I apologize for that last posting, what a mess. This Flashblog is worn out, its gears are worn, the chain is stretched, tires bald, the brakes burned up, and it won’t shift. You see, it’s based on a very old version of Wordpress, and my latest blogs have just blown apart in terms of formatting, and I’ve decided to move on to a new modern platform. So I’ve created a new Flashblog site: (drumroll please….)
Thanks for checking it out and see you over there!
Flash
Welcome back to Flashblog! Geez, has it been 6 months since my last entry? I know some of you have given up checking in here for an update, and I don’t blame you, but really, I have some top notch excuses. I do. Buy me a coffee sometime and I’ll tell you all about it.Friday afternoon: John “Boilerplate” Boyle
John is a guy I work with at the Census. He is one of us few dedicated bike commuters, and rides his Electra Townie rain or shine. This is a custom built up bike, all black with a spring loaded Steamer saddle, fenders, high rise “ape hanger” handlebars, big black wire mesh basket over the front wheel, trailer hitch, sound system, a bell and an electric horn, lights, LED pedals, and all manner of reflectors. Even a stuffed action figure hanging off the basket. John uses a limited edition skateboard helmet with a Kaiser spike on top. With his ass-back riding position he really looks like he is pedaling a chopper. But I’ll tell you what—this dude can build up a head of steam on this rig, and when he does, like on Friday, it made me question my whole cycling reality. Read the rest of this entry »
Captain’s Log, January 2nd, 2010, Pinehurst Drive, solo ride. I passed the Canyon post office, then the school, then started on that straight section out of town and something colorful caught my eye, on the side of the road next to a redwood tree. I turned my head to see bouquets of flowers, cards, a Raider’s cap on a fence post. I knew what this meant, what it always means, and it’s never good: someone had died here, and it looked very recent.
But I’m getting ahead of myself, let me start at the beginning. Actually, I should backtrack a bit and start my story around the second half of December of 2009. This is the seminal point where my holiday merrymaking got up a full head of steam and I bounced from event to event, party to party, eating and drinking well, all the while getting in solid bike rides in between. I was sated, I am still sated, and being sated is not conducive to getting up early when it is cold and riding my bike. Thus I have been sleeping deeply and riding at a later hour, which puts me out there solo sometimes. Solo riding leads to interesting situations. Situations such as today, when I was riding through Canyon and discovered the spot where Christopher Martin died, just a few days ago. Read the rest of this entry »
On a recent weekday things were really getting me down. I felt anxious and restless, weighted down, a sense of depressing existential angst swirled around me like a pervasive ground fog, but, hey, that’s me some days. I looked out the window at a beautiful sunny day. It dawned on me that I could be out riding. But I didn’t really feel like it, an unfortunate condition of the condition I was in. However, standing there looking above my neighbor’s roof where I can just see a tiny piece of the hills, I determined that a ride would be just what the doctor ordered, and set about the familiar ritual of transforming myself from Jim, professional volunteer and mid-life transitioner, to Flash, dauntless solo rider of Montclair and environs. The ride got off to a rough start, a frenzied motorist almost cut me off on the Fruitvale bridge, and then I proceeded to hit every red light between the bridge and International— I had to stop for an Amtrak train as well— which makes it hard to get any rhythm going. Fruitvale north of International got better as I took in the Hispanic atmosphere, and I usually make the light at MacArthur, which I did, but even the 1% grade going towards Foothill was feeling like more work than it should, and I got the nagging thought started that this was not going to be my best day. Some days there is just nothing there, and you know that feeling—the legs are sore or the gas tank is empty, or some virus is making itself known. Somedays I have turned back after only a few miles, just totally laggy and disappointed with the situation. But I cut myself some slack, we all have bad days, even on the bike. It’s best to just bag it until another day. This day was not one of those days. Read the rest of this entry »
“No formula exists for epic. It happens when the right conditions are present and it cannot be manufactured. Mental, physical and emotional stress are all components as is suffering, which in the case of cycling, usually means extended periods of self-inflicted pain. Exposure, distance, duration, elevation, great camaraderie, road surfaces, waning sanity, exhaustion, rapidly fading sunlight, weather, empty pockets and broken chains. And competition both healthy and not so healthy are all likely a part of any epic ride. Epic is essentially the result of a series of intense experiences and hard riding.” From the Rapha Continental website
July 9th, 4pm:
