Sunday, April 26, 2009

Decision

Zurdo did not look optimistic. There it was, 8:20 in the morning. We were scheduled to leave to ride ten minutes later, and there were exactly four of us in the clubhouse. The clouds had started to spit and, looking down through the north-west street that exits Plaza de la Remonta, by the cop shop, you could see something grey and thick and wet blow in. It did not look good.

The policy at the Chamartín is that if the weather sucks, the decision whether to go out is put to a vote. Majority rules. Today's vote went 11 against, 9 for. My intentions were good. I wanted to go out, knowing that putting off going out would guarantee clear skies by 11AM. But the further north we got, the greasier the pavement got, and I just got that feeling in my gut that said: Oooh, baby...this is NOT a good idea. I wasn't the only one. By the time the group got to Fuencarral the nine had thinned down to five; the older riders feeling that this was not such a hot idea, the younger ones not so worried about broken bones or sliding out or anything that would cause problems for someone with a job, kids, responsibilities.

I've been home for just over 20 minutes now. My nose is pressed to the glass and I haven't taken my jersey and culotte off. I want it to stop raining and clear up so that I can go out and at least do something.

I can't shake the rising feeling of panic: Quebrantahuesos is only eight weeks away...Quebrantahuesos is only eight weeks away....

I mean, I don't have it as bad as some. I do have the option of just riding up to San Pedro or Hoyo de Manzanares this afternoon and doing some climbing, or just swapping Tuesday's workout for today's, and do Morcuera on Tuesday instead. Hell, if I wanted to, I could climb Morcuera Tuesday, Thursday and Friday, if I wanted to. But I was ready for Morcuera today. I stared at the ceiling for an hour yesterday, going over the climb in my mind, trying to tamp down the rising sense of panic and telling myself that it was all right, that I can do it, that it's a pass that, while not known, is at least familiar.

But even then, I can't shake the rising feeling of panic: Quebrantahuesos is only eight weeks away...Quebrantahuesos is only eight weeks away....

Saturday, April 25, 2009

I found someone!!

Right. I KNOW how this is going to come across once it's written down, but it's still pretty damn cool.

She's only been riding for eight months, too!
She's the only girl in her club, too!
She's got strong legs, too!
She bought her bike right after last year's climb up Angliru, too!
She's got a university education and a wacko sense of humour,too!
She likes Tom Boonen, too!
She's looking for other girls to ride with, too!

Remember what it was like to be five years old and find a new friend while you were at the park? It was like that. I'd stopped on the Avenida de los Rosales because Ellie was making a strange clicking noise; when I got back on the bike, a guy in a Pedro Delgado jersey was hanging on my wheel; and at the next light, I turned around and saw this...girl!...on a black BH.

And the two of us just squealed at the same time: Oh my GOD!!! It's another GIRL!!!

I know. Maybe you have to be a girl on a road bike in Madrid to understand what a momentous occasion that was.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Tunes to train by

Today's playlist:

"Fire Woman" - The Cult
"China Grove" - Doobie Brothers
"Mama Said Knock You Out" - LL Cool J
"It's All Right to Fight" - Ninja High School
"Stainless Steel Providers" - Revolting Cocks
"Weirdo" - The Charlatans
"Generals and Majors" - XTC
"North Country Boy" - The Charlatans
"Cities in Dust" - Siouxsie and the Banshees
"Theme from S-Express" - S-Express
"Ever Fallen in Love" - The Buzzcocks
"Paint-by-Number Heart" - Martha and the Muffins
"Basket Case" - Green Day
"The Dark of the Matinée" - Franz Ferdinand
"Papa's Got a Brand New Pigbag" - Pigbag

What do you listen to when you train?

Monday, April 20, 2009

A moment to myself

Early Tuesday morning. The oatmeal is on, the coffee has been made and Gen and I have decided to postpone our power-walk until Friday, depending on her schedule. I don't have to teach until six this evening, but with a three-hour training block today (it'll be three hours by the time I get down there and get back) it still requires some planning. Get weighed in. Go to the FNAC to pick up the repaired iPod headphones so that I can listen to tunes while hammering up hills. Pick up some more groceries. Go over to Scott and Luis's to water the wisteria plants and pick up some more walnuts and cashews at the place that sells the really nice nuts.

On the bus, coming back from the airport yesterday, I thought about the difference between being alone and being lonely. The AG thing is still hitting me pretty hard - I am sincerely hoping that his silence is due to him being busy with exams or medical problems, because if my darkest thoughts are actually true and I got iced because his girlfriend has decided that she doesn't approve of me, it will put a serious dent in my opinion of Spanish men as buddies.

