Monthly Archives: April 2010

I mentioned a few nights ago that I’m in the process of developing a creative victory salute for my next win, however improbable that event might be. In lieu of suggestions by you readers, I’ve started doing some research about the art of the victory salute. I make no claim to be an original blogger, so forgive me for joining the rest of the internet a bit late as I dissect Mark Cavendish’s most recent victory salute.

Look, if you’re going to make a vaguely obscene gesture, can’t you at least make it a universal one? Sure, the general thrust (if you will) of his salute makes me uncomfortable, but it required a Velonews article to explain what he’s doing with his fingers. Apparently that’s what it looks like to flip an Italian bird; I guess I’ll stop telling Italians to “peace out.”

Mr. Cavendish makes me wish that I received more criticism than I presently do. It’s hard for me to develop a really asinine, inappropriate victory salute when I don’t have anyone deserving of a good “two-fingering off.”

In my extensive salute research, I came across someone who decided to double the fun; after all, what’s twice as good as a “two-fingering?” That’s right, a “four-fingering!”

Interestingly, this isn’t a victory celebration at all. In fact, that rider finished fourth, which leads me to believe he’s actually celebrating his finishing position symbolically. I’ve never seen that one before. I’d incorporate it into all of my races, but it’s really difficult to sign-language “121st place.”

Even a four-fingered non-victory salute is better than what Cadel Evans could muster at the finish of Fleche Wallone (go to 9m 07s).

If that’s what it looks like to finally realize your dream of winning a Classic, I can only imagine how unenthused Cadel looked during some of his other lifetime achievements, like his marriage, his dog’s first birthday, or that time he won the Tour de France. Oh! Haha! That’s right…he hasn’t won that one. Oops.

I’ve got to run. “Peace out,” ladies and gentlemen.

[Note: I hope this post doesn't sound too derivative. I wrote the bulk of it yesterday, finished it off this morning, and intended to post it tonight. Since that time, Cyclingnews.com has run a story on victory salutes, and one of my fine readers has bashed Cadel/Fleche in my comments section while simultaneously posting my most recent victory salute (Thanks for that, Mike!). Like I said at the beginning, I'm not an original blogger; apparently I'm not a timely one, either!]

There’s nothing better in the world of cycling than a hard criterium course and good legs. I was hoping for that combination a few weeks ago at the Santa Cruz Criterium, but as I mentioned before, my legs were very, very bad that day.

Haunted by the memories of Santa Cruz, racing Saturday’s Wente Road Race at the crack of dawn seemed like a surefire way to invite The Crow into my life, so I decided to head to the UCSC Pacific Grove Criterium instead. My dad drove the family’s “molester van” down from Chico — a vehicle so fantastic that it deserves a post of its own — and the two of us rolled sleazeball-style to Pacific Grove.

The plan was to arrive at the race venue early enough to watch the end of the Collegiate MA race — which Adam Switters nearly won from a bunch sprint, to the dismay of skinny climbers all over the world — followed by a good old-fashioned father-son bike ride around Seventeen Mile Drive.

Though I may appear constipated, that look is actually the gaze of a man who has just found his legs after misplacing them for over a week. Careful followers of my blog will notice that my dad’s vest has changed color from Fred Yellow to white, concordant with his steadily improving fashion sense.

After we finished the gorgeous ride, it was time for a little lunch; sadly, I forgot to bring a stirring and spreading utensil for the peanut butter, so we were forced to improvise in the manliest way possible.

I should note that we’re very hygienic manly-men. As you might expect from two chemists presented with an obstacle, science prevailed over the disgustingly greasy screwdriver. I used some water from by bottles to perform a quick aqueous rinse of the shaft, followed by an organic wash with the light oil resting at the top of the freshly-opened peanut butter jar.

Before I go any further, I have to thank the UCSC cycling team for putting on such an awesome race. I know many of them were awake at 3am in order to set up the event, and the P/1/2 race didn’t end until nearly 6pm. Thanks to their hard work, I was able to race a technical criterium instead of a hilly road race!

