050 to #260 fastest Macbook.

Reynolds Forty-Six mounted with Gray Decals

Brake Track

If you do end up finding a deal on Reynolds Forty-Six wheelset, I recommend signing up for the RAP coverage on the Reynolds website before your first ride. Definitely worth the piece of mind.

The 25€ City Bike

My GF was wishing for a city bike the other day and perused the ‘for sale’ listings when she came across one that fit our criteria: rideable, charming, cheap.

We came across this 1977 Triumph TrafficMaster made by Raleigh with Sturmey-Archer 3 Speed hub and a flashy electric-blue paint scheme. The tires were flat, the cable to the internal geared hub was broken and all the guy could say about when my girlfriend asked about the age of the bike is “It’s older than you”. Thankfully the original bike shop sticker was still affixed to trace it’s origins (Stows Slough Bike Shop outside of London) and all Sturmey-Archer hubs are stamped with the manufacture date. This one said “10/77”.

Triumph TrafficMaster

The tire size was a bit rare and hard to find but I actually stumbled on the exact same tire that came on the bike, and more importantly, with white sidewalls! You can find them online here: Raleigh Record 37-590 Tires. They ship worldwide so delivering to France was not a problem and after ordering on Monday they arrived on Friday.

I’m no retro bike connoisseur as this is my first attempt working with a bike older than 1995. But I was excited.. because my GF was excited… and I thought it had some potential if it got fixed up and she would look pretty damn cute on it. The project only took only 1 day to mount, lube, and polish. I think it came out pretty good for a first attempt at this sort of thing. We sure are going to have fun getting baguettes with this blue beauty! Here are the restoration photos of the Traffic Master.

Rims Before and After

Tires Before and After

Sturmey Archer Shifter Before and After

Drivetrain Before and After

Front Wheel Before and After

Traffic Master Chainguard

Sturmey Archer Shifter

Triumph Traffic Master by Raleigh

Still need to purchase a new cable to the internal geared hub. That’s all for now, my fingers hurt too much to type any further.

What To Do When An Olympian Stays At Your House…

I should probably follow up with the latest big milestone over here at our Mediterranean perched flat… our very first visitor!

[reader pauses… says “pfff, I’m a cyclist, I don’t want to hear about this domestic crap”]

But as you can guess from the previous photos, our first guest actually was a cyclist… and a pretty good one too. Odds are you’ve heard of him (unless you are living in a roady-only cave) as he happens to be one of the best mountain bikers the small land of USA has produced in the last 10 years. He’s battled in Beijing, stood on the podium at a world cup (not many Americans can say that), and won 12 or so National Championships. And I was at the supermarket in the linens section, wondering which sheet set and pillow would be good enough for a night’s rest before battling the world’s best mountain bikers.

So it isn't quintessential, but it's convenient, and just 100 yards downstairs. (not the actual Carrefour nor my picture, thanks whoever!)

Actually, I had no idea. I chose a nice white sheet and a pretty sweet looking pillow to add to my overflowing basket of food delights. He isn’t super picky like some and even amateur racers are, but I tried to get some good stuff that covers a lot of bases.

Finding our flat requires a mobile GPS and a master’s degree in Swat infiltrations. His team hooked him up with a delivery van in Amsterdam that most American’s would assume is a flower delivery van… but they are quite common around here.

The Caddy Van, (for demonstration purposes. His van had sweet Rabobank Mountain Bike Team logos on it) ..(curtsy of someone who takes pictures of boring vans) .

We are a long way away from Amsterdam but I figured a savvy traveler with years and years of world travel would have a GPS on board for the trip so I gave him a Google maps link with exact coordinates since I knew it would be hard. What I forgot was that AC is also a rally car racer – in charge of dictating the navigation as the driver speeds sideways around mountain dirt roads. So he keeps it old school with intuition (and when he thinks of it, and when his Dutch is a bit fuzzy), purchases a map at the gas station. — Note that in Europe, even city names are spelled differently depending on the country you are in, or headed to. Some are kind of easy: Parijs is Paris in Dutch (Pariz in Czech) but it can get much much harder. I don’t have an example right off (I like GPS’s 🙂 ) but I remember my first solo bus trip to Vienna which in Czech is “Viden”. I read the words on the bus’ windows (backwards) while half way there that said Brno > Wien. “Crap, I wanted to go to Vienna, damn I’m such an idiot!” Well it was the right bus. It’s now obvious after 15 or so trips that I’ve made since then that Wien is the real German name for Vienna. In Dutch it would be Wenen. Got that. So Vienna = Wien = Viden = Wenen = Vienne (fr) = Wiedeń (pl) .. but multiply this one major city by all the cities you have on your itinerary and it’s pretty crazy. I guess AC was caught off guard when his next waypoint magically changed from Dutch to Flemish and got him off track for a bit… But he had no problem in making it to Toulon, but our flat was harder as we had to play “Marco, Polo” via cell phones to find each other. Either way, he made it at the exact day that we had the worst weather in 2 months here with a heavy downpour.

AC flying down a narly 18m descent in The Netherlands prior to arrival (don't worry, DS got all that Dutch mud out in our washing machine).

In CZ, ‘bad weather’ means 28 days of rain in the month. But in Provence of course, the worst weather in 60 days is months of sun, followed by a few hours where the rain breaks through but eventually is bludgeoned by the all-mighty Provençal sun once again. As soon as we got all 3 bikes (XC bike, Enduro bike, Cross bike) out of the van, the sun was out for a final hour before sunset. As AC pieced together his cross bike (the only bike not assembled) I thought the best “happy hour” hor d’oeuvre for any cyclist would be a quick quick sunset spin to stretch the legs. For him, it was for recovery from a race in the Netherlands followed by an epic car ride, and for me it was for a long trip around Carrefour and an epic line wait. He said he trusted me on the route so I selected a nice little Triscuit that rises from our flat at 50 feet above see level to 1,800 or so feet in just a few miles. That’s a spin for pros, right?