I like mornings like this, mornings with coffee and BBC Five Live and downloading random songs that I like to work out by. I like having the sun streaming in through the window and drinking coffee and not feeling the stress of having to live by the expectations of other people.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Jealousy

"Just tell me that no one's gonna have problems with any of you lot rooming with a girl. I know, you're all gonna tell me that your girlfriends and wives are going to be fine with this but I do NOT want some chick coming after me and giving me grief."

"There won't be a problem. Luis's wife won't care, Jesús doesn't have a 'chick' in his life and Raquel knows what the deal is, so she won't get jealous."

*********

A confession: I actually asked that question simply to find out if Jesús had a girlfriend or not. But in retrospect, I'm glad I did ask it. I finally met Raquel a week and a half ago, and it turns out that Raquel was NOT cool with it, in retrospect, especially since she did not expect her partner's room-mate to be a size 8 vamp wearing dark lipstick and red jeans. Raquel was SO not cool with it that I didn't have a chance to say goodbye to AG and have not chatted with him on Messenger since.

It's things like this that make me wonder about the usefulness of the Saturday group. Yes, it's great to have a group of people who can be counted on to go out every week. But I have that with the Chamartín. It's great to have a group of people who make me ask more of myself. But it's annoying to have to balance so many different needs and personalities when all I want to do is ride. It's great to have people to learn from. It's annoying when you never feel that you can measure up.

And now this. AG is basically the only real ally I have in the group. SuperLopez means well but there's something about him - the way he asks questions then doesn't shut up long enough to listen to the answers, the way he'll blast ahead then make a big deal of coming back to see that I'm all right - that makes me feel like I'm being protected as part of a big show, rather than out of any concern for my well-being. Luis and Juan hate each others' guts so much that it seems like they don't look for riding partners as much as they look for allies in their never-ending battle against each other. Agus has the ongoing drama, which may or may not exist, of not being let out of the house on Saturdays. Pilar has basically removed herself from the group because she's sitting exams in June; Paloma won't go out because she's out of shape; Edu doesn't go out because Paloma won't go out; Jesús won't go out if AG doesn't go out, and I'm beginning to wonder why I bother going out with anyone at all on Saturdays, especially if my presence is going to start causing problems.

Yago sent me my new training plan this morning. The idea is basically to work the hell out of the hills from now until ....well, probably forever. But for the next couple of weeks, I'll be doing a lot of climbing up in the Sierra, taking the train up to Colmenar Viejo, going over Canencia and Morcuera and riding to the top of Navafría (which is a mountain pass that I don't actually know.) And I guess I'll be doing it alone. I can't see the guys wanting to do all that much climbing, that much repetition, over the next couple of weeks. I know damn well what the reaction is going to be: "Oh, is that what Yago told you to do?" (Um, YEAH, it is - and WHAT, exactly, is your problem with that?) Unless I'm totally mistaken, this is what Yago does - provide me with a structured plan that enables me to get better and stronger.

And Yago has faith in my progress. The Saturday guys...well. Sometimes, I don't know. AG probably does, so long as Raquel doesn't find out. SuperLopez, sure, as long as I don't rip his legs off too often. The others, I don't know. I would trust them to call an ambulance if anything happened to me. I don't know that I would necessarily trust them to stick around until the ambulance arrived.

I was going to call this post "Splinter" because that's what it feels like: the group is splintering off into different directions. But in a sense, it has nothing to do with the group breaking apart. It's more about jealousy - about controlling people, about trying to make people feel bad for something they shouldn't feel bad about at all. And maybe that's the best reason there is to go it alone on Saturdays for the time being.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Uck.

Not recommended as a drink to rehydrate on trips:

400mL water
150 mL Aquarius
200 mL grapefruit juice
pinch of salt

I don't care what Chris Carmichael says about maintaining nutrients and salt levels. I think I'll stick with Coke.

And the water bottles are still soaking in a vain attempt to get the gunk out.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Why Lance Armstrong Never Ceases to Bug the Bejeezus Out of Me (Part 3 of...)

So Lance is now amping up his fight with the French, and the latest detail to come out about his surprise drug test a couple of weeks back is that, when they took his hair sample, they "butchered" his haircut.

