Unipublic, the organizers of the Vuelta a España, have announced that the penultimate day of the Vuelta will be a ITT going around the city of Toledo. Good stuff; not only is Toledo easy to get in and out of (provided you don't have a car), it's completely well kitted-out for tourists and makes an easy day trip from Madrid.
Why Toledo again, if there was a stage finish there last year? This year is the 50th anniversary of Federico Bahamontes' Tour de France victory, and while Vuelta organizers haven't come out and said that the ITT is meant to pay homage to the Eagle of Toledo, it's worth noting that, instead of taking advantage of the highways around the city (of which there are not really that many), the route's going to go through a number of neighborhoods that lie outside of the city centre. (If I have time today I'll try to cobble together some kind of map, or see if the Toledo City Council will get one together.)
Hints: If you're going, for God's sake, don't drive. The route will go right by the train station (a trip on the high-speed AVE will get you to Toledo in about 35 minutes), going east through the Santa María de la Benquerencia neighborhood (probably following the N400 highway), then head south and back towards the city, going along the Tagus before heading back up to finish beside the Army Artillery Academy. Since the recently refurbished Toledo Youth Hostel sits right over the AVE station and right beside the Academy, THAT's the place you want to stay in if you want to be in the middle of the action. Bring a hat and tons of water - there's little or no shade along the route.
I'm not sure why the final TT route was posted before all of the other routes - maybe the organizers got the traffic permits sorted for that route before all of the others were firmed up. At any rate, it promises to make for a great day out of Madrid!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Too good NOT to share!
http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/07/28/web-comic-skewers-world-of-pro-cycling/?ref=sports
Lance Armstrong...the Tandy Man. God, that's better than Texas Toast. I thought he annoyed the hell out of me, but obviously I've got it easy compared to some.
The Jonathan Vaughters images are priceless, though.
Wait! "The Tandy Man Can...The Tandy Maaaaan Caaaaan!" Someone get Weird Al Yankovic on the phone!!
Lance Armstrong...the Tandy Man. God, that's better than Texas Toast. I thought he annoyed the hell out of me, but obviously I've got it easy compared to some.
The Jonathan Vaughters images are priceless, though.
Wait! "The Tandy Man Can...The Tandy Maaaaan Caaaaan!" Someone get Weird Al Yankovic on the phone!!
Monday, July 27, 2009
OK! OK! Permit me ONE last swipe for this year!
Subtitled: Why Lance Armstrong Never Ceases to Bug the Living Bejeezus out of Me: Can't Texans SPELL??
So Lance takes personal offense at Contador's declarations in the press yesterday that Contador doesn't think much of him as a human being, and Lance tweets (or whatever the hell you call it) back that "Hey, Alberto, there is no 'I' in team."
And all I can think of is....
a) Nice one, Texas Toast: Did you, along with the million subscribers, happen to read that little gem in the centre spread of the July issue of BICYCLING?
b) How many US Postal and Discovery riders would have been allowed to even get NEAR the podium, let alone score a Top 10 victory, while you were riding and winning? Hm. Why don't we ask guys like Hincapie, Vande Velde and Zabriskie, and get their feedback? I bet Zabriskie in particular, were he to drop the stoner-Zen act, would have some choice things to say.
c) Of COURSE there's no I. But it cannot have escaped your attention that 50% of the word "team" is made up of the letters "M·E".
Radio Shack, for the love of Pete. Lance? Michael Ball from Rock Racing on Line 2.
So Lance takes personal offense at Contador's declarations in the press yesterday that Contador doesn't think much of him as a human being, and Lance tweets (or whatever the hell you call it) back that "Hey, Alberto, there is no 'I' in team."
And all I can think of is....
a) Nice one, Texas Toast: Did you, along with the million subscribers, happen to read that little gem in the centre spread of the July issue of BICYCLING?
b) How many US Postal and Discovery riders would have been allowed to even get NEAR the podium, let alone score a Top 10 victory, while you were riding and winning? Hm. Why don't we ask guys like Hincapie, Vande Velde and Zabriskie, and get their feedback? I bet Zabriskie in particular, were he to drop the stoner-Zen act, would have some choice things to say.
c) Of COURSE there's no I. But it cannot have escaped your attention that 50% of the word "team" is made up of the letters "M·E".
Radio Shack, for the love of Pete. Lance? Michael Ball from Rock Racing on Line 2.
Going with the Flow
WARNING: This blog post, in particular, contains information and opinions about certain female bodily functions that is almost guaranteed to offend at least 50% of the population, especially those of the male persuasion. Yes, it's about THAT. If THAT offends you or does not provoke chuckles of sympathy you are hereby warned to STOP READING NOW. I MEAN NOW!
