M., as it turns out, is a champ. Not just for having won last Saturday's Madrid women's open mountain biking champion; before she got into biking, she was also a national champ in competitive swimming. But I didn't hear all of this from her. In fact, when I congratulated her on her win, she kind of blew it off in the same way people sometimes blow off my mangle attempts at cross-cultural humour. I had to hear it from Yago, who's known her for a couple of years and has been coaching her for a while.
From what I've seen, M. isn't necessarily fond of being known for being a champ. I had to hear it from Yago. In a sense this is probably a positive thing, because if M. had been honest about her athletic achievements from the start, I would definitely have hesitated against going out with her. (Who needs to suffer up a Cat 1 climb knowing that you're getting your butt kicked by an Olympic-calibre athlete?) Not that thhat would make M. any less fun to be around - she's got that grace and open-ness that you find in the greatest people who come from Córdoba. And it's an enormous relief to have someone to train with who's not going to leave me vomiting in a ditch somewhere.
Chris chalks it up to humility and to a certain point, I agree. Nobody wants to ride with a blowhard unless it means kicking said blowhard's butt. But this wasn't humility. It was the kind of downturned eyes-pursed lips-subject quickly changed denial of the truth that you sometimes witness in older survivors of the Spanish Civil War - a kind of physical shutting down of the subject that drives you to discuss Real Madrid or wind or food additives or how to stop cleats from squeaking, anything just to keep the conversation flowing enough, so that new words can replace the embarrassing ones. A momentary flicker, but there nonetheless. So we talk about other things, about the Clásica de los Puertos or Quebrantahuesos or about power meters, and all I can think of is, You know, if I'd had a gym teacher who was as cool as you were when I was a kid, I wouldn't have waited until mid-life to make a go of this. I might have taken my body and my possibilities a little more seriously.
But I don't say anything, or at least, if I say something, I say it in English, to Yago, mostly later when M. is out of earshot. She wouldn't have told me that of her own volition, would she? I ask him, and he shakes his head no.
To each her own. But at the same time, I feel sad that there's something there that prevents her from talking about it, something that goes beyond aw-shucks reticence.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Chuffed!
Alberto #2 just sent a message apologizing for not having gotten in contact sooner, and wondering if I would be interested in going riding on Friday.
>>big grin<<
That is all.
>>big grin<<
That is all.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Huh?
I got out of the shower yesterday and as I was drying myself off I looked in the mirror...and I saw a back that I didn't recognize. There were muscles! There were no weird little flabby bits under the arms! There were signs of ribs coming out the sides!
And I was, like, what the hell is that? I have never seen muscles in my back.
Then, while in class with Cristina last night, I reached behind me to scratch my back and hit something hard. And I was, like, what the hell is that? It was a bone.
The French have an expression for feeling good about yourself: being good in your own skin. But it's very strange when you don't recognize the body that you're living in!
And I was, like, what the hell is that? I have never seen muscles in my back.
Then, while in class with Cristina last night, I reached behind me to scratch my back and hit something hard. And I was, like, what the hell is that? It was a bone.
The French have an expression for feeling good about yourself: being good in your own skin. But it's very strange when you don't recognize the body that you're living in!
Monday, May 25, 2009
This little piggy...
...is going to help me save up for this...
http://www.cervelo.com/models/fullsize/P3-ZIPP-909_001.png
So, approporiately, the pig has been named Cervélo.
Not being able to see how much money is actually in there helps a lot. It eliminates the temptation to dive in and steal whatever's inside.
Mind, the BIG Cervélo currently costs about US$4500, so let's keep hoping that the Euro stays high.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Force
Good days feel like flying. Bad days, days when you're off and the elements or the gods (whichever you happen to believe in most strongly) are not with you, it's like swimming through porridge with your hands tied behind your back. The constant struggle to keep your head clear and to keep yourself high and above all of the crappy things - the rain, the wind that threatens to blow you into the guard rails, not seeing any other cyclists and wondering if you're mad to even be trying this - is taxing.
