Monthly Archives: November 2010

I’ve grown accustomed to being the center of attention, a function of my overbearing personality, outlandish sunglasses and high-visibility style of criterium racing.

Admittedly, I’m more of a spandex-wearing Dennis Rodman than an equivalently tightly-fitted Michael Jordan; regardless, the bottom line is that I’m used to entering reasonably high-level races with a reasonable probability of placing well and an even higher probability of making myself noticed regardless of my finishing speed. It’s a role I have cherished.

You’ll likely be stoked to hear that my foray into the world of cyclocross racing has forced me to reassess my ego.

Thanks to the overwhelming generosity of the famous Yukie Nakamura and her husband Mark — who lent me a ‘cross bike — I’ve had the joy of racing the past two Bay Area Superprestige ‘cross races, the first at Sierra Point just south of San Francisco and the second in the heart of Golden Gate Park, approximately four miles from my house.

I had intended to slip quietly into the ‘cross scene by racing in the B category event at Sierra Point; however, top NCNCA ‘crosser Krishna Dole commented on my “please come heckle me” post, successfully goading me into racing the A category event. When summoned by Krishna himself, you don’t back down. I’m pretty sure he could kick my ass with his red beard alone.

In my first-ever ‘cross race, I finished 41st; in my second, I finished 37th. In both, I’ve been utterly unremarkable…pack fodder, at best.

I’m a nobody. As if my finishing places weren’t clear proof enough, allow me to clarify further.

After the Sierra Point race, as I was valiantly holding back a barrage of projectile vomit, Krishna introduced himself to me by saying, “Hey, you’re Rand right? I’m Krishna. I’m a mid-pack Cat 4 on the road.” It was an outwardly kind and deferential statement, but I believe what he meant was the ‘cross equivalent of the timeless trash-television line “Welcome to the O.C., bitch!”

This past weekend, Josh Snead — one of the hippest pseudo-roadies I know, and easily one of my favorite crit punching bags — was far less veiled with his taunts.

“Rand,” he said, looking directly into my eyes after he finished fourth in Golden Gate Park, “you’re never gonna beat me at ‘cross. I just got off a plane three hours ago and I haven’t ridden all week.”

He’s probably right.

In spite of how badly I suck at ‘cross racing, there are two reasons why I’ve been searching for cheap ‘cross frames on Craigslist:

1. The heckling by fans at ‘cross races has been spectacularly awesome.
2. I beat roadies Tyler “Fatty” Dibble, Nate “Finesse” English, and Phil “Hey Everyone Look At Me I Got a Pro Contract With a Team No One Has Heard About” Mooney in Golden Gate Park. Success is all relative.

Let’s discuss point number one a bit further. As many of you know, I’m a heckling connoisseur and advocate, to the point of being inappropriate at road cycling events. For example, I’ve received scornful looks from the easily-scorned Jess Raphael for screaming “EAT THEIR BABIES!” and “KICK THEM IN THE OVARIES” at my favorite female bike racers during criteriums. Apparently that kind of wailing is inappropriate in the road cycling context.

However, ‘cross races are gold mines for uncensored heckling. People love yelling cruel comments in the faces of ‘cross competitors. I have it on good authority that semi-mild-mannered, almost-famous James Mattis (Cal Giant) spent the entire evening at Sierra Point thinking of biting, scathing, hurtful things to scream at me…and that he became noticeably depressed when he ran out before the race ended.

This photograph succinctly summarizes my experience in ‘cross.

Notice how badly I appear to be suffering, and how violently the heckler in the background is lambasting me. The best part is that I’m pretty sure I don’t even know that person.

Here’s another one, this time of my (former) teammate Matt Beebe smiling like a giddy schoolgirl following his spirited but uncreative yell, “You Suck, Rand!”

God, I love ‘cross. I love it.

I’m hoping to be racing this weekend’s BASP finale at Coyote Point in San Mateo at 1pm; you should come tell me how badly I suck so that Josh Snead doesn’t have to.

Seriously.

I rode my bicycle up Mount San Bruno today — rather quickly, I might self-congratulatorily add — and I think I deserve a gold star…or a strangely patriotic sticker.

As I was riding, I began introspecting.

You see, I visited my childhood home of Chico, CA a couple of weeks ago and I was struck by how far from my roots I’ve strayed.

I grew up in a small, central valley farming town which has achieved national acclaim for both its party-centric state college and for the Sierra Nevada Brewery. In spite of its fame, Chico is still a middle-of-nowhere town with some damn-near perfect cycling roads.

The roads depicted above shaped me into who I am as a cyclist. My formative years as a junior were spent tirelessly suffering over the rough, chip-sealed pavement in the hills and flats outside Chico, pleasantly devoid of hipster-bearing fixies and jackass tourist drivers. I distinctly remember what it felt like to leave my driveway and not have to take my hands off the tops of my bars for the subsequent five hours.

Now I find myself wandering through San Francisco, seeking out short stretches of uninterrupted road where I can almost feel like I’m “training.”

Dodging traffic has become second nature; I hardly notice it anymore. I’m lucky if I fit five hours of riding into an entire week, much less a day, and my hands rarely stray from my hoods lest an errant jackass tourist swerve his rental car into the bike lane in order to get a picture of AT&T Park or the Golden Gate Bridge.

