SPANISH CYCLEPATHS

Ooops

2010-02-05T01:55:00.000-08:00

Uh-oh. I knew it had been a while.

I knew that, basically, it had been pre-Whiteshorts; but I didn't realize that it had been nearly four months since I last posted. Whoops. Sorry, everyone. I keep meaning to be better about updating this blog. However, every time I think that, it goes to seed even worse than it did the time before. And it's not like I haven't had tons to write about.

Whiteshorts is a go. It'll be three months on the 25th.

I am now, officially, the oldest woman in the Spanish pelotón. God knows how, but I got me a team.

The muscles in my legs are starting to come through!

I have been appointed to the board of directors of the Chamartín...the first woman in the club's 85-year history, and I may probably be the only woman in Madrid to sit on the board of directors of any cycling club.

Huh. Life. It's what happens to you when you're not paying attention.

More soon.....

God, 41 years old and a semi-professional racer. If that's not a book in the making, I don't know what is....

The House of No (Part Two)

2009-11-14T02:58:00.001-08:00

What the hell is it about the Teleférico hill that keeps destroying my rear tires? Today's workout was pretty straightforward - 3 hours, with intervals halfway through, then the final 30 minutes at 140-145 bpm. I felt good - I felt a hell of a lot better than I did yesterday with the power meter test (and the subsequent hour-long search along the sides of the El Pardo highway looking for my Polar heart rate monitor, which decided to take a flying leap halfway through the power meter test.) I did well. I hit 160, as prescribed. I managed to get my climbing time down from three and half minutes to two. And at the end of the sixth climb, which felt oddly sluggish, I stuck my finger into my (€37 Kevlar-threaded) rear tire, which had all of the strength and resistance of an unbaked croissant.

I sighed. I got off the bike, grabbed the pump and began pumping. If nothing, kept with the tone of the whole damn week - getting paid late, losing the heart rate monitor, the lack of interest, manners or even timely replies from a certain someone, fighting with the landlady, losing classes, doing the math and realizing that a trip to Canada at Christmas-time is looking even less likely.

No dice. No matter how hard I pumped, the air just wasn't staying in.

I've had days when it didn't seem worth the trouble to get out of bed. It's the first time in a very long time when the entire week has felt, as my friend Kim quipped yesterday, so bad that even bacon tastes bad.

And then I realized that I'd left the spare inner tube in the other saddle bag, the one that was still on the Orbea, the one I'd taken down to Jaén and hadn't switched back to the Specialized.

I am nothing if not consistent.

What has scared me most about this week is that it's the first time in a long time when I've started wondering if all of the sacrifice and denial is really worth it. The utter failure to connect with Whiteshorts in any way has totally thrown me. I didn't think I was ready to let someone to get that close to me. And the subsequent hurt from being ignored by him has made me realize how much I used training and dieting and cycling to keep myself from being hurt again after the mess with Joseba last year. (Worked well, huh?) And yeah, I know that hurt is what keeps you human; that pain, administered in sufficient doses, is what makes you feel empathy. No man is an island, that kind of stuff. Which is not to say that I want to -- that I am going to -- stop the sacrifice and denial. It's gotten me a hell of a long way this year. It's obvious now that I just have to think of the other...you know, stuff.

So I'll go to Mammoth on the way to Scott's, and I'll get another tire. I'll go grocery shopping, I'll make myself a nice dinner tonight and a nice sandwich for my walk in the sierra tomorrow with Alana. I'll bring the camera, I'll take photos of us getting soaked on the Camino Schmidt while we have a good time and a laugh and bitch about men. And I'll remember that nothing lasts forever. Not rejection or losing cycle computers (which have red plastic and can usually be found in beds of pine needles - they don't bounce very far, it seems) or not getting paid or rain or snow or pain.

The House of No (Part One)

2009-11-07T02:32:00.000-08:00

See, silly immigrant that I am, where I come from, if you don't wanna do something with someone, you just say NO. N-O. Consonant, vowel. Probably one of the most universal words known to mankind. One of the first words that most children master. I'm 41 years old; I've heard it at least once or twice in my life. It's nice if it comes accompanied with a little white lie or something like that, but I'd rather hear it alone and buck-naked rather than hear nothing at all.