You fight by trying to keep your pedal stroke as smooth as possible. You put your forearms over your brake hoods and bend over the handlebars on the flats, hoping that that'll cut down on the wind resistance. You remind yourself that you've been through far worse weather than this, and at least you don't have someone bitching and moaning behind you about what a bad time they're having. You think of anything that will keep your mind off the current circumstances - yummy leftovers in the fridge for lunch, Oscar Pereiro in a Speedo, different ways you would spend the money if you won the lottery. But when the body fails, there's not much you can do.
It's easy to think of power as something that someone wields over you, a thing that people use to control each other. It's easy to forget that power also talks about our own ability to do things and get things out of the way. But power doesn't come from outside sources: you have to generate your own power. And it's on days like today that I fail miserably, somehow. I look up the Alto de León and it certainly doesn't look like anything that's beyond my power - but I cannot get my legs in action long and hard enough to make it work.
My heart rate doesn't respond. Mentally I feel like someone's replaced my brain with a bag of M&Ms. I want to take this on, and if I were to give it enough and work at it hard enough I know that, eventually, I'd get my ass up the pass. But it's just not there today. Nothing is responding. Someone, somewhere, between the turnoff off the M607 and Cerceda, has kicked a plug out of one of the walls of my mind and I cannot turn over. I'm not dying the way I did up the back end of Morcuera two weeks ago, but there's no mind to get over the matter because today is suffering from a distinct lack of mind.
I start to wrack my brains. What the hell has happened to me this time? Was it the antihistamine? Was it not having pasta at lunch yesterday? Was it only getting six and a half hours of sleep? The weather? My own attitude? Have I somehow let myself down on this? I come up blank. The only thing that I can think of is how dodgy my stomach was this morning -- did the diarrhea cause dehydration? Or is....
It doesn't matter. The force is just not there today.
Having debated whether it's fair to bother him at home on a Saturday, I send Yago an apologetic SMS asking for advice. He calls two minutes later: "Hombre, no pasa nada. Sometimes it just take a little longer for things to kick in. Try it and if, after five or ten minutes, you see that you're not responding, give it a break. The weather sucks and it's rainy."
This is what I love about having a coach: it's such a relief to have someone who manages to keep his head on when I don't know where the hell mine is.
So I try the Alto, and what little there is left of my brain is somewhat aggravated to see the route and know, Damn, on a better day, I could SO do this. But it's a mountain pass. It's not going anywhere, and it's not like it's the only shot I have at climbing this.
I cut off at Km 51 just as my stomach lurches again. No time to go to San Lorenzo, and anyway, it's better to go to Villalba, where the two commuter lines converge and the trains will be more frequent.
I'm so spent can't even be bothered to freak out about Quebrantahuesos. All I can think of is Michael Barry's description of how Allan Davis spent the better part of Wednesday's stage of the Giro filling cycling caps with diarrhea and praying that I get to Villalba before my stomach starts acting up again or my brain goes totally to hell.
Later, when I'm sitting at the computer and listening to the guys downstairs blast "Fire Woman" by The Cult (one of my climbings songs - an omen?) I'll realize that I don't even remember much of the ride back to Villalba. I'll rememeber seeing the McDonald's and realizing that it's been two years since I set foot in a Mickey D's, and I'll remember trying to dodge the steel plate in the road and coming dangerously close to a blue transit van whose driver was blasting La Paquera de Jerez singing bulerías. I'll remember the Brazilian woman in Villalba station who asked for directions and that the train to León came in on the other side of the platform -- but not much else. I won't remember the ride home, as I fell asleep on the newspaper as I was reading on the train. I'll get home, scarf the leftover salmon and mango salsa from last night, and then promptly fall asleep for damn near four hours.
When there's no power, there's no force, and no sense in forcing. I guess.
You fight by trying to keep your pedal stroke as smooth as possible. You put your forearms over your brake hoods and bend over the handlebars on the flats, hoping that that'll cut down on the wind resistance. You remind yourself that you've been through far worse weather than this, and at least you don't have someone bitching and moaning behind you about what a bad time they're having. You think of anything that will keep your mind off the current circumstances - yummy leftovers in the fridge for lunch, Oscar Pereiro in a Speedo, different ways you would spend the money if you won the lottery. But when the body fails, there's not much you can do.