"Butchered"??

a) You've got a #2 crew cut! Any weird bald patches will take all of six days to grow back - and will be invisible with a helmet on. Shave your head.
b) If this is a semi-public confession that you're paying some goof a ridiculous amount of money to give you a #2 crew cut, you're a bigger fool than anyone previously thought.
c) So SHUT UP!!

Friday, April 3, 2009

Elation: Clásica de Bilbao, Part One

Like it or not, the Basque Country is probably the closest thing that we have to a cycling Mecca in Spain. Sure, you can bust a gut climbing the Marie-Blanque during Quebrantahuesos; you can watch yourself roll backwards on the Anglirú, but to get a real flavour for passion for cycling, without a doubt, you've got to go north, up to Euskadi.

I know. I'm over-generalizing, I'm over-romanticizing how much better things are outside of Madrid. But there's something about going through that pass at Pancorbo, just north of Burgos, where everything gets green and rocky and lush, and you could be mistaken for thinking that you'd landed in Switzerland.

Friday night: AG and I meet at his place, put the bikes in the car, pray that the traffic on the M30 isn't going to be too dense and blast the hell out of the city. I'm thankful that at least one of the Saturday boys hasn't bailed - the thought of going up to Bilbao with Luis alone made me kind of nervous. Not because Luis is a bad person; he isn't. But he's sixty, he could easily be described as cranky, and he has his self-righteous bullying side, something which has alienated more than one person in the past; if something goes wrong, I don't want to bear the brunt of his pissy-ness.

Bilbao is a bitch to drive around. It suffers from the same orthographic problems as Prague - a river valley quashed between hills on the east and west side of the estuary, the only place to put highways - and when we get to Etxeberri, the southern suburbs, we realize that we don't really remember (or, for that matter, know) how to get to the youth hostel. We call Luis. Luis keeps trying to tell AG how to get there, but tells us a bunch of wrong exits, which means us diverting in and around the airport (totally on the wrong side of the city) and when it becomes clear that we're totally freaking lost, Luis just harrumphs and hangs up. We finally make it to the youth hostel at 10:30; reception's closed, Luis is irritated as hell that we didn't follow his instructions (which meant taking a nonexistent exit off a highway we weren't even on) and we're all hungry.

To make matters more tense, each of us has consulted a different weather webpage, which means that we've all got different forecasts. The boys plan a Saturday ride to Castro Urdiales from San Juan de Muskiz that we can do if the weather is good. "Good", however, is highly subjective: At what point do we bail? Blue patches are starting to break through, the wind doesn't seem to be as bad as it is in the city, and we do have the cars.

I'm going to confess now that I'm bad at fantasizing when I'm on a bike. I fantasize about riding with famous riders, hanging out with someone like Beloki or Eneritz Iturriaga (who I know is based in Gipúzcoa, not Bilbao). I don't know if I should feel guilty about this or not - not that AG isn't good company (and Luis can be if he's not being a self-righteous grump). I admit it: I fantasize about hanging with the big dogs, not the faces I see ever single week, Saturday in and Saturday out. I guess it's like being married to the same guy for twenty years. Your mind starts to wander. I think about what it'd be like to actually cross paths with someone famous, one of those OH MY GOD moments that keep you faithful to your training plan for weeks afterwards, because you want to think that somehow, the magic and the power can be transmitted.

Muskiz. Muskiz. Sounds like "¡Mosquis!", which is what the Spanish version of Homer Simpson says instead of "Wo-o-o-o-w.....!" San Juan de ¡Mosquis! I think, but don't say, because I don't feel like being grumped at by the guys.

The terrain is definitely challenging. More Homer Simpson: Road goes up...road goes down...road goes up....road goes down. Then Road Goes Way the Hell Up on a 9% crest before Castro and there's a general feeling of SILTS (Screw It, Life's Too Short) that sends us into the nearest bar to find tortilla and coffee.
We spend most of the afternoon either eating or sleeping off what we've eaten (or at least the guys do; see Part 2 below) and then it's back into town to meet Josu, walk around, find dinner, maybe find some place to watch the Spain-Turkey match.

To truly understand Josu, you have to understand his well-earned reputation as the Cycling Recycling King of Anywhere South and West of the Pyrenees. Josu's bikes are so old that he'd probably get a small fortune were he to auction them off on eBay; the old Specialized that he rides into town to meet us at the Guggenheim not only still has the old gear levers - he's still managed to hang onto the original tires. (Rather than blow €399 on a BOB Trailer, he built his own out of a hybrid of -- I am NOT making this up -- lawnmover parts and the structure and wheels of a shopping trolley.) Just as we were passing in front of the Guggenheim, however, AG leaned over the back wheel of Josu's bike and pointed to a point where the bead had popped out from the rim. "Yeah," Josu muttered, "I keep thinking that I have to fix that." Ten minutes later, he didn't have a choice: the inner tube blew with the force of a firecracker, scaring a group of tourists and a flock of pigeons. Luis obligingly gave Josu two of the four he'd purchased at Decathlon that afternoon.