I gave him twenty-five minutes. I'd called The Other One the day before: You still in for Chinchón tomorrow? Nah, he says, I've got the kids and it's Hallowe'en and all, so I won't be able to ride. But if he can't go, he'll call you. He's good like that.

So, silly me, I stood like a fool and waited in front of the church for Whiteshorts for twenty-five minutes before I called him. No answer. No more waiting, I thought, and I took off. When is a plan not a plan in this country? I tried not to beat myself up about it, but it still irritated the hell out of me -- especially since I had sent him two messages during the week asking, first directly and then indirectly, if he was going.

I went to San Martín, I saw someone who looked suspiciously like Contador (but then again, the Vegas are full of tall, skinny riders with big noses, wearing Astana kit and riding Trek bikes. Contador, it seems, has more doubles than Saddam Hussein.)

I got home at about one. Five hours later, I got an offhand message telling me that he went north to Soto, and happened to run into a couple of buds on the way.

And if being stood up wasn't bad enough....at the clubhouse last night, the big NO came when I found out that both Whiteshort AND The Other One met up with the guys at Fuencarral that very same Sunday as if nothing had happened.

Wow. I know that I'm not as good as the other guys in the club, but I had NO idea that I was so bad that people feel they have to lie. There's probably nothing that's more effective at putting you off someone than to find out that he felt some kind of compulsion to lie to you.

Move it, girlfriend!

2009-11-05T01:44:00.000-08:00

I had no idea that Stephanie was involved so deeply in biking. I knew from Scott that his sister worked in administration at a small East Coast college and had travelled extensively, but I didn't know that she owned three hand-made bikes, competed with Team LUNA Chix and was about to do a 300-mile ride to raise money to combat global warming. I mean, Scott has known me for over twenty years...you'd think that it would have come up at some point in time that his sister spends more on bikes than most guys spend on their cars.

Which got me to thinking. Steph is about two years younger than Scott. Scott's not that much younger than me. And when I look at the faces of the women on Steph's team, it's hard to find someone who would be significantly younger than the bunch of us. This holds true for a lot of the female cyclists I know: cycling doesn't seem to grab hold of us until we're in our late 20s or early 30s, and when it does, it tends to invade our lives in ways that other activities just can't manage.

Which got me to thinking even more: Why is so much focus put on developing junior riders and younger riders when it's the older riders who are the ones who have the time, passion and money to really make a go of cycling? In the States, which uses a (seemingly) well-developed system of categories that allow riders of all ages and genders to move up logically through the system, there's a logical system of advancement. Presumably, that would mean that there's a logical system of rider development. It's a shame that there seems to be so little interest in the Spanish federation to examine this in more detail, and that they're so obsessed with developing medal-level riders that they forget to work from the base, la afición, where the money and passion truly lie.

Which makes me wonder if I shouldn't ask Pepe el Presi for the stats of how many women hold licenses in Spain. I bet it'd be a real eye-opener, and not a good one at that....

In the loop....

2009-11-03T01:54:00.000-08:00

The 2010 season has, more or less, officially begun with the pre-registration process for Quebrantahuesos....

I'm lottery number 4018.

Fingers crossed, fingers crossed, fingers crossed....

Why does this feel kind of....sick?

2009-09-14T11:07:00.000-07:00

(NOTA : Pedro H., si lees eso, me encantaría oír tus opiniones y tus interpretaciones sobre el tema. -- D)

If your Spanish is up for it (and I apologize in advance, I use that phrase WAY the hell too much), one of the best people writing about cycling in Spanish is Pedro Horrillo. The Basque biker has taken his "Desde mi sillín" column in EL PAÍS to the Internet (YAY for having free access to anything and everything; BOO to EL PAÍS for -- I'm guessing -- being too cheap to pay the guy. Y dinos si no te paguen por eso y pondremos el grito al cielo para que los tacaños de la calle Miguel Yuste se aflojan los cuerdos de los bolsillos.)