It's easy to think of power as something that someone wields over you, a thing that people use to control each other. It's easy to forget that power also talks about our own ability to do things and get things out of the way. But power doesn't come from outside sources: you have to generate your own power. And it's on days like today that I fail miserably, somehow. I look up the Alto de León and it certainly doesn't look like anything that's beyond my power - but I cannot get my legs in action long and hard enough to make it work.
My heart rate doesn't respond. Mentally I feel like someone's replaced my brain with a bag of M&Ms. I want to take this on, and if I were to give it enough and work at it hard enough I know that, eventually, I'd get my ass up the pass. But it's just not there today. Nothing is responding. Someone, somewhere, between the turnoff off the M607 and Cerceda, has kicked a plug out of one of the walls of my mind and I cannot turn over. I'm not dying the way I did up the back end of Morcuera two weeks ago, but there's no mind to get over the matter because today is suffering from a distinct lack of mind.
I start to wrack my brains. What the hell has happened to me this time? Was it the antihistamine? Was it not having pasta at lunch yesterday? Was it only getting six and a half hours of sleep? The weather? My own attitude? Have I somehow let myself down on this? I come up blank. The only thing that I can think of is how dodgy my stomach was this morning -- did the diarrhea cause dehydration? Or is....
It doesn't matter. The force is just not there today.
Having debated whether it's fair to bother him at home on a Saturday, I send Yago an apologetic SMS asking for advice. He calls two minutes later: "Hombre, no pasa nada. Sometimes it just take a little longer for things to kick in. Try it and if, after five or ten minutes, you see that you're not responding, give it a break. The weather sucks and it's rainy."
This is what I love about having a coach: it's such a relief to have someone who manages to keep his head on when I don't know where the hell mine is.
So I try the Alto, and what little there is left of my brain is somewhat aggravated to see the route and know, Damn, on a better day, I could SO do this. But it's a mountain pass. It's not going anywhere, and it's not like it's the only shot I have at climbing this.
I cut off at Km 51 just as my stomach lurches again. No time to go to San Lorenzo, and anyway, it's better to go to Villalba, where the two commuter lines converge and the trains will be more frequent.
I'm so spent can't even be bothered to freak out about Quebrantahuesos. All I can think of is Michael Barry's description of how Allan Davis spent the better part of Wednesday's stage of the Giro filling cycling caps with diarrhea and praying that I get to Villalba before my stomach starts acting up again or my brain goes totally to hell.
Later, when I'm sitting at the computer and listening to the guys downstairs blast "Fire Woman" by The Cult (one of my climbings songs - an omen?) I'll realize that I don't even remember much of the ride back to Villalba. I'll rememeber seeing the McDonald's and realizing that it's been two years since I set foot in a Mickey D's, and I'll remember trying to dodge the steel plate in the road and coming dangerously close to a blue transit van whose driver was blasting La Paquera de Jerez singing bulerías. I'll remember the Brazilian woman in Villalba station who asked for directions and that the train to León came in on the other side of the platform -- but not much else. I won't remember the ride home, as I fell asleep on the newspaper as I was reading on the train. I'll get home, scarf the leftover salmon and mango salsa from last night, and then promptly fall asleep for damn near four hours.
When there's no power, there's no force, and no sense in forcing. I guess.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Outliers
Normally, if I'm home and not working between four and seven in the afternoon, I enjoy wasting time and messing about with Toni "Ol' Blue Eyes" Garrido, listening to his program "Asuntos Propios" on Radio Nacional Española. I was glad I didn't listen this afternoon, however. Garrido's featured guest was singer Soraya, who represented Spain in the annual cheesefest that is Eurovision. Over the past few years, Eurovision has gone from being simply tacky to a full-on Gong Show, and this year, the European Broadcasting Network cracked down on the messing about and made every country present something relatively normal.
