There's this game I would love to play with my students, if any of them (besides Mari Luz) actually owned unlingual dictionaries. It's called The Delphic Dictionary. You think of something - a problem, an issue - then you close your eyes, flip the dictionary open and point to some word on one of the pages. The task is to then draw a parallel between what's on your mind and what's on the page.
Today's word is pedestrian enough: cotton. A fitting word, really. The sheets are in the washing machine; I'm looking at a cotton hankie given to me by a guy named Craig, who I taught with when I lived in Prague. Cotton is porous, easy to wash, requires ironing and smoothing out to be presentable, is used around the world, is comfortable.
It looks like I'm going to Bilbao by myself. Jesús and AG don't want to ride the Clásica in the rain, and I have no idea whether Luis is going to bail or not. Josu's going to be up there, staying with his family, but I don't really have a lot of contact with Josu any more. No cotton in the rain; it'll have to wait until after the post-ride shower, comfortable clothing for the bus ride back to Madrid on Sunday. I hope I don't have problems taking Ellie on the bus. AG is not particularly chatty today. I don't know if he's mad at me for not riding the Brevet on Saturday or he's ashamed to admit that he's already made up his mind that he's not going to Bilbao, but he hasn't told me. I am porous. I don't care. The Clásica was one of my target rides for this year. I can deal without them - there'll be three thousand other riders.
I have a new riding buddy. His name is Charles and he's a Protestant minister who works as a consultant to various Protestant churches in the Madrid area. He, his wife and kids have been in Madrid for about three years. He's like me in that he knows he wants to get as good as he can get now that he has a bit more leeway to ride; culturally, I'm much closer to him than I am to the Saturday guys. The Saturday guys tease me for what they consider to be a Lutheran way of looking at cycling, but you have to keep in mind that "Lutheran", to them, is the opposite of "Catholic". As in, not like us. I never got through enough of Max Weber to get a grasp on what "the Protestant Work Ethic" was, in Weber's eyes, but I have a sense that a lot of it is you do what it takes to get the job done. Keep your head down and don't complain. If you really want it, you do what you have to do. Can bicycles be seen through the eyes of religion? Because they sure can be seen through the filter of culture.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Why Lance Armstrong Never Ceases to Bug the Bejeezus out of Me, Part II
So: Alberto blows up and bonks in today's Paris-Nice, about ten kilometres from the end. Within hours, Lance is on Twitter, and writes: "Unfortunate day for Alberto. Amazing talent but still a lot to learn."
And all I can think of is....
a) When you failed to place in the Top 10 in the Tour of Australia, was Alberto on Twitter saying that you lost because you were washed up?
b) Had you won all THREE of the Big Three races before YOU reached 26 years of age? No! Because you only ever focused on the Tour.
c) Then SHUT UP.
And all I can think of is....
a) When you failed to place in the Top 10 in the Tour of Australia, was Alberto on Twitter saying that you lost because you were washed up?
b) Had you won all THREE of the Big Three races before YOU reached 26 years of age? No! Because you only ever focused on the Tour.
c) Then SHUT UP.
Boobs
Today was supposed to be the day Pakefte did the Seis Tetas - the Six Breasts ride. I don't know where the name comes from - it's basically 105 kilometres riding up and down the various sides of the Tajuña Valley, east of Madrid, and none of the hills taken in by the ride actually looks like any part of anyone's anatomy.
Antonio L. bailed early, citing family complications. Buje did the same, but because he actually hasn't been home for an entire weekend in the past month. AO had the typical problems of getting away on a Saturday (though he didn't blame it on his significant other this time...) and yesterday Jesús and AG bailed, by Instant Messaging, at 9:40. Their idea: to take advantage of the good weather to knock off a couple of mountain passes. I didn't need much convincing. If it comes down to the choice between climbing a mountain and having to listen to the creepily symbiotic relationship between Juan and Pilar, who are so busy nailing the Zen-like nature of riding brevets that they tend to forget that there are other people along on the ride who really couldn't give a shit about how involved they are with brevets or each other....gimme a granola bar, and I'll see you at the top.