I have a medium Chamartín jersey and a small one. The small one is, effectively, toast after the fall I took in Tres Olivos last week. The medium isn't really all that medium, more like a North American small, but what it does have is three nice, big pockets that allow me to carry what I need for the day: wallet, cell phone, iPod, gel and food, packet of tissues. And a Tampax. The pockets are big enough that I can fit a regular (read: paper-wrapped...the girls will know what I mean...) Tampax in there, sideways, which stretches the jersey a little but usually secures it in place. All of us end up looking a little bit like backwards kangaroos with the quantity of stuff we can stuff into our jerseys, but it makes it a lot less cumbersome than a CamelBak.
From time to time, a dead (always unused, always green for Super) Tampax will mysteriously appear at the side of the bike path, especially up around the M30 bridge, and I always feel bad for its former owner. Dollars to donuts, the owner of that little green bullet of relief is going to have a hell of a shock when she needs to stop. She'll scootch into the bathroom, trying hard not to walk funny in order not to let on that anything's up (which is a lie unto itself -what normal woman bolts into a bathroom while trying to grip her butt and Kegel muscles, as if she were an Olympic speed walker?). She'll slam the door shut, turn the light on, unzip, pull down, sit down, be annoyed at the stain (or relieved at the lack thereof) and reach into a pocket, hoping to feel that reassuring polychemical crinkle of the plastic, only to come up empty-handed. Oh. No. And with cycling being such a male-dominated sport, it's not like you can stick your head out of the loo, glance at your sisters-in-arms with that specific look of panic on your face (while still trying to hide the rest of your body behind the bathroom door) and hiss, "Does anyone have....ONE?" No sir.
WARNING TO THE SENSITIVE: We are getting into the genuinely gross stuff now. If your sensibilities might still be at risk, stop reading and go watch this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qMAJf-hf1Zk
....or this, if the kids are around: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wHeGX0wqazs.
(Don't ask me why the Ting Tings made a Yo Gabba Gabba video, but it's strangely engaging.)
My sister-in-law used to call it "dropping a clot". It is NOT a pleasant feeling: it's the feeling of being out of control, of being held captive to something you didn't ask for and can't stop no matter how hard you try. Well, you can, obviously: that's why we have sanitary products. More insidious, however, is the gentle leak, the one that destroys jeans and expensive underwear, the one that gives no feeling to its existence until you notice that protein-based stickiness and that your undergarments aren't moving the way they normally do.
The one advantage of cycling is that culottes, which usually contain some kind of pad in the genital area, provide the perfect backup. Both men's and women's models are designed to absorb sweat (and whatever other inopportune body fluids may emerge), shocks and friction; so, gentlemen (if any of you are still reading by now), THAT is what it's like to use an Evax/Kotex. (And a Tampax? Well, if you've inserted it the right way and you haven't used on that's too absorbent, it shouldn't really feel like anything.) So if you have an accident when wearing a decent pair of cycling shorts, you're covered in the short-term. Nothing that a handful of salt and some stain remover can't take care of later.
Provided, of course, that the flow is, uh, NORMAL. And you can't control that.
I don't really notice anything until Colmenar Viejo. No gloppy burning sensations, no lower-back pain, nothing out of the ordinary. But I do feel the call of nature, which isn't surprising considering I refilled (and drank) two bottles of water before leaving Madrid. I decide to stop at the Miratoros restaurant in Soto del Real, get a quick coffee, eat a home-made PowerBar and then head off to do what's gotta be done - ride up to Miraflores, down to Guadalix, beat the hell out of San Pedro and get home before it gets too hot outside to even think. The guys in the Miratoros are pretty used to us making pit stops there. As long as you buy something, they don't care.
Coffee. Pay. Bathroom. Culottes down. Damn. Leakage. Reach behind.....
Uh-oh.
It's not there.
Left pocket: iPod, gel, two PowerBars. Middle pocket: wallet and house keys. Right pocket: phone.
Oh CRAP. What now??
And no, gents (if any of you are STILL reading), stuffing a handful of TP between your legs won't cut it. Why not? Go take a handful of TP and rub it against your lips...for the next three hours. You'll get the point.
Ergh.
Okay. Nothing to do but keep on keepin' on.
I blot whatever I can (which is actually a fair bit), pull up, wash my hands and head back out. Not much to do except go like hell and try to get home as soon as possible.
The worst part of accidents like this, however, isn't necessarily the stainage; it's the strange hypersensitivity about the flow that you get once you realize that the flow is underway. All of a sudden, you become convinced that EVERYBODY is aware of what's happening to you. Images of CARRIE start coming to mind (God, are those rain clouds over there??) You become convinced that every wild animal in the north end of the Comunidad -- if there are any left -- will be chasing your sorry ass because you smell like a canapé on wheels. And you're very thankful that you're out by yourself, because if ANY, A-NY of the guys in the club knew of this, you would never have anyone willing to go out with you, ever again ("We don't care if you bleed when you fall and take half your knee off, but....but...THIS??") It's like Grade Seven all over again, except that you don't have the comfort of the silly tampon ads on the back of Seventeen magazine, the pigtailed girl dressed in a white bikini waterskiing with a great huge grin on her face rather than sulking over the picnic basket on the beach. It's like being back in high school gym class and knowing who's been served with a visit from Aunt Flow, because she's taking forever in the bathroom stalls, and doesn't everyone know it, too.