Not that that's necessarily a good thing. "Normal", as the saying goes, "is only the mean average of every bit of weirdness and boring crap out there," and though Soraya can certainly belt a song with the best of them, she was one blonde singing a vaguely disco-ish song with five backup dancers. And in any Eurovision contest, there is no shortage of blonde babes belting dance tunes while dancers writhe in the background. Not surprisingly, Soraya got her ass handed to her on a plate, but it probably isn't her fault - the song was nothing special, she was one of a more than a dozen blonde singers that night, and the whole thing was an exercise in mediocrity. And in spite of this, Soraya appeared on "Asuntos Propios" and, apparently, came out swinging against the powers that be at Televisión Española for her failure to rise any higher than second-last. Which is not to say that she wasn't good or competent or talented. She just wasn't different enough to win.
I think about being different a lot. I guess it can't be helped: short and stocky and light-skinned in a country filled with willowy olive-skinned beauties; lapsed Protestant in a Catholic nation; girl who cycles. No matter how you cut it, I don't fit in. But I refuse to see that as a disadvantage.
Yeah, I have pretty big legs, but I can sprint well. Once I got over the initial fear of him thinking that I was a complete nutjob, I had no problems sending an e-mail to a coach and being honest about where I wanted to go with cycling. (If anyone is still doubting whether or not to contact Yago for help, do it, if only for that last thing.) You can't make fun of me and embarrass me. I do it to myself all the time, and I am not afraid to have a laugh at myself, something which sets me apart from the vast majority of people I know. I AM weird. I AM ridiculous. Your point being....?
I mean, I don't want to be SO ridiculous that people feel they need a slide rule just to figure out what I'm talking about. But I'm not afraid to be different, and I think that that has been a big advantage with my cycling. I am the idiot who will go out in the snow and the rain. I am the person who will ride a hill seven or eight times over to get a feel for the curves. I am the person who will throw it all into a ride, even if it means crawling home on my hands and knees.
I guess I just want it more than the others do; that, coupled with a distinct lack of fear of looking silly, is what's going to make this work.
Not that that's necessarily a good thing. "Normal", as the saying goes, "is only the mean average of every bit of weirdness and boring crap out there," and though Soraya can certainly belt a song with the best of them, she was one blonde singing a vaguely disco-ish song with five backup dancers. And in any Eurovision contest, there is no shortage of blonde babes belting dance tunes while dancers writhe in the background. Not surprisingly, Soraya got her ass handed to her on a plate, but it probably isn't her fault - the song was nothing special, she was one of a more than a dozen blonde singers that night, and the whole thing was an exercise in mediocrity. And in spite of this, Soraya appeared on "Asuntos Propios" and, apparently, came out swinging against the powers that be at Televisión Española for her failure to rise any higher than second-last. Which is not to say that she wasn't good or competent or talented. She just wasn't different enough to win.
I think about being different a lot. I guess it can't be helped: short and stocky and light-skinned in a country filled with willowy olive-skinned beauties; lapsed Protestant in a Catholic nation; girl who cycles. No matter how you cut it, I don't fit in. But I refuse to see that as a disadvantage.
Yeah, I have pretty big legs, but I can sprint well. Once I got over the initial fear of him thinking that I was a complete nutjob, I had no problems sending an e-mail to a coach and being honest about where I wanted to go with cycling. (If anyone is still doubting whether or not to contact Yago for help, do it, if only for that last thing.) You can't make fun of me and embarrass me. I do it to myself all the time, and I am not afraid to have a laugh at myself, something which sets me apart from the vast majority of people I know. I AM weird. I AM ridiculous. Your point being....?
I mean, I don't want to be SO ridiculous that people feel they need a slide rule just to figure out what I'm talking about. But I'm not afraid to be different, and I think that that has been a big advantage with my cycling. I am the idiot who will go out in the snow and the rain. I am the person who will ride a hill seven or eight times over to get a feel for the curves. I am the person who will throw it all into a ride, even if it means crawling home on my hands and knees.
I guess I just want it more than the others do; that, coupled with a distinct lack of fear of looking silly, is what's going to make this work.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Alberto #2
When I started making a serious go of cycling, I made a conscious decision to get rid of stuff in my life that wasn't working: friendships with people who weren't really friends; alcohol; excessive eating; late nights; and sex. Without going into too much detail, that final decision was the result of a couple of extremely disappointing incidents during 2008 which made me wonder exactly where my priorities were. So. No guys, no booze, no being Bridget Jones.