And then the big morning came, rainy and hard. Not soft pitter-patter rain that slides against the window, but big, gobby, aggressive raindrops that woke us up at 6:55 (made even tougher by the clocks going forward and robbing us of an hour of sleep.) Got dressed. Dragged our butts down to breakfast. Luis goes to pay. Discovered that the credit card number I gave wasn't a deposit, just a guarantee - Luis was asked to pay the €120 I thought I'd paid. Luis in a bad mood, growling and grouching. Antonio flexible, but not wanting to get involved. Me, thinking, let's just get down to the damn race already, can we?

Five minutes later, we're there. We don't know where Josu's got to, but we managed to arrive at the starting line a hair before 9:00AM, just as the pelotón is heading off -- and what a delight it is! There are other women on their bikes. There are all kinds of bikes, from decades-old Pinarello ten-speeds to Giant commuter bikes. There are tons of volunteers and members of the regional police, the Ertzaintza, who cheer us on. There are no drivers who honk at us. There are more and more patches of blue sky, punctuated by dark grey clouds that filter beams of sunlight that spotlight patches of the intensely green landscape. The air is thick with the smell of cut grass, pine and eucalyptus. There's no noise except for the occasional whirr of an underlubed chain and the occasional smartass trying to harrass his friends into going faster. Oh, and the occasional, "¡¡Aupa, Chamartín!!" (I'm the only one in the club making an appearance; the others are back in Madrid, competing in the Francisco Sanz Trophy ride.)

And the women are friendly and fast and smile at each other and cheer each other on. There's one woman who's blonde, very well put together, and seems to be at the beginning of her racing career; her legs are -- there is no nice way to say this -- huge. She's overweight, but you can tell that she's on the rebound from something: giving birth, surgery. She's strong. She can more than hold her own in the group. And her sunny blonde hair and sunny disposition would put paid to any mouthy bastard who tried to tease her or psych her out. I go out of my way to be friendly to her. I remember being like that and being judged on what I looked like, not what I was capable of doing.

I lose Luis (not entirely unintentionally) at about Km 20 when his chain starts giving him hell; AG and I pull ahead and keep going together until we get to the rest stop (a bit of a misnomer - no toilets, just bushes.) After we refuel with cookies and Coke, it's off again, for the last bit of the ride, including the longest climb (which, to be honest, isn't that long.) The crowd has started to thin out: heads are drooping, cadences are going down, but I still feel good. Looking back, I know that I could have given more, but I really don't like going all-out on routes that I don't know because I specifically don't want that happening to me when I don't know how far I am from the end.

Twenty kilometres from the end, my left foot starts hurting. I get to Exteberri, and the two Cokes I had hit bottom; a full bladder means more pressure on my lower back. I try adjusting my hand position and a rocket of nerve twitch shoots up my arm. I'm not hungry, I'm not thirsty, but I am ready for this thing to be the hell over with. I end up riding in with a bunch of guys from Ciudad Real, one of whom has to be pushed along by his mates because he's bonking so hard that he can hardly see straight. I still have two energy bars, so I give him one; it's the kind of gesture that I would appreciate if I were in his position.

"Thanks, Chamartín," he mutters.

I wink at him. "You can pay me back at Quebrantahuesos. I will see you at Quebranta, won't I?"

He kind of nods and shakes his head at the same time. His buddy claps him on the shoulder. "¡Venga, chaval! We'll be there!"

And then it's through the Plaza de Francisco Moyúa and we're there, with the big inflatable arcs and people cheering on both sides of the gates and I go like hell, with a big stupid happy bug-catching grin on my face. So THIS is what it feels like to triumph, even if you don't win.

First big ride of the season. I am definitely hooked.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Trepidation: Clásica de Bilbao, Part 2

Yago: So, when are you going to blog about Bilbao on Spanish Cyclepaths?

There's a picture that AG took in Bilbao that isn't what it appears. Josu, Luis and I are standing in front of the Guggenheim, and it's pretty clear (in spite of what I wrote before) that Josu is staring at my ass. It isn't quite what it seems.