They say that Morcuera is one of the toughest rides in the entire Madrid region. I know from experience that it's not the toughest, but it's still worthy of respect. A shitload of respect. It's well over seven hundred metres to the top, in over nine kilometres, most of it at more than a 6% grade (ten is more the norm.) The catch? We were not supposed to do that climb first. The plan, as I understood it, was to go up the Puerto de Canencia, which is a lot easier once you get out of town, head down into the Lozoya Valley, and come up Morcuera on the other side. But Antonio's chain developed a nasty habit of busting apart spontaneously; we wasted more than an hour on severeal occasions trying to get his bike in functioning mode. When it began to look like time was running out, the boys took an impromptu vote, decided on climbing Morcuera, then looked over at me and said, "You in?"
I know that they cut me a lot of slack for being a girl, and I'm grateful that I'm not expected to jack up the intensity of any hammerfest that involves climbing. But there are times when I can't tell (culture? language? guy culture in a different language?) when I'm simply being invited, and when I'm being tested to see what I can do. The fact that they invite me along in the first place is a sign of respect (I think.) I don't want to blow it by adopting a girly-girl stance and not being able to hold my own.
The first two and a half kilometres aren't so bad but at Km 12 on the M611, the angle pops up significantly and both my and Jesús's altimeters are registering a grade that bounces between 7% and 13%. This is tough - but I'm not suffering. My heart rate is staying steady at around 140; Jesús has problems bringing his down below 150. It's just l-o-o-o-o-o-o-n-g. It's the kind of long that makes you start thinking of weird-ass songs that you haven't thought of since you were a kid ("Nashville Cats" and Deucette, anyone?)
"Don't push too hard," says Jesús. "It doesn't lighten up until you get past Km. 14." And sure enough, the second of three crap things happens right at Km. 14 - Jesús flats and tells me to go on by myself, that he'll catch up. I continue up, slow, slow, slow, slow, Km 15, Km 16 - on a clear day it must be a hell of a view into the plains but with the snow melting and subliminating the haze gets thicker by the minute. (By the time I get back to the train station at Tres Cantos the Sierra will have all but disappeared.) And at 16, I blow out. Where there was power, there is only shakiness. Where there was consistency, there is jelly. Thank God I have ONE PowerBar left - and eating a PowerBar on a 7% grade is something that people should try. ONCE. That way, you'll learn to take breaks and eat BEFORE you climb. Edu passes me, another older gentleman passes me, some skinny young thing dressed in Caisse d'Épargne blows by me, with a look on his face that is part bemusement and part there-but-for-the-grade-of-God. I'm so tired I don't even bother trying to get a look at him to see if he's anyone recognizable from Caisse or just some blowhard trying to pick up....
...wait a second. Where ARE the chicks??? We passed ONE girl with strawberry hair when we first cleared the town limits. So where are the others?
I finally make it to the top of the climb -- 1,796 metres, the highest I've ever climbed in my life -- and I just want to collapse. The boys applaud, all I want is a cup of coffee and some lube for my chain, and the vote becomes unanimous: let's go back down to Soto, have a break and then decide what we're going to do.
An older man looks at my arm warmers and my jersey and insists that I take his windbreaker: You're going to die of the cold!! I'll be fine, sir. I have an extra layer of insulation over my thorax that most guys can only envy.
One very unfair thing about climbing - it doesn't seem right that it should only take 12 minutes to go down something it just took you an hour to climb. Oh, those 12% grades.
Fired up by the thought of tortilla at the Miratoros (without Antonio whining about the onion), we blast back downhill, but in the process, lose Javi, who hasn't been out on a ride with us since the season-end luncheon last November. I'm blown, he moans as he picks at his tortilla. Jesús has a commitment at 5PM; he's not sure he's going to go all the way. Cerro de San Pedro? asks Edu. Okay, fair enough, I say. I doubt sincerely that I'll be able to do better than the 23.31 that I did on Valentine's Day, but I want to feel like I've knocked one bastard off today.
Third thing to go wrong: a piece of glass embedded in my rear wheel sinks the inner tube and Edu, Jesús and I spend ten minutes fixing the flat on the side of the road. After mucking about and some creative language lessons on my behalf, Edu and I set off; Jesús decides to take the bike lane back to Tres Cantos so as not to get too far behind in the day. I try not to let on that I'm disappointed that he's not coming. Up the hill. Roundabout. Down the hill. Guadalix. Same wrong right turn that takes us out past the chocolate shop that I want to try some time before it ends up closing in the recession. Regional road. Town limit sign. Hit the lap marker on the Polar. There's a bit of a breeze catching us in the face. Lots of traffic streaming into town. I try passing Edu, who's suffering on the uphills, but as soon as I do, he gives me ten seconds before passing me again. This is holding me back. And when I hit my groove I do not like to be held back.