That does not mean, however, that I'm dead or oblivious. I participate in a sport where guys wear tight Lycra, after all, and while Spanish guys will never be known for being burly and ripped, one notices things. The way the light will illumate a particularly well-toned calf; watching an arc of cyclists take a downhill curve, barely touching the brakes as they form a perfect line of velocity. And then there's Alberto.
No, not that Alberto. (I think I saw THAT Alberto last weekend and I must say that, in addition to being far too young and probably too rich -- now that he's won damn near everything under the sun --nah. Just, nah.) Alberto lives a couple of blocks from me (he was one of the first to say hi to me and ride with me to the clubhouse back in February.) Most people probably wouldn't consider him good-looking in a classic sense but by God, can he ride. Boy, has he got legs and does he know how to use them. Yeah, he buys his gear at Decathlon. But no other guy in the club has the guts or the legs (or the tan) to wear white culottes and look damn fine in them.
I may be boring and celibate and sober but I'm not DEAD.
Thinking of both Albertos does get me up hills on a regular basis, but only Alberto #2 cheers me on. Only Alberto #2 has given me his phone number (which I have hesitated against using because I don't want to cause problems in case he's not the one picking up the phone on the other end.) Only Alberto #2 let me draft his wheel going up San Pedro a couple of weeks back and had no idea (or if he knew, he didn't let on) that I stuck so close to his back wheel just because it was a joy to watch him dance on the pedals, to make it look so effortless. Even today, as we were coming down from El Vellón, there was a moment where there was a short but intense uphill segment and like a ballet dancer, he balanced himself slightly on the brake hoods, arched his back, and pulled himself and the bike up the hill like something out of a Degas masterpiece. There are faster, stronger, tougher cyclists in the Chamartín, but none who I enjoy watching as much.
Still, I have no choice but to keep temptation in check. I work from the assumption that every man in the Chamartín is either married or seriously involved with someone. I push hard, don't let myself get too fall behind, make an effort to be a pal or a good team member because I don't want a repeat of the AG situation where the unnegotiatble condition of being a female - not one I can change or mitigate - comes back to slap me upside the head and haunt me for months to come. I tell myself that no man has the right to try to separate me from my cycling (and that I have no right to expect one to do so.)
So far, I've been pretty good with the early bedtimes, and I don't go too nuts over sugar. With a couple of notable exceptions, I haven't missed alcohol at all. But this is a tough one to keep in check. So it's either learn to be faster and keep up with the group he rides with, or learn to squelch any kind of pining before it gets out of hand.
That does not mean, however, that I'm dead or oblivious. I participate in a sport where guys wear tight Lycra, after all, and while Spanish guys will never be known for being burly and ripped, one notices things. The way the light will illumate a particularly well-toned calf; watching an arc of cyclists take a downhill curve, barely touching the brakes as they form a perfect line of velocity. And then there's Alberto.
No, not that Alberto. (I think I saw THAT Alberto last weekend and I must say that, in addition to being far too young and probably too rich -- now that he's won damn near everything under the sun --nah. Just, nah.) Alberto lives a couple of blocks from me (he was one of the first to say hi to me and ride with me to the clubhouse back in February.) Most people probably wouldn't consider him good-looking in a classic sense but by God, can he ride. Boy, has he got legs and does he know how to use them. Yeah, he buys his gear at Decathlon. But no other guy in the club has the guts or the legs (or the tan) to wear white culottes and look damn fine in them.
I may be boring and celibate and sober but I'm not DEAD.
Thinking of both Albertos does get me up hills on a regular basis, but only Alberto #2 cheers me on. Only Alberto #2 has given me his phone number (which I have hesitated against using because I don't want to cause problems in case he's not the one picking up the phone on the other end.) Only Alberto #2 let me draft his wheel going up San Pedro a couple of weeks back and had no idea (or if he knew, he didn't let on) that I stuck so close to his back wheel just because it was a joy to watch him dance on the pedals, to make it look so effortless. Even today, as we were coming down from El Vellón, there was a moment where there was a short but intense uphill segment and like a ballet dancer, he balanced himself slightly on the brake hoods, arched his back, and pulled himself and the bike up the hill like something out of a Degas masterpiece. There are faster, stronger, tougher cyclists in the Chamartín, but none who I enjoy watching as much.