Am I happy with my life? Absolutely. I spend the bulk of my day at one of the top biomedical research campuses in the world, located in one of the nation’s most vibrant cities. I ride my bike frequently, and when I do I find myself constantly in awe of how good San Francisco cycling can be once you accept your role as an urban cyclist.

Frankly, swerving between cars at rush hour has probably made me a better crit racer, and the sheer volume of bike races promoted in the Bay Area has allowed me to become a prolific racer.

Still…there are days I miss the quietude of the country roads outside Chico.

My 2010 road season was cut short by a vicious case of Epstein-Barr virus (yes, also known as mono, the disease you get by kissing high school girls — but I maintain innocence).

As a consequence, my angry-koala-bear-like competitive spirit feels unfulfilled and — now that the several-month “fatigue phase” of mono is over — I’ve got a hankering for competition. It’s gotten so bad, I’ve taken to arm wrestling with girls; it’s sad, I know.

No, I won’t tell you whether or not I beat her.

Anyway, my muddled point is this: I’m going to be racing my first-ever ‘cross race tomorrow evening in order to calm my Fraga-esque competitive streak. I didn’t intend for tomorrow to be my first, as I actually registered for last weekend’s BASP #2 and showed up at the venue on race day; however, a string of bad bike-borrowing luck last forced me to postpone my inaugural ‘cross race until tomorrow night.

This time, I’ve procured a bicycle from the eerily Rand-sized Yukie Nakamura and all systems are go. Thanks Yukie (and Mark)!

Why am I posting this on my blog?

Well…I’m posting this because I know there is a large subset of the cycling community that would love nothing more than to watch me flailing about, tripping over barriers, smashing my testicles on my top tube, and washing out in corners. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your chance.

The Sierra Point BASP race is held in a perfect location, conveniently close to the entirety of the Bay Area, and I’ll be racing at 5:00pm sharp (unless enough of you can convince me to embarrass myself further in the As race later in the evening).

Come watch me, heckle me, tackle me off my bicycle, throw sharp objects at me, or feed me beer. I’d appreciate all of the above.

As I mentioned a few months ago, Vladimir Karpets — curator of the peloton’s finest mullet collection since the 1980s — attempted to kill the iconic hairstyle earlier this year when he unceremoniously lopped off his locks mid-Tour.

An unapologetic style whore, I couldn’t resist Karpets’ fashion statement, which I dubbed the “Demullet,” and similarly shortened my hairstyle.

Well, I have to say, my mullet is back with a vengeance and I like it.

Now, you’re probably wondering why I have such a fetish with mullets; in fact, I bet most of you think this is some kind of hipster-wannabe fad. A “phase,” you might say.

Nope.

I went home to Chico last weekend, partly because I wanted to see my parents, but mostly because I wanted to find that very photograph.

- Truly rockin’ mullet? Check.

- Sick, oversized, mother-selected rainbow shirt? Check. [Note: it has not escaped me that this shirt portends my involvement in a sport in which rainbow stripes are the highest honor. Well, they were until Cadel Evans won the World Championships, at least.]

- Sweatshirt faux-casually draped about the waist, but with meticulous arrangement? Check.

- Majestic backdrop? Check.

It appears that my 1980s checklist is complete. That image is most certainly going to be the centerpiece of my 2011 trading card.

Anyway, while I was home, I also happened across a few more photographs which soundly demonstrate that I’ve always been this way.

First, another from the mullet set, this time posing in the most attention-whorish fashion I could muster at the time.

The photograph above clearly illustrates the power of my younger self’s mullet, and it merits a brief scientific diversion.

Let’s first define mullet power (P_M) as follows.

P_M = [(L_b / L_f) x S_p] + c

Obviously, the value of (L_b / L_f), where L_b is defined as the length of hair in back and L_f is defined as the length of hair in front, is a rough surrogate for mullet “epicness.” Visually, a high epicness quotient is illustrated by Billy Ray Cyrus, while Lionel Messi exhibits a far more manageable EQ.

However, “epicness” is not the only defining feature of the mullet. Though nebulous — and the subject of vigorous debate in the greater mullet-science community — the value of S_p, the Style of Pose, contributes significantly to mullet power. As always, a correction factor c is included in order to allow mullet-scientists to fudge data as they see fit.

That said, I think it’s clear that my childhood mullet retains impressive values of P_M over a broad range of c values. My present semi-mullet is proud and humbled by its heritage.

I should also mention that my mullet fetish is not the only lasting feature of my personality. In addition, it appears I’ve always been interested in cycling.

Note that my feet and rear wheel are moving in the photograph above, while my velocity is equal to zero. It seems my cruel mother set up a rudimentary wind trainer by propping up the training wheels of my “Strawberry Shortcake” bike on a ledge, a decision that I’m now blaming for my disdain of training in general; it also explains my hatred of denim jackets.

Finally, in case you think my overinflated, smug sense of style is new, think again.

I still give myself that same look in every storefront window reflection I pass on my rides. In San Francisco, I pass a lot of storefronts.

Naturally, I’m joking. I’m really insecure as hell in the real world, but it seems my five-year-old self wasn’t. I wish I could learn a thing or two from that kid.