I try beating it like hell up the Cuesta de los Pobres towards Miraflores, which means not going very fast because you've got to climb nearly 200m in less than ten kilometres. Ouch. I stop at the turnoff to Guadalix, try to choke down an energy gel, wash it down with some very hot water (the sun has been beating on the bidones for about three hours by now) and do some mental calculations: it's about fifteen minutes to Guadalix, through the town and up over San Pedro twenty-five minutes later, then go like hell and - ugh. Oh God, there it goes again. What happened to the days when you could just buy emergency three-packs? Why don't they have that here? Why can I buy gum, toothpaste and condoms in vending machines in bars in Spain, but never tampons?
Guadalix is an easy coast downhill from Miraflores, on a highway that really is worth the trouble to ride slowly and enjoy. But I've been down here five or six times before, and besides, there's a bit more of a pressing matter, so I hit the pedals and try to get there as soon as I can. Not a problem, except that two kilometres out of town, I catch the business end of some kind of stinging insect on the right side of my mouth - the side that happens to be coated with ChapStick and leftover PowerBar Caffeinated Apple Gel. I try blowing the insect away. Nothing. I curl my lips back and try to dislodge whatever it is - I'm afraid to look - with the snuffle patch of my right-hand glove. Most of it goes. There's still something left over, something may or may not be stuck in my top lip, and the right-hand side of my mouth is going slightly numb (though that could just as well be the caffeine from the gel.)
Great. Carrie, meet Jean Chrétien.
And then I think something that's not entirely printable, grab the water bottle, give my mouth a blast of hot water, head through Guadalix and just GO. Even if I do have an allergic reaction (and I probably won't), there's nothing I can do about it until I get to Colmenar anyway. More inspiration to get my sorry ass over San Pedro as soon as possible.
San Pedro isn't an impossible climb. The first five kilometres of the M625 leave Guadalix de la Sierra at a gentle, easily beatable 3% grade, before peaking up to 5% or 6% near the Segovia-Valladolid AVE line and reaching 8% in the final bit before the crest of the hill, near the abandoned road workers' hut - so you get a good swing at killing most of the climbing on the relatively flat sections below, before the hurt comes on in the final two kilometres. But I'm not taking any risks. I throw the gears up to the 52x17 and keep my cadence up over 80 so that I'm going at least 28 kilometres per hour, while keeping a steady eye on my heart rate. If there are any weird jumps or increases, I'm gonna head back down to Guadalix and head straight for the Health Centre. I don't know how I'll explain the bleeding (surely THEY would have some Tampax on hand) but I'll figure it out.
The further up I go, the hotter and windier it gets, and the hotter it gets, the stickier it gets from the waist down. All I can hope is that the flow doesn't stop and that there's some dampness there at all times, because when that dries out and seizes up everything down there, I'm in serious trouble and it's gonna be like someone filled my keks with Elmer's Glue.
Luckily, it being Monday, there's very little traffic (they're gonna look at my shorts from behind they're gonna know!!!) which means that I can use more of the road and not stick to just the edges. Then it strikes me that, if anything happens to me, I am going to scare the living SHIT out of any driver who pulls over and takes a look at me from the waist down.
And I pull it off: San Pedro in 21 minutes 15 seconds, beating my old time by exactly 44 seconds. I don't know how much of it is due to sheer brute force or the desire to get the hell home as soon as possible, but screw it, the job is done.
And on the way back down into Madrid, I think about Pete Gerrard, a guy I knew in college who used to quip, after five or six Glenfiddich had gotten the better of his judgement: "How can you trust something that bleeds thirteen times a year and LIVES?" Oh, no, Pete - that's not the question. The question is: How can you trust something that bleeds thirteen times a year, lives, can still beat the hell out of itself and JOKE about it when the day is done? That, gentlemen, is what makes women truly frightening.
I have a medium Chamartín jersey and a small one. The small one is, effectively, toast after the fall I took in Tres Olivos last week. The medium isn't really all that medium, more like a North American small, but what it does have is three nice, big pockets that allow me to carry what I need for the day: wallet, cell phone, iPod, gel and food, packet of tissues. And a Tampax. The pockets are big enough that I can fit a regular (read: paper-wrapped...the girls will know what I mean...) Tampax in there, sideways, which stretches the jersey a little but usually secures it in place. All of us end up looking a little bit like backwards kangaroos with the quantity of stuff we can stuff into our jerseys, but it makes it a lot less cumbersome than a CamelBak.