So today on the forum they're describing the climb up and through the Sierra de la Pandera. Like most really challenging mountain climbs in Spain, Pandera is located way the hell away from most important urban centres (looking at the map, Jaen's a good 20 km away). The pavement is crap and the road is as wide as a small bathroom, which must create one hell of an element of freaking out when riders have to climb up 12% grades with screaming fans three deep on the side of the road. (TVE's broadcast of the stage showed the Guardia Civil gettin' pretty physical with at least a couple of fans who dared step a wee bit too close to the riders.) You can't see squat when you get to the top, and I pity the poor project manager who's responsible for getting everything and anything down from the peak of the mountain on a road that, really, is little more than a goat path with some asphalt smacked on top.

These stages, however, are the unmissable ones. They're supposedly the ones that make cycling fans, and it ain't because of the scenery. Cyclists have an unnerving addiction to suffering and pain, one which pretty much has to be learned because anyone born feeling that way probably would have committed suicide before his sixteenth birthday. (Yes, the use of the masculine possessive adjective was deliberate.) And it's not enough to haul your sorry, lactate-laden ass up the Marie-Blanque or Angliru: the dictates of the sport insist that you, having stretched and spent the morning hauling or being hauled up several climbs, have earned the right to lie back on the sofa and watch guys (again, note the use of the masculine noun) who earn thousands of Euros or dollars or whatever a year to ride bicycles so hard and with so much force that you can't help but wonder how many of them spend the ten minutes after the race throwing up, or trying NOT to. Our gentlemen cyclist friends, having ridden all the way from Granada, arrive at the military installation looking like they've been hauled out of Wales's dirtiest coal mines, legs hammering like sewing machine needles, freezing (in spite of it being August in Andalusia), wet and probably wondering why they didn't just break down and study Law like so many of their friends.

Am I being overly sensitive or is this, in some way, a little bit sick?

I mean, I'm not dumb. Sports is, after all about being able to exceed, if not destroy, your limits, and though I've suffered through my fair share of climbing this year (and apologies to all, I still have yet to learn to love it) I would be lying if I didn't say that the sweetest thing about doing the Marie-Blanque in this year's Quebrantahuesos wasn't actually knocking the bastard off - it was beating both AG AND Javi, both of whom started climbing three minutes before I did. (Truth be told, aside from that, I honestly don't remember much about the MB except that there were a lot of guys pushing a lot of very expensive bikes.)

But there's a part of me that really doesn't like the idea of suffering for mere spectacle. I watch the mountain stages but I can't say that I enjoy them any more than I like watching time trials. (Maybe because I find the idea of doing time trials more attractive.) What I nearly wrote on Horrillo's blog (but didn't think it entirely appropriate) was:

"¿Vas a ver la Vuelta hoy?" se preguntaba dos o tres veces ayer en la salida de nuestro club de ciclismo. "Poz sí," respondió más que uno, "en una Vuelta tan descafeinado, merece la pena ver la subida al Anglirú del sur." Y lo fue. El esfuerzo, la lucha, la determinación por superar límites y darle todo. Pero hay una cosa que me hace sentir un poco (¿?) idiota.

"You gonna watch the Vuelta today?" was asked two or three times before our club went out on its ride yesterday. "Hell, yeah," more than one answered, "with the Vuelta being so toothless this year, it's worth the trouble to watch the climb up the Anglirú of the South." And it was. The effort, the struggle, the determination to break barriers and give it all. But there's something that makes me feel like a bit of an idiot.

Si se lo piensa mucho (y seguro hay algún filósofo que tiene algo que decir sobre hacer espectáculo del sufrimiento de los demás...¿no?) es un pellín (¿enfermo? ¿triste?) que a veces se base el espectáculo en el grado de puro dolor y sufrimiento que hay en una etapa. ¿Porque gritamos tanto en las etapas de montaña si sabemos que los CRIs pueden resultar casi iguales de machaca en su propio manera? (¿Alguien se atrevería subir los 17 km a Navacerrada desde San Ildefonso en una bici de CRI solo por el mero placer de experimentar?) ¿Es más aceptable disfrutar del sufrimiento si solo se trata de sufrimiento físico? Si fuera un show de humiliación personal, ¿podríamos disfrutarlo igual?