After warming up my lungs by screaming obscenities at my teammate Joel during the Masters race, I was amped up for my race. So amped, in fact, that I attacked on the very first lap and threw every bit of power I had into the effort. I’ve never said this before, and I’ll probably never say it again, but I wish I had an SRM on my bike during Saturday’s race so I could see what “I’m going completely ballistic” looks like in numerical form.

Anyway, Eric Bennett (Adageo) and John Bennett (Cal Giant) bridged up to me after about five laps, and the three of us made quick work of lapping the field. Both my breakaway companions were really nice guys, and they also rode like badasses; I don’t think they’re related, but they might as well have been the Schleck brothers.

As we approached the back end of the diminutive peloton, the three of us agreed to roll around with the field until the last lap, then drop off and contest a three-up sprint.

After five minutes in the pack, we collectively realized that we were bored as hell with 35 minutes of racing remaining. Adding to the sense of urgency was the fact that several of my friends on the sidelines began screaming, “MAKE THIS THING INTERESTING, WOULD YOU?”

Fine, we will.

The three of us attacked again, and eventually John and I lapped the field a second time while Eric — who had finished sixth in the Wente Road Race earlier that morning — seemed content with third place and 120 miles of racing in his legs.

Like dueling gentlemen from a bygone era, John and I chose to drag-race up the front-stretch hill, and I was fortunate enough to grab the victory from my worthy opponent. As seems to be the case with most of my wins, no one captured a shot of the victory salute; it’s probably for the best, because I still don’t have a creative gesture. Any of you readers have a good idea?

Up to this point, it had been a pretty damn good day: road trip with Dad, awesome ride with Dad, double-lapping of the field, and a victory. Could it get better?

Yeah. Remember how I said I’m a closet auto racing enthusiast? Look what was waiting for us at a random Shell station north of Monterey.

Like any good country bumpkin, I waltzed straight up to the guy wearing the logo-emblazoned jumpsuit (no, it wasn’t Kevin Harvick) and asked,”Hey, I don’t suppose you’re gonna start this baby up, are you?” If you must know, my voice subconsciously switched to a Southern drawl as I asked that question. I lived in Arkansas for a year, just long enough to pick up a genuine-sounding accent that tends to surface when I’m in the presence of stock cars (or camouflaged clothing of any kind).

“Well, you’re in luck son,” he replied. “We’re just about to drive this thing into the trailer and head out.”

There’s no better end to a Saturday than the smell of racing fuel and the sound — nay, the feel — of a 700 hp engine.

P.S. Just before my race began, I was provided with a single Ritz cracker by Evan’s girlfriend. If any Ritz employees are reading…that’s two-for-two with the Ritz cracker superstition. I’m always accepting sponsorship deals.

Saturday was a good day for me cyclistically, but I’d prefer to do it justice with a well-written post. Having spent the last few hours reading a draft of a paper for a friend, I’m fresh out of motivation to think. Instead of trying to write, I’ll just show you a few photographs of Sunday’s race and head to bed.

About an hour before the start of Sunday’s Wente Vineyards Criterium, I was engaged in a bit of food-swapping with fellow “breakaway artist” Phil Mooney. Phil provided me with a random “Muscle Milk” protein bar — which I’m most definitely not going to eat for fear of testing positive for bovine growth hormones — and some Clif Kids products; in exchange, I provided Phil with a shiny, foil-shrouded duo of Frostingless Strawberry Pop Tarts. It felt a lot like lunchtime back in elementary school, where string cheese and Handi Snacks were the preferred currency (though the high rollers often dealt in Lunchables).

In the meantime, some other guy walked up with a tray of cookies and offered them to both of us. I’m not sure who he was, or why he was offering us cookies, but I have to assume he noticed us bartering our processed foodstuffs and saw it as a golden opportunity to fatten up the competition. I accepted a gigantic chocolate-chocolate chip cookie with childish delight.

Phil, always mindful of his surroundings, snapped a candid photograph of me stuffing my face while I ran through the shifting on my bike. I wish I could say that this was a drastic departure from my typical pre-race routine, but I’d be lying if I did. I received the photograph via text message this afternoon.

Next, we got to watch the W/1/2/3 race, which was marred by numerous race-halting crashes. Normally, I’d be bummed out by all of the crashing, but the extra minutes of neutralized racing provided Creepy Parnes and I with even more opportunities to scream inappropriate (or completely irrelevant) comments at the ladies as they rolled around.