I had just had an excellent descent from Highway 88 at Carson Pass into Hope Valley. The sky was blue with a few white clouds, the vast valley spreading to the base of craggy mountains circling the plain of green with its meandering river. As I dropped into Woodford Canyon I saw our old summer campspot at Showshoe Springs, now closed to camping. To the left I saw the trailhead to Horsethief Canyon, we had hiked that one year nearly to the very top of the rocky mountain. I was heady with old memories and instant new ones as I plummeted down the canyon, freewheeling towards Markleeville. When I made the right turn at Woodfords and began climbing, my reverie evaporated and I was suddenly gasping for air, wheezing up this grade, which, at sea level, would be easy. I was at 6000′ and the effect was something of a shock and at that moment of clarity I realized the Death Ride is probably more about overcoming the thin air than it is about mileage or climbing. “Ugggh…” I muttered to myself as I pushed the seven miles towards town. Read the rest of this entry »
(Preface: as I chose the longer 200K route this year, I did not get to ride with any of the Team Alameda contingent, I only saw them very briefly at the start, so this story is only about my saga of confronting my personal challenges presented this day by Mother Nature)
Mile 103: Chalk Hill
I must have been a sight: a dark rider in shades of black and blue with a hoodie flapping in the breeze, green vinyl rainpants hanging off the right strap of my Camelback, a found “dickie” bib hanging off the left, filthy white bike, soaking wet, head down, grinding up Chalk hill in a heavy drizzle. I was in the twilight zone, not really aware it was already 5pm or that I had been out in the rain for 10 hours, I was narrowly focused on just another stretch of road winding up ahead of me and I was the only rider in sight… or so I thought. “I’m not trying to pass you…” said a perky voice on my left. I snapped out of my daze and looked left at the young woman in neon green alongside me. “Oh, by all means pass me.” I said feeling not one bit put out in any regard. She smiled and said that she couldn’t. I told her I really was not feeling strong at this point. Maybe it was just that moment in time, but she looked at me and said perhaps the best thing anyone has ever said to me while I was on a bike: “Well…” she said, ” you look strong!” I think maybe that one comment alone made it all worth it. Read the rest of this entry »
A few weeks ago I dusted off my 1991 Miyata and took it out for a club ride. Club Prez. Johnny H. remarked at a regroup, ” Dude! You are rocking on the Miyata!”. He was dead on, man, I WAS rocking on the Miyata. I was savoring a unique ride unlike any other, forged from the cutting edged technology of 1990 and a minimalistic vibe the complete opposite of todays carbon wonderbikes. How can a ride that old be that good? I can’t really explain, it, but I know it when I feel it.
The veins in my right leg are itching. I had an ongoing case of this as I was training for the Death Ride this year—just weeks and weeks of throbbing, itchy leg veins. I think the leg muscles get so pumped up they push outward on these vessels, and since there is no good place for them to go, they protest mightly with these symptoms. At any rate its a good indicator of how hard the ride was as only the hardest rides make this occur, and it occurred yesterday on our 60 mile, 6000′ climbing expedition. Read the rest of this entry »
(Greetings Flashblog reader. Here for your reading pleasure is one of the fabled lost Flashblogs, written one year ago, recently discovered under the bed, covered in dustbunnys and cat hair. It is especially relevant considering the Mt. Hamilton ride will commence once again in two weeks)
Part 1, The Context
One gray Sunday about two years ago I geared up and rode down to the local Peet’s for a cup of Joe. This was before the idea of the casual Sunday ride had been conceived, and around this period of time in its place existed the Sunday Drop Ride, and the Team Alameda “racer” types could be regularly seen milling about getting jacked up on go-juice before the 8:30 ride.
This particular day only three of us showed up, and I wasn’t even there to go on the drop ride. The other two riders were Keith Beato and John Melder. Keith has since gone on to great accomplishments like completing the unbelievable Paris-Brest-Paris ride, but back at this time he was just getting into the sport so I hardly knew him. John was TA Ride Captain at the time and had a firm reputation as “The Hammer” for his hard charging, no waiting style of riding. I found him as intimidating as he was inscrutable. Read the rest of this entry »
My Death Ride started at 3:30am inside of a very dark tent pitched in a clearing at Grover Hot Springs campground. Or had it? As I lay there in my down bag, the fog slowly lifting from my brain, it occurred to me that this was merely the day of the event. The ride had started many months ago, perhaps even years ago. At what point did I decide to do this? That I could do this? I pondered the point for 15 minutes then dressed and crossed the chilly meadow to the picnic table where I would proceed with priority One: make a strong cup of coffee. Read the rest of this entry »