If you think about it -- and there's probably some philosopher who has something to say about creating spectacle out of the suffering of others...isn't there? -- it's kind of...sick? sad? that, at times, we base the quality of the spectacle we see on the suffering that we see in a particular stage. Why do we yell so much during the mountain stages if we know that ITTs can end up being equally rough in their own way? Would anybody really try to do the 17km uphill to Navacerrada from San Idlefonso on a time trial bike for the sheer hell of experimenting? Is it more acceptable to enjoy suffering if we're only dealing with physical suffering? If it were a show based on personal humiliation, could we enjoy it just as much?

Reconozco que les paguen por eso. Entiendo que superar tus límites forma gran parte de cualquier deporte y que mucho de la belleza del ciclismo es ver a gente destrozando los límites, da igual si existen o no. Sé perfectamente que ni Cunego ni Valverde ni Danielson me oyen cuando lanzo gritos que despierten a los vecinos de sus siestas. Pero pase lo que pase, sigo gritando. No sé si eso me marca como idiota o qué.
I recognize that they get paid for this. I understand that passing your limits is a big part of any sport and that a lot of the beauty of cycling comes from people destroying their limits, whether they really exist or not. I understand perfectly that Cunego, Valverde or Danielson can't her me when I scream so loud I wake the neighbors from their siesta. But whatever happens, I still cheer. I don't know if that marks me as an idiot or what.

Pedro (and Jason, Chip, Yago and Walesy), if you're reading this, I would really like your interpretation and thoughts on the subject.

Smarter than Hunger

2009-09-02T03:38:00.000-07:00

"Eres más lista que el hambre."
ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº
I hate missing workouts, but missing yesterday's workout was entirely my own fault. September 1: not only the 70th anniversary of the start of World War II - it's also the day when Madrid essentially wakes up from its self-imposed state of suspension to start back to work. Job interview in the morning, e-mails before lunch, was supposed to do volume training up near El Pardo for a couple of hours but after getting caught up in watching the Vuelta (and the subsequent crashfest) in the afternoon, I didn't get my ass in gear until 6PM, by which time the trip up to El Pardo would have gotten fairly complicated, what with managing the cloverleaf of traffic between two ring roads - bad enough mid-morning, probably impossible at the start of rush hour.

The doubts start: So, what to do? Risk it? Go to the Casa de Campo? Haul out the static trainer? Doubts doubts doubts doubts. I get dressed, heart rate monitor and all, but I keep staring at myself in the mirror and thinking, The reason why you're not into training today is that you know that today is the first day when you need to be making money, which you're not, and you don't have enough money to pay the rent, let alone get groceries or pay for your monthly transit pass, which you need because the bike you normally use to get around Madrid has been sliced and diced into various pieces, rendering it unusable and you need to make money and you're going out to train?? (Yes, unfortunately, the voice in my gut is that eloquent.)

I shuck the cycling clothes, grab the posters and head out.

For most of the year, the easiest places to find private students are the Escuelas Oficiales de Idiomas, the state-run language schools which are a rich source of English students, mostly because the teachers who work there are not (mostly) native speakers. The closest one near me is open between 4 and 7 this week. Shooting fish in a barrel, I think. This is going to be like shooting fish in a barrel, and you are smarter than hunger.

The staff at Goya are friendly and helpful. I decide to make a beeline to Embajadores. The building was closed for all of August for renovations, and the small groups of nervous, smoking students loitering on the sidewalk doesn't set off the alarm bells that it should. Bad news. Not only is the building still under renovation, the staff give the impression of having been flown in from an EOI in some remote part of Teruel. They're not just unhelpful and ignorant; they're rude to a degree that I haven't seen since I left working in the media in Toronto. The badly-named Information Desk is staffed by the Laurel and Hardy of crap customer service; one is as thin and as welcoming as a praying mantis; the other keeps looking at the punters with a face of resignation.

- Good afternoon. May I put a poster up on the notice board?
- No. (Fattie turns her back to me and starts digging in her purse for a pack of cigarettes.)
- I'm sorry?
- No, you can't put an ad on the notice board because we're still dealing with renovations and the notice boards are in a pile on the floor. Come back later. (She starts digging in her purse for a lighter.)
- All right. (No reaction from Fattie. I clear my throat.) How? MUCH? LATER?