As I sat on the start line, awaiting the removal of human remains from the backside of the course, I managed to obtain the fabled, pink, badass sunnies.

I thought the additional power gained by wearing those things would guide me to victory, but in the end, all of us breakaway artists were foiled by a killer sprint from Sterling Magnell, of the newly rejuvenated McGuire team (and by “newly rejuvenated,” I mean “formed the night before Wente”). After riding next to him several times on Sunday, I’ve decided that my new goal — as the token midget of the P/1/2 field — is to ride my bike directly underneath Sterling’s handlebars. I’m nearly certain it can be done.

Anyway, I’ve come to the conclusion that riders like me are referred to as breakaway “artists,” not because riding breakaways is an art, but because our inability to sprint means that we will inevitably end up living the artist’s lifestyle: starving and penniless, subsisting on generous cookie donations from strangers.

I’d like to introduce you to my good friend Bjarne Riis.

Bjarne* met me in my office for lunch this afternoon, where we discussed what it means to be a highly-trained athlete and how important it is to obey the stringent dietary requirements necessary to perform at the highest level.

Anyway, a few minutes after Bjarne disappeared from the office, my coworker Nathan walked in wearing an awesome T-shirt that I felt compelled to share.

Heh heh heh…Bad Mitten. Heh. I giggled for about ten minutes after I saw that.

In case you’re wondering why I’m blogging about lunch and T-shirts, it’s because my day consisted of futzing around with an expensive piece of equipment that has been broken since our lab purchased it. I’ve been working to fix the damn thing for months, and it looks like it finally might be functional.

It’s somewhat disturbing that a trace like that** can make a poor, oppressed graduate student so happy.

*Stupid jokes about danishes aside, I can’t quite figure out why I’m washing down a heart-stoppingly delicious pastry with a diet beverage. I think I have a problem. Is there a support group for aspartame addiction?

**For any of you LC jockeys out there: I know the peak is tailing a lot, but I’m injecting from a significant percentage of DMSO. Don’t judge my chromatogram.

I’ve been sucking at the blog-writing lately, but I’ll explain why later. For now, let’s move on to this evening’s activities: go-kart racing.

I’ll start by saying that I’m a closet auto racing enthusiast. I don’t typically broadcast my love for motorsport, but I’m not exaggerating when I say that I follow more than three different racing series very closely in my spare time (IE, when not reading scientific literature or cyclingnews.com). For example, I spent Monday evening in my laboratory, processing data with half of my brain while watching the Chinese GP F1 race with the other.

Therefore, as soon as someone suggested go-kart racing as a weeknight diversion, I instantly agreed. There’s a high-quality go-kart facility down in Burlingame, equidistant from San Francisco (where I live) and Mountain View (where the other go-karters live), so it was a convenient adventure for all interested parties.

Billy — my bike racing teammate, and former full-time go-kart racer — decided to up the ante, and began challenging all comers; rather, he challenged me specifically.

“If I lap you, Rand, you have to make me dinner for a week!” he said enthusiastically.

My competitive instinct betrayed me.

“Dude, you can’t lap me. You’re on,” I replied.

My phone sucks. It sucks so badly, you can’t read text in the photographs it takes with its 1/3 megapixel “camera”. Drink about six beers, and I bet that photograph above will come into focus. Anyway, the scoring sheet “shown above” says the following.

Pos. Racer              #Laps

1. Billy Crane          28

2. Randall J             27

Quick arithmetics refresher: what’s 27 – 28? That’s right! – 1!

Yeah, I got lapped by Billy, and no, I’m not happy about it. It’s not that I’m competitive, it’s just…oh wait, that’s exactly the problem. Never mind.

Billy has already requested burgers, steak and salmon. This go-kart racing thing is going to become an expensive hobby.

P.S. I might explain the “Randall J” thing later, as well.

They say, “All’s well that ends well,” and it’s a quaint saying for sure. Well, here’s how my day ended.

Beer, guitar, balcony, sunset, and a sick view. It looks like a good end to a day, right? Is the world really “all well,” though?