Finally, as we're getting to the top, I think, enough of being a boob for one day. I may have gotten my butt kicked up Morcuera, but I can handle myself on this one. I pass Edu. I'll see you at the top by the maintenance hut. And I lay it on. I make it hurt. It's only a kilometre, it's certainly NOT the only time I will have to kick my own ass on this hill, and I am determined to show that I can do it. I make myself hurt, I think I make Edu hurt, too, since he feels like he's got to keep up...but damn, I have to make this day worthwhile and have at least one fist-pumping moment.
I think about Alberto suffering in the Paris-Nice yesterday, burying Toni Colom and Frank Schleck. I think about what it's going to mean, all those hills included in Quebrantahuesos and the Perico and whatever else I get myself into, and I think of what Greg LeMond said: It doesn't get any easier...just less scary. And I bare my teeth, in pure Contador style, and I give it all I've got.
I drop Edu by a minute and a half.
"You ARE getting stronger," he mutters as we get to Tres Cantos. "If you keep this up you're going to be pretty damn good by the fall." Edu used to do brevets; that's how he met his wife, Paloma, who is bright and funny and a delight to ride with, and who hasn't been out since the end of January. And I think that we need more nice guys like Edu and Javi and Jesús and more boobs and fewer idiots in our Saturday morning group.
Perhaps it's time for a schism or something? Is that a particularly female way of looking at it?
Antonio L. bailed early, citing family complications. Buje did the same, but because he actually hasn't been home for an entire weekend in the past month. AO had the typical problems of getting away on a Saturday (though he didn't blame it on his significant other this time...) and yesterday Jesús and AG bailed, by Instant Messaging, at 9:40. Their idea: to take advantage of the good weather to knock off a couple of mountain passes. I didn't need much convincing. If it comes down to the choice between climbing a mountain and having to listen to the creepily symbiotic relationship between Juan and Pilar, who are so busy nailing the Zen-like nature of riding brevets that they tend to forget that there are other people along on the ride who really couldn't give a shit about how involved they are with brevets or each other....gimme a granola bar, and I'll see you at the top.
They say that Morcuera is one of the toughest rides in the entire Madrid region. I know from experience that it's not the toughest, but it's still worthy of respect. A shitload of respect. It's well over seven hundred metres to the top, in over nine kilometres, most of it at more than a 6% grade (ten is more the norm.) The catch? We were not supposed to do that climb first. The plan, as I understood it, was to go up the Puerto de Canencia, which is a lot easier once you get out of town, head down into the Lozoya Valley, and come up Morcuera on the other side. But Antonio's chain developed a nasty habit of busting apart spontaneously; we wasted more than an hour on severeal occasions trying to get his bike in functioning mode. When it began to look like time was running out, the boys took an impromptu vote, decided on climbing Morcuera, then looked over at me and said, "You in?"
I know that they cut me a lot of slack for being a girl, and I'm grateful that I'm not expected to jack up the intensity of any hammerfest that involves climbing. But there are times when I can't tell (culture? language? guy culture in a different language?) when I'm simply being invited, and when I'm being tested to see what I can do. The fact that they invite me along in the first place is a sign of respect (I think.) I don't want to blow it by adopting a girly-girl stance and not being able to hold my own.
The first two and a half kilometres aren't so bad but at Km 12 on the M611, the angle pops up significantly and both my and Jesús's altimeters are registering a grade that bounces between 7% and 13%. This is tough - but I'm not suffering. My heart rate is staying steady at around 140; Jesús has problems bringing his down below 150. It's just l-o-o-o-o-o-o-n-g. It's the kind of long that makes you start thinking of weird-ass songs that you haven't thought of since you were a kid ("Nashville Cats" and Deucette, anyone?)