From time to time, a dead (always unused, always green for Super) Tampax will mysteriously appear at the side of the bike path, especially up around the M30 bridge, and I always feel bad for its former owner. Dollars to donuts, the owner of that little green bullet of relief is going to have a hell of a shock when she needs to stop. She'll scootch into the bathroom, trying hard not to walk funny in order not to let on that anything's up (which is a lie unto itself -what normal woman bolts into a bathroom while trying to grip her butt and Kegel muscles, as if she were an Olympic speed walker?). She'll slam the door shut, turn the light on, unzip, pull down, sit down, be annoyed at the stain (or relieved at the lack thereof) and reach into a pocket, hoping to feel that reassuring polychemical crinkle of the plastic, only to come up empty-handed. Oh. No. And with cycling being such a male-dominated sport, it's not like you can stick your head out of the loo, glance at your sisters-in-arms with that specific look of panic on your face (while still trying to hide the rest of your body behind the bathroom door) and hiss, "Does anyone have....ONE?" No sir.
WARNING TO THE SENSITIVE: We are getting into the genuinely gross stuff now. If your sensibilities might still be at risk, stop reading and go watch this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qMAJf-hf1Zk
....or this, if the kids are around: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wHeGX0wqazs.
(Don't ask me why the Ting Tings made a Yo Gabba Gabba video, but it's strangely engaging.)
My sister-in-law used to call it "dropping a clot". It is NOT a pleasant feeling: it's the feeling of being out of control, of being held captive to something you didn't ask for and can't stop no matter how hard you try. Well, you can, obviously: that's why we have sanitary products. More insidious, however, is the gentle leak, the one that destroys jeans and expensive underwear, the one that gives no feeling to its existence until you notice that protein-based stickiness and that your undergarments aren't moving the way they normally do.
The one advantage of cycling is that culottes, which usually contain some kind of pad in the genital area, provide the perfect backup. Both men's and women's models are designed to absorb sweat (and whatever other inopportune body fluids may emerge), shocks and friction; so, gentlemen (if any of you are still reading by now), THAT is what it's like to use an Evax/Kotex. (And a Tampax? Well, if you've inserted it the right way and you haven't used on that's too absorbent, it shouldn't really feel like anything.) So if you have an accident when wearing a decent pair of cycling shorts, you're covered in the short-term. Nothing that a handful of salt and some stain remover can't take care of later.
Provided, of course, that the flow is, uh, NORMAL. And you can't control that.
I don't really notice anything until Colmenar Viejo. No gloppy burning sensations, no lower-back pain, nothing out of the ordinary. But I do feel the call of nature, which isn't surprising considering I refilled (and drank) two bottles of water before leaving Madrid. I decide to stop at the Miratoros restaurant in Soto del Real, get a quick coffee, eat a home-made PowerBar and then head off to do what's gotta be done - ride up to Miraflores, down to Guadalix, beat the hell out of San Pedro and get home before it gets too hot outside to even think. The guys in the Miratoros are pretty used to us making pit stops there. As long as you buy something, they don't care.
Coffee. Pay. Bathroom. Culottes down. Damn. Leakage. Reach behind.....
Uh-oh.
It's not there.
Left pocket: iPod, gel, two PowerBars. Middle pocket: wallet and house keys. Right pocket: phone.
Oh CRAP. What now??
And no, gents (if any of you are STILL reading), stuffing a handful of TP between your legs won't cut it. Why not? Go take a handful of TP and rub it against your lips...for the next three hours. You'll get the point.
Ergh.
Okay. Nothing to do but keep on keepin' on.
I blot whatever I can (which is actually a fair bit), pull up, wash my hands and head back out. Not much to do except go like hell and try to get home as soon as possible.
The worst part of accidents like this, however, isn't necessarily the stainage; it's the strange hypersensitivity about the flow that you get once you realize that the flow is underway. All of a sudden, you become convinced that EVERYBODY is aware of what's happening to you. Images of CARRIE start coming to mind (God, are those rain clouds over there??) You become convinced that every wild animal in the north end of the Comunidad -- if there are any left -- will be chasing your sorry ass because you smell like a canapé on wheels. And you're very thankful that you're out by yourself, because if ANY, A-NY of the guys in the club knew of this, you would never have anyone willing to go out with you, ever again ("We don't care if you bleed when you fall and take half your knee off, but....but...THIS??") It's like Grade Seven all over again, except that you don't have the comfort of the silly tampon ads on the back of Seventeen magazine, the pigtailed girl dressed in a white bikini waterskiing with a great huge grin on her face rather than sulking over the picnic basket on the beach. It's like being back in high school gym class and knowing who's been served with a visit from Aunt Flow, because she's taking forever in the bathroom stalls, and doesn't everyone know it, too.