I just don’t know.

I got dropped from the Santa Cruz crit within five laps today. From the moment I started pedaling my bike this morning, I knew my legs were bad, but nothing could prepare me for the embarrassment I endured this fine Sunday afternoon. I make fun of myself for finishing 2nd or 5th, but that’s mostly in self-deprecatory jest; however, today I made it five laps. That’s about 1/10th of the scheduled race distance. What a b&%ch! I have no idea what happened.

I hope it never happens again, though, because if sucking that hard becomes a habit, I’m gonna disappear quicker than the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup sitting in front of me as we speak.

I will say, watching Bissell run away with 1st-4th places was impressive and humbling — particularly because I was sitting on the effing sidelines — and it highlighted the difference between Pro and “pro/1/2,” a distinction many of the people we race with seem to forget.

In order to make myself feel better about today’s failure, I’m posting my AV-required “race report” from last weekend’s Menlo Park Grand Prix to my Race Reports page, soon to be followed by another from Saturday’s Apple Pie Crit. See y’all on the Valley Ride…because it looks like I need some training this week.

I’ve had a busy week, and haven’t had much time to blog, but I have had time to surf the internet looking for pretty pictures of bike racing.

Now, I don’t know Paul Doran — though I’m pretty sure I have seen him at races — but he is one of my favorite race photographers in the district.

In particular, I love the way he captures the really close up photographs of riders’ faces. He consistently manages to find the best parts of bike racing with his telephoto lens: the smiles on the start line, the pain mid-race, and the joy of victory. Graham Watson ain’t got nothing on this guy.

Here’s a quick bit of narcissism, courtesy of Paul Doran. It’s one of the best pictures of me ever taken, and one of the cutest teammate photographs as well.

This is exactly how I remember bike racing as soon as it’s over. When I cross the finish line, the pain, the suffering, the competition and the sacrifices tend to disappear. What keeps me going in this sport is laughing, cracking jokes, and generally making an ass of myself on the start line. I love the people I’ve met through the sport — the dorks, the badasses, the fast guys, the lifetime Cat 2s, the up-and-coming u23s — and I look forward to the post-race beers and pre-race laughs almost as much as I look forward to the crushing of souls mid-race. Almost.

What I like most about this photograph, however, is my teammate in the background and his full-on guffaw; that dude’s trippin’ out. I don’t remember what we were laughing about (and I have no idea why we’re playing with our arm-warmers in synchronized fashion), but the fact that we’re about to go ape-shit off the start line of a 90 minute criterium and still can’t stop giggling makes me smile.

Anyway, in all seriousness…check out this guy’s photos. I know nothing about photography, but I do know that this is what real bike racing looks (and feels) like to me.

(All images from Paul Doran’s Flickr page)

In case you’re wondering why he gets better photographs than the rest of us do with our camera phones…I’ll bet the five-foot-long lens that Paul was using on Saturday (draped in protective coverings to ward off the sporadic rain) doesn’t hurt. Pretty hardcore!

I’m giving a talk later this week, but it’s a struggle to remain focused on my PowerPoint slides for the whole day. I’m taking a quick break to put some finishing touches on this post and upload it before the weekend’s racing becomes stale news.

As I slung my Felt over my shoulder and headed down the stairs of my apartment, my heavily-accented, French roommate said, “Eh, Rand, it is le raining outside too hard for le bicycle. You’re crazy!” You see, my roommate Eric (pronounced ah-wEEk) is a strange Frenchman, because he thinks bike racing is stupid, says that I look like a girl in my “silly tight bike pants,” and has never watched the Tour even though it used to pass through his childhood town.

Nevertheless, Eric was correct (about the weather, not my tight bike pants): it was far too rainy, windy and cold for a bike race on Sunday.

In spite of the monsoon blasting the Peninsula, I loaded my car and headed down to Menlo Park, hoping for redemption from the previous day’s embarrassment.

(Adapted from Myi2u’s Flickr page.)

The scene at the race venue was pretty ridiculous: the high-pitched voice of Mike Hernandez on the microphone permeated the premises while hundreds of bike racers huddled under tents, in vehicles, and in blankets.