Still, I have no choice but to keep temptation in check. I work from the assumption that every man in the Chamartín is either married or seriously involved with someone. I push hard, don't let myself get too fall behind, make an effort to be a pal or a good team member because I don't want a repeat of the AG situation where the unnegotiatble condition of being a female - not one I can change or mitigate - comes back to slap me upside the head and haunt me for months to come. I tell myself that no man has the right to try to separate me from my cycling (and that I have no right to expect one to do so.)
So far, I've been pretty good with the early bedtimes, and I don't go too nuts over sugar. With a couple of notable exceptions, I haven't missed alcohol at all. But this is a tough one to keep in check. So it's either learn to be faster and keep up with the group he rides with, or learn to squelch any kind of pining before it gets out of hand.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Human
It wasn't until about five minutes after that I realized I should have looked at the bike. His bike, a white Trek Madone, has three licks of colour on the seat tube - gold for the Tour, pink for the Giro, goldenrod for the Vuelta. After all, if I had a buck for every skinny, Spanish-looking guy with knobby knees who rides around San Martín de la Vega and Titulcia dressed in Astana kit, I'd probably...I'd probably have enough to buy a round of coffees at the Toskana, and not much else.
What got me were the sunglasses. If it wasn't him, it was someone wearing exactly the same model on a nose that's not particularly suited to round frames. They were that odd kind of schoolbus yellow, not really Tour yellow, but not really dark enough to be Vuelta gold, either.
At my age, I'm beyond believing in princes charming or the usefulness of wading through ponds to find frogs to kiss. But I'm not beyond believing in a little magic. I believe in thinking about Tyler Hamilton's leather strap, Floyd Landis's frayed hip, or any one of a million stories of cyclists who had something determined and painful and magical in them that made them excel at what they do. (Do: present simple for things that don't change or things that always stay the same.) I believe in the power of roads that have been suffered on by thousands of cyclists, because it serves as a kind of communion to know that what I'm going through, the pain and the exhaustion and wind chill, is common to us all. I need to believe in the restorative power of coffee at the Toskana, even though I highly suspect that I'll get chewed out for not having ridden for three hours straight (even though I really needed to go to the bathroom and was feeling hungry.)
Life is a highway, sang Tom Cochrane, and he's right. And a highway is a type of symbol, a chain, the ribbon on a birthday present, a direct link between you and what you call home. At times, it seems like the highway is the strongest link I have to anything. I've ridden the M404 so many times over the past five years that I should know how to ride it blindfolded. But I don't, because every time I do ride it, it shows me something new or gives me some little gift and that's what keeps me coming back.
So: the glasses. Gold Giro glasses with dark smoked lenses, sitting on top of a nose which is going to become bulbous in its own age if its owner ends up going the Sean Roche/Jan Ullrich way once he retires. I tried to be cool. Little wave, come on, we're all in this together; I just got a round of applause from the bloody Villaverde Bajo crew. There were three riders together, one wearing anonymous gear, and a woman dressed in Phonak kit.
But there was just something about how damn ugly those (probably very expensive) glasses looked on that face. And it made him human. He probably couldn't wear something more hip, due to sponsorship obligations, but there was something about the...oh, all right - Elton John-ness (and we're talking early-piano-player-shooting Elton) of those glasses that made me think, you know, even if it was him and even if he is some kind of big shot...he's still human. You couldn't wear glasses like that without some kind of either post-ironic hipness, or obliviousness, and not be human. Otherwise, you'd be wearing something far more hip and ten times as expensive.
I can see it on the road ahead:
running hard, I'm here,
but I should be there, instead.
-- Tom Cochrane, "Human Race"
What got me were the sunglasses. If it wasn't him, it was someone wearing exactly the same model on a nose that's not particularly suited to round frames. They were that odd kind of schoolbus yellow, not really Tour yellow, but not really dark enough to be Vuelta gold, either.