I try beating it like hell up the Cuesta de los Pobres towards Miraflores, which means not going very fast because you've got to climb nearly 200m in less than ten kilometres. Ouch. I stop at the turnoff to Guadalix, try to choke down an energy gel, wash it down with some very hot water (the sun has been beating on the bidones for about three hours by now) and do some mental calculations: it's about fifteen minutes to Guadalix, through the town and up over San Pedro twenty-five minutes later, then go like hell and - ugh. Oh God, there it goes again. What happened to the days when you could just buy emergency three-packs? Why don't they have that here? Why can I buy gum, toothpaste and condoms in vending machines in bars in Spain, but never tampons?
Guadalix is an easy coast downhill from Miraflores, on a highway that really is worth the trouble to ride slowly and enjoy. But I've been down here five or six times before, and besides, there's a bit more of a pressing matter, so I hit the pedals and try to get there as soon as I can. Not a problem, except that two kilometres out of town, I catch the business end of some kind of stinging insect on the right side of my mouth - the side that happens to be coated with ChapStick and leftover PowerBar Caffeinated Apple Gel. I try blowing the insect away. Nothing. I curl my lips back and try to dislodge whatever it is - I'm afraid to look - with the snuffle patch of my right-hand glove. Most of it goes. There's still something left over, something may or may not be stuck in my top lip, and the right-hand side of my mouth is going slightly numb (though that could just as well be the caffeine from the gel.)
Great. Carrie, meet Jean Chrétien.
And then I think something that's not entirely printable, grab the water bottle, give my mouth a blast of hot water, head through Guadalix and just GO. Even if I do have an allergic reaction (and I probably won't), there's nothing I can do about it until I get to Colmenar anyway. More inspiration to get my sorry ass over San Pedro as soon as possible.
San Pedro isn't an impossible climb. The first five kilometres of the M625 leave Guadalix de la Sierra at a gentle, easily beatable 3% grade, before peaking up to 5% or 6% near the Segovia-Valladolid AVE line and reaching 8% in the final bit before the crest of the hill, near the abandoned road workers' hut - so you get a good swing at killing most of the climbing on the relatively flat sections below, before the hurt comes on in the final two kilometres. But I'm not taking any risks. I throw the gears up to the 52x17 and keep my cadence up over 80 so that I'm going at least 28 kilometres per hour, while keeping a steady eye on my heart rate. If there are any weird jumps or increases, I'm gonna head back down to Guadalix and head straight for the Health Centre. I don't know how I'll explain the bleeding (surely THEY would have some Tampax on hand) but I'll figure it out.
The further up I go, the hotter and windier it gets, and the hotter it gets, the stickier it gets from the waist down. All I can hope is that the flow doesn't stop and that there's some dampness there at all times, because when that dries out and seizes up everything down there, I'm in serious trouble and it's gonna be like someone filled my keks with Elmer's Glue.
Luckily, it being Monday, there's very little traffic (they're gonna look at my shorts from behind they're gonna know!!!) which means that I can use more of the road and not stick to just the edges. Then it strikes me that, if anything happens to me, I am going to scare the living SHIT out of any driver who pulls over and takes a look at me from the waist down.
And I pull it off: San Pedro in 21 minutes 15 seconds, beating my old time by exactly 44 seconds. I don't know how much of it is due to sheer brute force or the desire to get the hell home as soon as possible, but screw it, the job is done.
And on the way back down into Madrid, I think about Pete Gerrard, a guy I knew in college who used to quip, after five or six Glenfiddich had gotten the better of his judgement: "How can you trust something that bleeds thirteen times a year and LIVES?" Oh, no, Pete - that's not the question. The question is: How can you trust something that bleeds thirteen times a year, lives, can still beat the hell out of itself and JOKE about it when the day is done? That, gentlemen, is what makes women truly frightening.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
If I had a Euro for every time someone asked me....
...these questions, I'd be able to make my rent. Every month. It's nice that people are curious but I'm almost to the point where I'm going to get a t-shirt made up with the following:
a) Yeah, that IS my bike.
b) 50x34, but I put a triple chainring on for the Quebrantahuesos.
c) No. I stole it off some cyclist who was floating dead in the Artouste Reservoir. (Of COURSE this is MY Quebrantahuesos jersey - participating was the only way to get one....9h 39m)
c) Canada.
d) Because my friends are all either lazy or on holidays; otherwise I wouldn't be alone.
e) No, I'm not afraid of going out alone, because I have a lot of lazy friends.
f) Nine years in November.
g) Ottawa.
h) Compared to the weather in Ottawa, this is a huge improvement, so yeah, I think I'll stay.
i) Thanks, but I kind of like riding by myself.
j) Thanks, but I'm already a member of the Chamartín.
k) It was cool that Contador won over Armstrong but I was kind of cheering for Sastre.