(Shamelessly jacked from Yukie Nakamura’s Facebook.)

(This is Joel Robertson and JD Bergmann, by the way, doing their best to look like happy hobos.)

The rain steadily increased as the crash-marred, Shelley Evans-dominated W/1/2/3 race came to an end, and by the time the Chris Hipp Memorial Lap commenced just prior to the P/1/2 event, standing water was covering much of the course.

(Shamelessly jacked from Yukie Nakamura’s Facebook.)

The Velo Girls had wisely chosen to flip-flop the course relative to last year’s arrangement, eliminating the crash-prone, 1 km-long finishing straightaway that caused problems in the P/1/2/3 race last year. This time the chicane was located on the front straight, roughly 300m from the line, a much safer setup for bunch sprinting.

Ha! Bunch sprinting? Right. There was almost no chance of a bunch sprint on Sunday, making the improved course a moot point.

With slick, rain soaked corners, low temperatures and a hint of wind on the exposed straightaways, a breakaway was imminent. As far as I was concerned, it was a matter of when, not if, and the other players in the race seemed to agree. Reaney, Olmos, Gerlach*, Samaan, Bergmann, Robertson and others all tried to get away. Halfway thorough the race, I became a bit worried, as it seemed like everyone was so eager to get off the front that the racing became negative. No one could get more than a five-second gap before they were dragged back by other breakaway riders who had missed the move. In spite of the shenanigans, it was obvious that Steve Reaney (Cal Giant) intended to finish off the front — with or without companions — and that he had the fitness to do so.

With twenty minutes to go in the race and the rain coming down harder than ever, Hernandez began announcing primes like a crack-crazed chimpanzee; this resulted in a slight increase in the overall race speed followed by significant lulls after each sprint. It was a perfect time for a move to go off the front and stay there.

I attacked on the back straight and gave it full gas. A quick glance behind me revealed exactly what I had hoped for: Steve Reaney in hot pursuit and a gap to the field. Reaney took no time getting to my wheel, then came by me effortlessly and put in a monster pull.

For the next fifteen minutes, I did what I could to help drive the pace, but spent most of the time trying to hold on for dear life to Steve’s resonating Zipp 808. My frozen fingers made shifting and braking difficult, but thankfully neither motion was required due to our consistent speed and the wide-open corners.

I should take a moment to thank the many volunteers who worked this race; sure, racing in the rain is miserable, but it’s nowhere near as miserable as marshaling in the rain. I recall rounding a corner with ten minutes remaining when it occured to me that, while I was kind of having fun and feeling relatively warm, the poor marshal on the side of the road was doing neither. Thanks to all of you rain-jacketed, flag-waving folks who kept our race safe!

By the time the one-lap-to-go card was shown, our two-man break had about 45 seconds on the field and Reaney had my soul in his possession. I latched onto his wheel through the chicane, waiting for the almost imperceptible signs that he was about to start his sprint. When he finally stood up with 150 meters to the line, it was as if he had Fabian Cancellara tucked into his bottom bracket and I was riding junior gears.

(adapted from Yukie’s photograph.)

Now, I was pretty bummed about getting fifth out of a five-man break on Saturday, but that’s because I could have done better with some different tactical decisions. On the other hand, I was satisfied with 2nd on Sunday because I never had a chance of winning. Steve was stronger than anyone else out there by far. I’m absolutely certain Steve could have won Dana Point solo if he’d been there (provided he could dodge the swerving UHC riders and flying sunglasses). In addition, Dylan Clark (team?) should be lauded for winning the field sprint for third…he looked to be the strongest sprinter out there, and was my pick to win if the field came to the line together.

Fifth place and second place on the weekend isn’t terrible, but losing still sucks. I really have to stop doing that.

*It was great to see Gerlach back out on the road. He didn’t quite have the same punch as he did three weeks ago, but that’s to be expected after several broken bones, and it’s only a matter of time before he’s making us all wish we were faster again.

I raced the Hippstar Menlo Park Grand Prix this afternoon, as I’m sure many of you did. This race was epic, and deserves an entire post; however, I just spent the past two hours bullshitting with my friend/teammate Justin, and I’m fresh out of asshattery. I’ll share the details of today’s epicness in the near future.