Mont Faron is a pretty sweet climb that overlooks the city and is a prime road climb. The Tour Mediterraneen actually has a mountain top finish here in February (can’t wait!!!) so I figured this would be the quickest way to get away from traffic and see the city from 1800 feet. It doesn’t vary much in pitch with a grade of 7-12% and features amazing guardrail-less views of the city below, the port, and the Mediterranean. We had 45 minutes til sunset which I thought would be just enough.

Mont Faron, as seen from my (office desk/guest bedroom) at sunrise. AKA.. the location where all Wayward Cyclist post are created.

As we played ‘urban assault’ though the bustling city streets, my Edge 705 beeped at a particular intersection:
AC: “is that thing telling us where to go”
Me: “yeah, I always get turned around at the beginning through the city even now… ” I said, somewhat ashamed that I plugged in the route… but I didn’t want to mess anything up and turn a 45 minute ride into a 75 minute ride through the city at night with a VIP cyclist simply because I made a wrong turn.
“Fancy,” AC responded.
We soon hit the the lower 16% slopes of the climb and the GPS navigation was no longer necessary. I tried to push it at about 65%, thinking that would be about 25% (aka, “a nice spin”) for an Olympian. I couldn’t notice a shadow behind me and took a look on the next switchback… just empty road.
“Hmmm…” I turned around and peered around the switchback. Eventually he came but apparently there was a problem with his derailleur. We both stopped and I held the bike up while he made the adjustments. As he riffled through the gears, his derailleur made a distinctive robotic sound.
“Di2 huh?” I said.
“Yeah, it’s pretty sweet for cross when it gets real muddy.
“Fancy,” I responded.

After one more intermediate stop, AC was finally able to get in his 25 and we climbed with an orange sunset ducking under the dark afternoon clouds.

“Sorry I forgot the picnic basket,” I said as we rounded a hairpin with the harbor 1000 feet below.

We reached the top and 2 things finally dawned on me.
#1) The sun officially set and my Garmin flipped into “night mode colors” (as it does after sunset)
#2) The big rain has not evaporated on the nasty-steep, forest-covered switchbacks on the descent down.

I thought to myself, “if I crash, all my family members will think it was because I was trying to keep up with AC…. so DON’T FALL NO MATTER WHAT!”
but then I realized an even worse scenario… “if AC crashes, I’ll read about it in every cycling magazine and probably even CyclingNews in the morning – who will mention me as the a**hole who invited him on a slick twilight mountain descent.”

AC had cross tires but I just had completely slick 23mm Ultremo’s and I let him know I was going to descend like a girl who didn’t want to damage her brand new Barbie bike.

I’m not sure if most of you know AC’s crazy skills… but basically anything that involves a negative slope – he will hammer much faster than you knew possible. I remember when we were teenagers racing amateur XC and AC arrived for a race 1 day early so he borrowed some guys GT LTS bike and entered the Pro downhill race, just for kicks. He got 3rd. I’m pretty sure all the other 75 pro DH guys when home, cracked open a Heineken and put their bikes on eBay. (wait, was there an eBay back then…) They lost to an XC kid who had never ridden a full suspension bike before. We were pretty amazed when we arrived on race day and he told us the story.

My second example is an XC race where the pros started 35 minutes before the Expert guys on a 50 minute loop (or something like that). I knew Adam was on the course and was totally stoked when a random spectator said that I was climbing the long fire-road climb the fastest he has seen. A big complement considering others that had gone by him in the day. So I was feeling pretty awesome and mixing it up in some dodgy New England single track that eventually opened into a fire-road descent for a little while… I was hammering pretty hard and watching for huge rocks, roots, stream crossings, but still maintaining the fastest possible speed that anyone with a rational mind would go. Since I was in 1st place, I had to be smart AND awesome.

Just then AC blew by me. “Hey John” he casually said as he descended at a speed so fast that my 1st place standing soon melted into “crap I suck” feelings.

I did ok in the race. I think I beat current (former?) Cervelo Test-Team guy Ted King who was in 3rd by more than 10 minutes. But I don’t care who you are… if it’s difficult, AC will beat you, badly. And when you talk to him afterward, he talks so humbly you’d think he was a cool mild-mannered Sport class racer. 100% classy guy without the nasty conceited aftertaste that many high level racers have. I think his personality is the #1 reason why he has done so well for so long on the pro ranks.

As we descended I thought to myself,
“Do I really try to see if I can stay close…? But, if I crash everyone will think I am some sort of lame overconfident weekend warrior who overextended himself. Hmmm, we are riding tomorrow… so safe it is.”

To my surprise, AC shouted around the very first hairpin:
“Yup, pretty slick” as his beefy cross tires lost a little grip on the road.
My tires basically just slid around the turn like a skate blade coming to a stop, bringing back some old skills I learned in 14 years of ice hockey experience.

I haven’t done a descent so gingerly in a long time, if ever. And my partner probably has never been stronger… but there many sunny days in Provence ahead and I want to see them, in one piece.

We descended the numerous switchbacks as the sun bid adieu and the city lights twinkled directly down below. We got home and my GF (aka Directrice Sportive or DS) had prepared a huge array of tapas for us.

I could get used to this…
For the next post… “living and training like a pro… or trying to…”