So that's 12 questions, multiplied by about 50 times I get asked this in the course of a normal month...yeah. Rent, phone and the light bill.
a) Yeah, that IS my bike.
b) 50x34, but I put a triple chainring on for the Quebrantahuesos.
c) No. I stole it off some cyclist who was floating dead in the Artouste Reservoir. (Of COURSE this is MY Quebrantahuesos jersey - participating was the only way to get one....9h 39m)
c) Canada.
d) Because my friends are all either lazy or on holidays; otherwise I wouldn't be alone.
e) No, I'm not afraid of going out alone, because I have a lot of lazy friends.
f) Nine years in November.
g) Ottawa.
h) Compared to the weather in Ottawa, this is a huge improvement, so yeah, I think I'll stay.
i) Thanks, but I kind of like riding by myself.
j) Thanks, but I'm already a member of the Chamartín.
k) It was cool that Contador won over Armstrong but I was kind of cheering for Sastre.
So that's 12 questions, multiplied by about 50 times I get asked this in the course of a normal month...yeah. Rent, phone and the light bill.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Git down!
Some gratuitous dance music for a Saturday afternoon, after the thrills (but no spills) on Mount Ventoux:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sJOAZq2dW5w
And a gratuitous factoid: The guy who played bass on Right Said Fred's "I'm Too Sexy" was, at one time, also the bassist for ZZ Top.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sJOAZq2dW5w
And a gratuitous factoid: The guy who played bass on Right Said Fred's "I'm Too Sexy" was, at one time, also the bassist for ZZ Top.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Passing on the "shrink and pink"
Much to my mother's eternal disgust, I have never been a fan of overtly feminine...stuff. It took me ages to start buying decent (i.e. remotely sexy) underwear, I still don't own any china or a set of silver, and I do have several strands of good pearls that I could probably excavate and wear if given a couple of days' notice.
So it's no surprise that the culture battle that comes with trying to get more women on bikes (more of which later) seems to be fought, more than anything, in the stores than on the streets. Simon Usborne, of Britain's The Independent newspaper, touched briefly on the subject this morning in the paper's Cyclo Therapy blog and, with any luck, will hit a very sensitive nerve with some of his readers of the female persuasion. Give it a couple of days and I might even be able to score an interview with him....
http://tinyurl.com/lo53pn
So it's no surprise that the culture battle that comes with trying to get more women on bikes (more of which later) seems to be fought, more than anything, in the stores than on the streets. Simon Usborne, of Britain's The Independent newspaper, touched briefly on the subject this morning in the paper's Cyclo Therapy blog and, with any luck, will hit a very sensitive nerve with some of his readers of the female persuasion. Give it a couple of days and I might even be able to score an interview with him....
http://tinyurl.com/lo53pn
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Getting the 800-pound gorilla off the bike.
The sun has finally come out and the wind seems to have died down (at least temporarily) and I have decided not to go out and do the climbs up Marañosa, as programmed. I know that Yago would probably say that it's not a good idea to try doing climbing tests up Marañosa when it's windy out, anyway; and since I'm not going to Burgo de Osma for the Ciudad de Uxama Classic this weekend, I might as well do the climbs this afternoon or tomorrow.
I'm not going to the Ciudad de Uxama because I have no money. I slept badly last night because I'm broke. I have spent the last month doing magic tricks with my bank account and most of the time, it does work, but I know I can't keep the juggling up for long.
I knew that being a female cyclist and being broke was, almost, a foregone conclusion. Even Katie Compton, the US National Cyclocross Champion, is scrambling to find funding after her main sponsor backed out. In a sense, I'm fortunate, because I've already gone through university and know that I'm not likely to have kids, or get divorced, both of which are guaranteed drains on finances. Still, I can't bring myself to make an honest calculation on how much I've spent on cycling (Mom, you may want to stop reading at this point...) because if I thought about how much I could have invested in something reasonable like a pension fund or decent furniture or even plastic surgery.
So, this morning, I am lightening up the bicycle considerably. I am going out and doing the rounds to put up advertisements for new English classes because if I don't find more work soon, I'm going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble.
Please keep in mind, though, that this is not a cry for help. It's the last third of July, when practically every English teacher I know (especially those who don't have another household income to fall back on) freaks out and, on some level, is convinced that he or she is going to end up penniless and homeless within hours.
Which never happens. August comes, the calls start coming in, the 800-pound gorilla of fear and agony goes back into his hiding place until just after Christmas. But I've had just enough of hauling this useless hairy beast about, and there's no place for him on the bike, especially when I'm trying to keep focussed. If it means having to shuffle my training around to make sure that everyone gets paid, then that's the risk that I'm willing to take.
I am not willing to spend the next seven weeks sweating bullets and eating chickpeas, no matter how healthy they are, because I can't afford anything else. I refuse to be the typical broke female cyclist who can't make ends meet. I am determined to be successful...and solvent.
I'm not going to the Ciudad de Uxama because I have no money. I slept badly last night because I'm broke. I have spent the last month doing magic tricks with my bank account and most of the time, it does work, but I know I can't keep the juggling up for long.
