Everyone’s My favorite XCO racer–Jolanda Neff–has branched out onto the road this season. I’m no huge fan of road racing, but I’m glad to see Jolanda’s “Neffness” branching out onto the paved roads of the European women’s pro peloton.
Posts Tagged → unfunny commentary
The Storm Before the Storm
Monday was more productive than usual for me since I’ve taken on the (volunteer) duties of redoing the website for B-Man’s soccer club and I was soccer balls deep into putting the finishing touches on a locally hosted version of my ideas to present to the board that night. I got a 3 mile treadmill run in, got the temp site done, got it approved at our meeting that night, and now I am up to my fatty pelvis deep in creating the real website. It’s been a lot of work, but I’ll be happy to see the club get a way better site (in my opinion) and do my part to help the club. God knows I have nothing else to offer them other than annual fees and a son who is an awesome player.
If nothing else, the club project is the continued learning/self teaching/self loathing of stuff that I was never taught in a crap two-year art school–’cause Web design classes weren’t around in 1990–and who knows, it might lead to some cash paying/bartering jobs in the future. I’ll post a link when it’s done… if it’s ever done.
Unhappy Jules
Every so often, especially with the cobbled classics coming, I find myself getting sucked into perusing through vintage photos online from the early days of racing. The one you see here is of 29-year-old French cyclist Jules Deloffre at the 1914 Paris-Roubaix.
This one caught my eye for a variety of reasons. For one, Jules looks hella unhappy to have his photo taken. I know that in those days, there wasn’t a lot of smiling and giggling for the camera due to the exposure time, etc., but still, Jules looks as if he is trying to make sure the viewer makes no mistake about his nationality, or the level of asshole that he is. That, or he sensed dead legs and a 76th place finish later that day.
At Least
Saturday morning as I sat around drinking coffee and writing this digital fishwrap I finished my post by saying “time to air up the tires, charge the camera battery, and get out in the sunshine and calm winds while it lasts.” Well, the winds sure seemed calm here in town but when I got onto the open dirt roads north of town, the winds felt anything but calm. A stiff breeze came out of the west and cut right through my jacket and Craft windstopper base layer, keeping my nipples like two diamonds attached two fleshy beanbags full lard for nearly two-hours. Oh well, at least it was sunny.
East of Omaha
During the week as I did several Better Than The Trainer Rides™ I had an eye on Saturday and the hope that it would bring warmer temperatures, dry dirt roads, and some extended miles on said dirt roads. As it turns out the temperatures weren’t going to get warm until late afternoon, and the dirt roads remained muddy messes. On top of that Wifey was going to be back in Pittsburgh for the weekend, which meant that I was solely in charge of the boy until she arrived home Sunday. Since I don’t like to stray too far away from home–in case my mad parenting skills would be need to be called into action–I headed back to the paved roads of the B.T.T.T.R™ yet again.
Seven & Eleven
Despite having legs that felt as heavy has a two sacks of haggis, I got out for a ride on Thursday. Right now, I’m not so concerned with the length of the rides, just trying to get consistent time on the bike. So I headed out for yet another Better Than The Trainer Ride™, but this time ventured off of pavement for a bit and reintroduced some dirt, er I should say mud, to the ride.
Not The Strade Bianche
Every year about this time I find myself posting something about the Strade Bianche road race in Italy’s Tuscany region. A race that has nearly 53 km worth of white dirt and gravel road sectors along its 176 km percorso. Think Paris-Roubaix; in Italy; with dirt sectors instead of cobbles.
In Praise of The Avocado
Pre-blog post note of sadness, guilt, regret and admission to you that the following has shit all to do with cycling, save for a tiny, tiny sliver.
Ma Nature decided welcome in March by puking down upwards of 8 inches of fresh snow and wind all day today. As I type at 7:25 E.C.T. (Easter Chamois Time) it continues to puke down and I have no doubt that B’s school will be is cancelled tomorrow. March; in like a dead, frozen, one-legged fucking lion. With that said, the only riding I did today was another sweaty hour on the trainer in the Stankment™.
Not Going To Do It
I was this close to writing a blog post about how the weather’s got me down and how I feel like a paper white turd. But just as I began to type I realized that every year since the winter of 2006 I have reached a point in the winter that I write some post about how the dark days, slush, ice, cold, and muck of winter have finally beat me down like a $5 hooker with an angry pimp. I guess just in writing those first sentences I have written it again, but I will go no further. Winter has not beat me down, but the lack of riding and physical activity has beat me down and has me looking and feeling like pre weight loss, pre pedo, pre jailed Subway Jared. Or like me circa 1990.
Still No Cure
Let me start by saying that this is NOT a “race report.” Ever fattening forty-four year old guys who haven’t raced in nearly two years shouldn’t write race reports. However, this is my blog, and pretty much my ride journal, so to an extent it is a race report. Just don’t expect much “racing.”
As I mentioned in my last post, I decided to go against the advice of doctors, priests, lawyers, heads of state, relatives, my dog, and public opinion by signing up for my first bike race in over twenty months: The Fat Chance at Crystal Mountain. I thought it made perfect sense to come out of race retirement in the middle of winter and do a fat bike race.
I’ve done a shit ton of XC and endurance mountain bike races, a bunch of gravel races, a few cross races (which I’ve sort of blocked out), and one road race (which, like being touched “down there” by a shirtless ice cream truck man, I pretend never happened). However this would be only my second fat bike race. How bad could it be?
Bad. Not all bad, but at the end it was clear that there is still no cure for stupid.