"Don't push too hard," says Jesús. "It doesn't lighten up until you get past Km. 14." And sure enough, the second of three crap things happens right at Km. 14 - Jesús flats and tells me to go on by myself, that he'll catch up. I continue up, slow, slow, slow, slow, Km 15, Km 16 - on a clear day it must be a hell of a view into the plains but with the snow melting and subliminating the haze gets thicker by the minute. (By the time I get back to the train station at Tres Cantos the Sierra will have all but disappeared.) And at 16, I blow out. Where there was power, there is only shakiness. Where there was consistency, there is jelly. Thank God I have ONE PowerBar left - and eating a PowerBar on a 7% grade is something that people should try. ONCE. That way, you'll learn to take breaks and eat BEFORE you climb. Edu passes me, another older gentleman passes me, some skinny young thing dressed in Caisse d'Épargne blows by me, with a look on his face that is part bemusement and part there-but-for-the-grade-of-God. I'm so tired I don't even bother trying to get a look at him to see if he's anyone recognizable from Caisse or just some blowhard trying to pick up....
...wait a second. Where ARE the chicks??? We passed ONE girl with strawberry hair when we first cleared the town limits. So where are the others?
I finally make it to the top of the climb -- 1,796 metres, the highest I've ever climbed in my life -- and I just want to collapse. The boys applaud, all I want is a cup of coffee and some lube for my chain, and the vote becomes unanimous: let's go back down to Soto, have a break and then decide what we're going to do.
An older man looks at my arm warmers and my jersey and insists that I take his windbreaker: You're going to die of the cold!! I'll be fine, sir. I have an extra layer of insulation over my thorax that most guys can only envy.
One very unfair thing about climbing - it doesn't seem right that it should only take 12 minutes to go down something it just took you an hour to climb. Oh, those 12% grades.
Fired up by the thought of tortilla at the Miratoros (without Antonio whining about the onion), we blast back downhill, but in the process, lose Javi, who hasn't been out on a ride with us since the season-end luncheon last November. I'm blown, he moans as he picks at his tortilla. Jesús has a commitment at 5PM; he's not sure he's going to go all the way. Cerro de San Pedro? asks Edu. Okay, fair enough, I say. I doubt sincerely that I'll be able to do better than the 23.31 that I did on Valentine's Day, but I want to feel like I've knocked one bastard off today.
Third thing to go wrong: a piece of glass embedded in my rear wheel sinks the inner tube and Edu, Jesús and I spend ten minutes fixing the flat on the side of the road. After mucking about and some creative language lessons on my behalf, Edu and I set off; Jesús decides to take the bike lane back to Tres Cantos so as not to get too far behind in the day. I try not to let on that I'm disappointed that he's not coming. Up the hill. Roundabout. Down the hill. Guadalix. Same wrong right turn that takes us out past the chocolate shop that I want to try some time before it ends up closing in the recession. Regional road. Town limit sign. Hit the lap marker on the Polar. There's a bit of a breeze catching us in the face. Lots of traffic streaming into town. I try passing Edu, who's suffering on the uphills, but as soon as I do, he gives me ten seconds before passing me again. This is holding me back. And when I hit my groove I do not like to be held back.
Finally, as we're getting to the top, I think, enough of being a boob for one day. I may have gotten my butt kicked up Morcuera, but I can handle myself on this one. I pass Edu. I'll see you at the top by the maintenance hut. And I lay it on. I make it hurt. It's only a kilometre, it's certainly NOT the only time I will have to kick my own ass on this hill, and I am determined to show that I can do it. I make myself hurt, I think I make Edu hurt, too, since he feels like he's got to keep up...but damn, I have to make this day worthwhile and have at least one fist-pumping moment.
I think about Alberto suffering in the Paris-Nice yesterday, burying Toni Colom and Frank Schleck. I think about what it's going to mean, all those hills included in Quebrantahuesos and the Perico and whatever else I get myself into, and I think of what Greg LeMond said: It doesn't get any easier...just less scary. And I bare my teeth, in pure Contador style, and I give it all I've got.
I drop Edu by a minute and a half.
"You ARE getting stronger," he mutters as we get to Tres Cantos. "If you keep this up you're going to be pretty damn good by the fall." Edu used to do brevets; that's how he met his wife, Paloma, who is bright and funny and a delight to ride with, and who hasn't been out since the end of January. And I think that we need more nice guys like Edu and Javi and Jesús and more boobs and fewer idiots in our Saturday morning group.
Perhaps it's time for a schism or something? Is that a particularly female way of looking at it?
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