At my age, I'm beyond believing in princes charming or the usefulness of wading through ponds to find frogs to kiss. But I'm not beyond believing in a little magic. I believe in thinking about Tyler Hamilton's leather strap, Floyd Landis's frayed hip, or any one of a million stories of cyclists who had something determined and painful and magical in them that made them excel at what they do. (Do: present simple for things that don't change or things that always stay the same.) I believe in the power of roads that have been suffered on by thousands of cyclists, because it serves as a kind of communion to know that what I'm going through, the pain and the exhaustion and wind chill, is common to us all. I need to believe in the restorative power of coffee at the Toskana, even though I highly suspect that I'll get chewed out for not having ridden for three hours straight (even though I really needed to go to the bathroom and was feeling hungry.)
Life is a highway, sang Tom Cochrane, and he's right. And a highway is a type of symbol, a chain, the ribbon on a birthday present, a direct link between you and what you call home. At times, it seems like the highway is the strongest link I have to anything. I've ridden the M404 so many times over the past five years that I should know how to ride it blindfolded. But I don't, because every time I do ride it, it shows me something new or gives me some little gift and that's what keeps me coming back.
So: the glasses. Gold Giro glasses with dark smoked lenses, sitting on top of a nose which is going to become bulbous in its own age if its owner ends up going the Sean Roche/Jan Ullrich way once he retires. I tried to be cool. Little wave, come on, we're all in this together; I just got a round of applause from the bloody Villaverde Bajo crew. There were three riders together, one wearing anonymous gear, and a woman dressed in Phonak kit.
But there was just something about how damn ugly those (probably very expensive) glasses looked on that face. And it made him human. He probably couldn't wear something more hip, due to sponsorship obligations, but there was something about the...oh, all right - Elton John-ness (and we're talking early-piano-player-shooting Elton) of those glasses that made me think, you know, even if it was him and even if he is some kind of big shot...he's still human. You couldn't wear glasses like that without some kind of either post-ironic hipness, or obliviousness, and not be human. Otherwise, you'd be wearing something far more hip and ten times as expensive.
I can see it on the road ahead:
running hard, I'm here,
but I should be there, instead.
-- Tom Cochrane, "Human Race"
Friday, May 8, 2009
Holes
Allergy season has come late this year, very late. Generally speaking, most of us who come from other lands start suffering some time around Easter, as the olive trees go into bloom, and it's almost always worse in years when there's a lot of rain. I thought I'd dodged it this year - was amazed that I didn't suffer more during Semana Santa - and then it started, on Wednesday. Getting out of Bea's car, in Avenida de America, it almost looked as if it was snowing. There's some kind of tree - not sure if they're poplars, chestnuts or plane trees - that lets loose great cottony gobs of fluff in bloom - and on the sidewalks and the curbs, small drifts of the fluff had started to accumulate and blow, as if it were spindrift at twenty below.
And this morning, I feel it. My face feels crusty, some wiseacre has shellacked my nasal cavities with cheap peanut brittle and I'm having problems breathing (well, that's what the Ventolin is for.) But the worst effect of this kind allergy is that it feels as if someone has drilled a hole in the back of my head and turned on the taps. It's embarrassing how much mucus comes right out of there; no matter how much water I drink, it's as if I can't keep on top of how much it dehydrates me. And I'm worried about taking an antihistamine because a) they make me jumpy as hell and b) drug tests. Yeah, I know, amateurs aren't likely to get tested. But I don't want to start using something that I know I shouldn't be taking anyway. I live three blocks from the national federation. It's tempting fate just a little too much.
Conchi called last night and asked if I wanted to go out. I should be doing the Marañosa test this morning, but I also know that pollen tends to be worse in the morning, and it's going to be slightly cooler this afternoon, so I'm going to take a chance (and take an antihistamine) and see what happens.
Now, if you all will excuse me, I'm going to head out to the bank and pay some bills, hit the pharmacy, and buy more paper towels (because with allergies like this, Kleenexes are, frankly, useless.)
What do you all do to offset the effects of allergies?