February 13th, 2005 - for those of you who live in Madrid, you probably remember that date as the day that the Torre Windsor burned down and screwed up train service for the better part of three days. That particular Sunday, a bunch of us were supposed to go to Guadalajara to do a day trip around the Alcarria and visit Lupiana Monastery, which was an important mapmaking centre in the 16th Century. Needless to say, with the train service mucked up, we didn't make it to Guadalajara in time to visit the Monastery, and we got, er, diverted off our path and ended up having to cut through a wheat field, mud and plants and all, supposedly owned by one of Madrid's most prominent families. That not-so-shortcut took us to the town of Iriépal, and from there, we had to climb up 5 kilometres and 400 metres to get on top of the plains. I had a €99 banger from El Corte Inglés that would pop its chain if you stood on the pedals to gain force. And I barely made it to the top alive because I didn't know at all how to climb.

Luckily, Josu (who has ridden bikes since he could stand upright) was on that ride, too, and he stayed with me the entire time. Just do what you need to do to keep yourself going forward, he said. Don't bash the pedals, don't try to drop anyone - just pedal as much as you need to pedal to keep yourself from falling over. How the hell does someone make it to the age of 35 without knowing that much? I thought, but didn't say. So I did. I crawled along at 6 kilometres an hour, trying to keep the rising sense of panic from strangling me, but dammit, I got up the hills and didn't hurt too badly the next day.

And here we are, just over four years later. Josu hasn't been out with us much in the past two years -- "Everyone keeps getting better and I'm stuck in the same place, and I'm not getting any better..." On the car up to Bilbao, AG and I got talking about cycling and he asked me, Where do you see yourself going with this? Regionals, I said. Regionals in 2010.

What, to participate?

Participate, hell. No. To win them.

You're joking.

I'm not joking; why would you take part in something like that if you didn't have the inspiration and the desire to win?

There. It's out there. Regionals in 2010. And I want to be able to kick everyone's ass while I'm doing it.

So, knowing AG, he's told Jesús, who will never ask me out on a date now that I've laid that out on the table (and let's be honest, being the only woman in Madrid who buys the MARCA sports paper probably eliminated me from the Potential Girlfriend Pool a LONG time ago). AG is going to tell the others, who will nod politely from now on when I tell them that I need to do something specific on a specific day, because that's what Yago has laid out for me, and one of two things is going to happen: They're either not going to go out with me because THEY're afraid of getting their asses kicked (SuperLopez has already taken to calling me the Dominatrix, which is laughable if you knew how infrequently I manage to hook up) or they're going to try to kick MY ass, which I probably need and deserve.

***********************************

Why is it so frightening to be honest about what you really want? I thought about this long and hard when we were supposed to be having siestas last Saturday in the youth hostel in Bilbao. I could hear AG and Luis breathing heavily, and thought about how I'm fortunate that the guys don't treat me like a girl. I thought about a guy (not Jesús) who I could seriously fall in love with, a guy who understands why I like Weegee and Gary Winogrand and Nan Goldin, who I want to wear miniskirts and silly dresses and long earrings for, and I realized how afraid I am that he's going to catch on to how much I like him, and he's going to disappear or break my heart, and that I would rather ride up the Alpe d'Huez with my hands tied behind my back than risk that happening again. I realized how much I like being in the Basque Country, with its green landscapes and its stocky, prickly people, its raging coastlines, and thinking, God, wouldn't it be marvellous to be offered the chance to ride professionally up here?

SuperLopez would probably make some crack about Lutheran guilt. People in Eastern Ontario would probably quote Tom Cochrane: Don't push your luck, Angel Face. But I want it. I want to be able to fly up mountains without feeling that steely, bloody wheeze leaking up from the bottom of my lungs and choking me. I want to be able to look a guy in the eyes and tell him how I feel about him and know that doing so will not mean him permanently disappearing. I'm not asking to win the lottery or be admitted as a member of the Spanish Royal Family. At heart, I really don't think I'm asking for that much.

(And at times like this, I'm kinda glad that the only people who read my blog on a regular basis are Chris M. and Yago. And Gary. You reading this, Gar?)

So it's out there. Regionals in 2010. Not totally blowing a relationship with a certain photographer. Dropping my weight to 62 kg. I don't really care if it is too much to ask for. I'm asking for it. And as much as my guts seize and my fingers ache from the side effect of hanging on too tight and too hard, I don't know that I have any other options, at this point.