That said, I wanted to share a brief snippet of my afternoon with you before I retire for the evening. In particular, I wanted to show you one of my prime prizes from today’s race.

Typically, I love it when I win tires for primes, because I’m a poor-ass graduate student who rides a set of tires until you can see threads all the way around the circumference. However, today I won a pair of Maxxis “Detonator” tires.

In case you missed…let’s say…5th grade, here’s the Merriam-Webster Dictionary definition of the word “detonate.”

Good call, Maxxis. Who doesn’t want their tire “to explode with sudden violence?”

Storytime: I was watching the final stage of the Tour de Nez back in 2006, and saw Karl Menzies (of the Health Net p/b Maxxis Tires team) “detonate” his Maxxis tire in the final corner, sending he and Alex Candelario (Jelly Belly) flying into the barriers.

Yeah…Karl got up and threw his bicycle into a tree, then stormed off across a grassy field, DNFing the race and losing the Omnium lead in the process. Whoever named my new set of tires “The Detonator” was likely not watching that race.

Will I still put these tires on my bicycle? Hell yeah. Grad school is not for the faint of heart.

Ha. Climber’s physique my ass.

I’m a sucker for any good criterium, but I’ve always had a particularly soft spot in my heart for the old Corporate Criterium course in Santa Rosa. Vaguely L-shaped with sweeping corners, the course screams bunch sprint, but I’ve found it fairly conducive to breakaways nevertheless.

I had mixed feelings about today’s Apple Pie Crit — which was held on the aforementioned course — not because of the threatening rain, but because of the format: my scheduled race was a 90-minute-long, P/1/2/3 affair. Now, I was psyched for the 90-minute timeslot, as “real” criteriums of this length are becoming a scarcity in the district; it’s my firm belief that all P/1/2 criteriums should be 90 minutes long. However, it’s also my belief that P/1/2/3 races* are more dangerous** than necessary, and I wish promoters would stop running them as frequently as they do.

Before I discuss the race proper, I have a few grainy photographs of note. First, a Michael Hernandez spotting is in order.

I know, I know…you can’t see anything in that picture, but I can tell you that the black dot in the very center of the page is Mike, crouched in the hole between two haybales, uber-paparazzi style. What a creeper. Best of all, Hernandez entered the P/1/2/3 race, marking his return to racing instead of just yammering about bikes.

Next up, Aussie wonderboy Jono Coulter — who happens to run the biz at Fly V Australia, and is the source of my badass Fly V socks — showed off his classically styled euro mullet, meticulously executed with speed-lines buzzed into the sideburns.

There are about twelve people in the world who can pull off a look like that. Jono’s one of them.

OK. Bike racing time. This will be quick and self-deprecating, while the full-length (and equally self-deprecating) report will appear on the Race Reports Page in a day or two.

As is often the case in 90 minute criteriums, the real bike racing didn’t start until around minute thirty. The team traded off attacks and counterattacks, and everyone did a good job staying out of trouble in the sketchy field…nice job Billy, Justin, Joel and Rob. With 45 minutes remaining, I snuck into a five-man breakaway consisting of Kevin Klein (Yahoo?), Brian Bosch (Yahoo?), Jared Barrilleaux (Cal Giant), and Tim Farnham (Adageo). We rolled it pretty well, and everyone took strong pulls, affording a thirty second gap. I felt great, and my sprint hasn’t been awful lately, so I was optimistic.

Did I blow it? Yeah. What else is new.

Bosch, who had appeared to be fading throughout the day, attacked with one lap to go. While Barrilleaux and Farnham looked at each other, I tried to jump across to Bosch, who had earned himself a disturbingly large gap. I was reeled in on the second-to-last straightaway and was handily crushed in the four-man drag race for second place.

Fifth of five. Nice.

It was a good ride by Yahoo? to take the win. The rest of us just got beat, straight up. Better luck next time, I hope.

*We have categories and upgrade requirements for a reason. To avoid a massive uproar, I’ll leave it at that.

**To be fair, it sounds like at least one of the crashes in our race today was the fault of Cat 1/2 riders, so maybe this statement is partially unmerited.