I knew that being a female cyclist and being broke was, almost, a foregone conclusion. Even Katie Compton, the US National Cyclocross Champion, is scrambling to find funding after her main sponsor backed out. In a sense, I'm fortunate, because I've already gone through university and know that I'm not likely to have kids, or get divorced, both of which are guaranteed drains on finances. Still, I can't bring myself to make an honest calculation on how much I've spent on cycling (Mom, you may want to stop reading at this point...) because if I thought about how much I could have invested in something reasonable like a pension fund or decent furniture or even plastic surgery.
So, this morning, I am lightening up the bicycle considerably. I am going out and doing the rounds to put up advertisements for new English classes because if I don't find more work soon, I'm going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble.
Please keep in mind, though, that this is not a cry for help. It's the last third of July, when practically every English teacher I know (especially those who don't have another household income to fall back on) freaks out and, on some level, is convinced that he or she is going to end up penniless and homeless within hours.
Which never happens. August comes, the calls start coming in, the 800-pound gorilla of fear and agony goes back into his hiding place until just after Christmas. But I've had just enough of hauling this useless hairy beast about, and there's no place for him on the bike, especially when I'm trying to keep focussed. If it means having to shuffle my training around to make sure that everyone gets paid, then that's the risk that I'm willing to take.
I am not willing to spend the next seven weeks sweating bullets and eating chickpeas, no matter how healthy they are, because I can't afford anything else. I refuse to be the typical broke female cyclist who can't make ends meet. I am determined to be successful...and solvent.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
I think I want the Tour to be over.
I think I want the Tour to be over already.
I think I want Alberto Contador to just go ahead and put the screws to Texas Toast (sorry..."He Who Shall Not Be Named" was already taken) one more time so that people on the Bicycling Magazine forums can have something else to whine about.
I think I want the Tour to be over because I want Alberto to have won and I'm having a lot of trouble enjoying the winning.
I think I want the Tour to be over because I want to know about the inevitable shitstorm that will come with the Contador-Brunyeel divorce.
I think I want the Tour to be over for selfish reasons, too, because then it'll be fun to do volume rides down around San Martín de la Vega and see the Peña, and try to figure out which skinny guy with the big nose and Giro glasses he was.
I think I want the Tour to be over because I love Contador's phoenix-like reappearances, how many times this...this KID...has pulled himself out of crap situations and come out the stronger and better rider for it.
I think I want the Tour to be over because then I can focus on my own cycling, and it'll mean that Yago and Zaida will be back in town and there'll be, like, y'know, reasonable cycling fans I can talk to about cycling, in English.
I think I want to Tour to be over because I want to believe in the underdog, no matter how strong he is.
I think I want the Tour to be over 'cause I really want to see Bradley Wiggins, or anyone in the Argyle Armada, place higher than Texas Toast.
I think I want the Tour to be over because then I'll know whether I have to deal with a broken heart or not...
I think I want Alberto Contador to just go ahead and put the screws to Texas Toast (sorry..."He Who Shall Not Be Named" was already taken) one more time so that people on the Bicycling Magazine forums can have something else to whine about.
I think I want the Tour to be over because I want Alberto to have won and I'm having a lot of trouble enjoying the winning.
I think I want the Tour to be over because I want to know about the inevitable shitstorm that will come with the Contador-Brunyeel divorce.
I think I want the Tour to be over for selfish reasons, too, because then it'll be fun to do volume rides down around San Martín de la Vega and see the Peña, and try to figure out which skinny guy with the big nose and Giro glasses he was.
I think I want the Tour to be over because I love Contador's phoenix-like reappearances, how many times this...this KID...has pulled himself out of crap situations and come out the stronger and better rider for it.
I think I want the Tour to be over because then I can focus on my own cycling, and it'll mean that Yago and Zaida will be back in town and there'll be, like, y'know, reasonable cycling fans I can talk to about cycling, in English.
I think I want to Tour to be over because I want to believe in the underdog, no matter how strong he is.
I think I want the Tour to be over 'cause I really want to see Bradley Wiggins, or anyone in the Argyle Armada, place higher than Texas Toast.
I think I want the Tour to be over because then I'll know whether I have to deal with a broken heart or not...
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
The Last Bitchin' Thing I Will Ever Write About That Pretentious Redneck. I promise.
(Subtitled: Why half a litre of coffee and listening to the Squirrel Nut Zippers at 7AM is a really BAD idea.)
"Lance is an athlete unlike any other!"
- Gabriele, BICYCLING Magazine's Facebook page.
Of course he is! Haven't you heard? Lance Armstrong has escaped the bounds of mere mortality to transcend anything beyond what we understand humanity to be. Seven Tours de France weren't good enough for him...no sir!
Lance Armstrong solved the subprime mortgage crisis while shaving his legs!
Lance Armstrong Twittered the location of AF447's black box to the National Transportation Safety Board while climbing an 8% grade! (See, he doesn't hate the French!)