And this morning, I feel it. My face feels crusty, some wiseacre has shellacked my nasal cavities with cheap peanut brittle and I'm having problems breathing (well, that's what the Ventolin is for.) But the worst effect of this kind allergy is that it feels as if someone has drilled a hole in the back of my head and turned on the taps. It's embarrassing how much mucus comes right out of there; no matter how much water I drink, it's as if I can't keep on top of how much it dehydrates me. And I'm worried about taking an antihistamine because a) they make me jumpy as hell and b) drug tests. Yeah, I know, amateurs aren't likely to get tested. But I don't want to start using something that I know I shouldn't be taking anyway. I live three blocks from the national federation. It's tempting fate just a little too much.
Conchi called last night and asked if I wanted to go out. I should be doing the Marañosa test this morning, but I also know that pollen tends to be worse in the morning, and it's going to be slightly cooler this afternoon, so I'm going to take a chance (and take an antihistamine) and see what happens.
Now, if you all will excuse me, I'm going to head out to the bank and pay some bills, hit the pharmacy, and buy more paper towels (because with allergies like this, Kleenexes are, frankly, useless.)
What do you all do to offset the effects of allergies?
Friday, May 1, 2009
Really?
AG: Quizirque subire Morcuera, Navafria y Canencia. En ese orden y concierto. La idea no es mia, es luterana. Pero si esa gente de las colonias puede, nosotros, españoles todos, haremos por poder.
("The idea: to go up Morcuera, Navafría and Canencia. In that order. The idea isn't mind, it's Lutheran. But if those people from the colonies can do it, we, all of us Spaniards, will do it for power.")
The strange thing with cycling is that, in spite of the teamwork, the pelotón and the basic concept of having to compete against other people, it is a relatively solitary sport. At the end of the day, you really don't need anyone else: you need a bike, a pair of legs that can more or less move, and a pair of arms and legs to hang on to the handlebars. And that's it. Getting used to that idea --that having other people around is nice, but not fundamental -- takes time. But once you're used to it, it's immensely liberating.
Of course, what it means to be "alone" is open for interpretation. To find that you've been given a specific training task, and to find that someone has decided to come along without being explicity asked to accompany you...that's annoying. It would have been one thing to have been asked: "Do you mind if I come along?" It would have been another thing to have been explicity challenged: "We're coming along whether you like it or not."
But that sideways inference - conflict without the contact...what is UP with that? You wanna come with me or don't you? Just ASK.
So I'm taking off tomorrow on the 7:30 train and plan to be at least an hour in front of them. There'll be so many cyclists going up those mountain passes tomorrow that there's a good chance I'll never even see them. Besides, after the strong day I had yesterday, and knowing that AG's only gotten one good ride in since Easter, I may not be the one getting dropped tomorrow.
("The idea: to go up Morcuera, Navafría and Canencia. In that order. The idea isn't mind, it's Lutheran. But if those people from the colonies can do it, we, all of us Spaniards, will do it for power.")
The strange thing with cycling is that, in spite of the teamwork, the pelotón and the basic concept of having to compete against other people, it is a relatively solitary sport. At the end of the day, you really don't need anyone else: you need a bike, a pair of legs that can more or less move, and a pair of arms and legs to hang on to the handlebars. And that's it. Getting used to that idea --that having other people around is nice, but not fundamental -- takes time. But once you're used to it, it's immensely liberating.
Of course, what it means to be "alone" is open for interpretation. To find that you've been given a specific training task, and to find that someone has decided to come along without being explicity asked to accompany you...that's annoying. It would have been one thing to have been asked: "Do you mind if I come along?" It would have been another thing to have been explicity challenged: "We're coming along whether you like it or not."
But that sideways inference - conflict without the contact...what is UP with that? You wanna come with me or don't you? Just ASK.
So I'm taking off tomorrow on the 7:30 train and plan to be at least an hour in front of them. There'll be so many cyclists going up those mountain passes tomorrow that there's a good chance I'll never even see them. Besides, after the strong day I had yesterday, and knowing that AG's only gotten one good ride in since Easter, I may not be the one getting dropped tomorrow.
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