Lance Armstrong had a good reason for draining the water table around his ranch - how can a guy practice walking on water without having a sizeable practice area? That'd be like training for the Tour in the parking lot of the local public school!
Lance Armstrong convinced Gordon Ramsay to stop swearing!
Lance Armstrong, to prepare for the climbs in the Pyrenees, lost 6kg of muscle overnight simply by sheer willpower and by dancing nonstop to the soundtrack of "Hairspray"!
Lance Armstrong was just awarded a PhD in philosophy for his thesis "Wittgenstein's Existential Interpretation of Parent-Child Relationships: The Harry Potter Dilemma."
Lance Armstrong is dating the Queen of England! WITH Prince Philip's blessing!
Lance Armstrong brings puppies back from the dead!
No, sir. Contador's days as a mere rider are numbered, and as for the other guys in the pelotón, especially the Americans, they might as well slouch home with their rear derailleurs between their legs and keep their fingers crossed that someone'll pony up the money for a bike shop or something like that. All bow down before the greatness of Lance Armstrong! Embrace your inner Lanceness! Armstrong Über Alles!
(With kudos and thanks to THE ONION, Paul Rudnick, Christopher Buckley, and those brainless Lanceamaniacs who haven't seen one friggin' stage of the Tour in their LIVES and who keep clogging up cycling forums around the world. You guys are an endless source of inspiration. Go Wiggo, Conta, Miller, Zabriskie, Christian and Sastre.)
"Lance is an athlete unlike any other!"
- Gabriele, BICYCLING Magazine's Facebook page.
Of course he is! Haven't you heard? Lance Armstrong has escaped the bounds of mere mortality to transcend anything beyond what we understand humanity to be. Seven Tours de France weren't good enough for him...no sir!
Lance Armstrong solved the subprime mortgage crisis while shaving his legs!
Lance Armstrong Twittered the location of AF447's black box to the National Transportation Safety Board while climbing an 8% grade! (See, he doesn't hate the French!)
Lance Armstrong had a good reason for draining the water table around his ranch - how can a guy practice walking on water without having a sizeable practice area? That'd be like training for the Tour in the parking lot of the local public school!
Lance Armstrong convinced Gordon Ramsay to stop swearing!
Lance Armstrong, to prepare for the climbs in the Pyrenees, lost 6kg of muscle overnight simply by sheer willpower and by dancing nonstop to the soundtrack of "Hairspray"!
Lance Armstrong was just awarded a PhD in philosophy for his thesis "Wittgenstein's Existential Interpretation of Parent-Child Relationships: The Harry Potter Dilemma."
Lance Armstrong is dating the Queen of England! WITH Prince Philip's blessing!
Lance Armstrong brings puppies back from the dead!
No, sir. Contador's days as a mere rider are numbered, and as for the other guys in the pelotón, especially the Americans, they might as well slouch home with their rear derailleurs between their legs and keep their fingers crossed that someone'll pony up the money for a bike shop or something like that. All bow down before the greatness of Lance Armstrong! Embrace your inner Lanceness! Armstrong Über Alles!
(With kudos and thanks to THE ONION, Paul Rudnick, Christopher Buckley, and those brainless Lanceamaniacs who haven't seen one friggin' stage of the Tour in their LIVES and who keep clogging up cycling forums around the world. You guys are an endless source of inspiration. Go Wiggo, Conta, Miller, Zabriskie, Christian and Sastre.)
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Why Lance Armstrong Never Ceases to Bug the Bejeezus out of Me (Part 3 of....)
I'm trying to decide if I have enough nerve to send this letter to the editors of BICYCLING magazine. There are still 11 stages left in the Tour de France and still over 150 riders taking part, though you'd never know it from the magazine's coverage. What do you think?
ºººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº
Dear Ms. Mooney:
Lance, Lance Lance Lance, Lance. Lance Lance Lance? Lance Lance, Lance Lance Lance Lance Lance Lance, Lance Lance, Lance Lance Lance Lance Lance Lance Lance. Lance...Lance Lance Lance Lance, Lance Lance Lance: Lance Lance Lance Lance. Lance Lance Lance Lance.
Or, at least, please bring back "The Sex Issue."
Kind regards
Dawn Severenuk
Madrid, Spain
(PS: Feel free to nick this idea. Maybe for once they'll get the hint.)
ºººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº
Dear Ms. Mooney:
Lance, Lance Lance Lance, Lance. Lance Lance Lance? Lance Lance, Lance Lance Lance Lance Lance Lance, Lance Lance, Lance Lance Lance Lance Lance Lance Lance. Lance...Lance Lance Lance Lance, Lance Lance Lance: Lance Lance Lance Lance. Lance Lance Lance Lance.
Or, at least, please bring back "The Sex Issue."
Kind regards
Dawn Severenuk
Madrid, Spain
(PS: Feel free to nick this idea. Maybe for once they'll get the hint.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