Fattie walks out the door. I look at Praying Mantis with a shark grin and a "don't fuck with me, you irascible excuse for a public servant" look stolen out of "Brüno". Being able to yell, enunciate very clearly and smile is one of the few pisstakes that foreigners can get away with in Madrid.
- Mid-September, says Praying Mantis.

Two more weeks? Fine. I am gonna give my printer the workout of its life and then come back here and paper every single piece of cork with posters. I'm gonna steal every single student you've got and give them the knowledge that will permit them to question and challenge every single Princess Di lookalike who got hired by this half-bit outfit. And, for good measure, I Scotch-tape an ad on the signs outside the school.

I am angrier than hunger. I didn't deserve to be treated like a piece of errant earwax and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some paper-pusher who OD'd on beach and tinto de verano deny me a living. This is the advantage of giving up everything except work and cycling: I have a lot more energy and drive to invest in both. And if I can't work out, then clear the track for Eddie Shack. Little Miss SuperSyntax is hungry and determined and will be solvent before you can say, "What happened to your cell phone bill this month, Iñigo Cuestecita?"

But then again, hunger isn't particularly intelligent. Hunger is a whiny-ass preteen who is able to reason, but won't. Hunger is lazy, and feeds on a person's laziness or lack of drive. Hunger is a motivator that doesn't know what it wants. Hunger is the main way out of jealousy.

I stomp up Ronda de Toledo. BANG! Pedro Salinas library, one poster. BANG! Centro Cultural Ronda de Toledo, one poster. Up past the Palacio Real; my bunions are starting to ache and the sweat is dripping down the back of my neck but I ain't done yet. BANG! Replace the poster in the José Acuña library. BANG! Two photocopy shops in Isaac Peral. That leaves five more posters for Wednesday, which I will spread around Carabanchel and pass onto other students.

Screw this being broke shit. Just because there are hundreds of female cyclists who are willing to be financial San Sebastians, riddled with arrows and bills and empty bank accounts, doesn't mean I want to be one.

I'm not just smarter than hunger. I'm angrier than hunger. I'm more resourceful, more determined, more pigheaded than hunger.

Pull

2009-08-30T11:01:00.000-07:00

"Learn to control your emotions, or they will control you." -- Gary Mack

Let me amend that. Learn to harness your anger and your frustration, and you'll be pleasantly surprised by how far it can take you.

Eight-twenty: six people. Eight-thirty: closer to twenty-five. Everyone's started to roll back after holidays, including some (but not all) of the hammerheads. My instructions: Draft, draft, draft. I'm not sure how to handle this. The easiest option is to draft someone who rides with Group C, but I know that I'm going to be bored as hell if I keep doing that. I want to ride faster, push myself harder, but it looks like anyone who would have ridden with Group B hasn't bothered to show up. Well, not totally. Edu's here. Alberto's here, too, but Alfredo isn't, and Alberto, unaccompanied, will usually go pretty fast.

"We going in groups?" I ask Pepe el Presi.

"I think we're gonna go in one group," he says.

This is a bit of a misnomer. There's never one group; there's always a system of pairings and sub-groups and cross-hatched matrices of who rides with who and who won't go with someone special, so I've just learned to try to go as fast as I can and see who I end up with. Especially on days like this. Most days, getting everyone back on their bikes and in gear is an easy enough task. Days like this, when it's hot and a considerable people have rolled in at the last minute (probably because they've just rolled out of bed), it's like herding cats. Bit by bit, we trickle out of the Plaza, trying not to skid out on the bed of sand the road workers have laid down as they repave the street that leads to Bravo Murillo.

I get irritated more than I get angry. I consider myself a moderately rational person: I'm far from being the living embodiment of Zen, but I'm a long way from being the Tasmanian Devil. But I'm not inhuman. I dislike being blown off, being ignored tends to rub me the wrong way, and if I've gone to the expense and trouble of joining a club, I expect to be included, not left to fend for myself.

And it happens again. For reasons I don't totally understand, I always tend to get separated from the group in the three kilometres between the bike lane/M607 split and the Autonomous University. It never ceases to piss me off, but because I don't really know what I'm doing to get left behind. And it happens again today, but this time, with an added twist: Everybody is getting flats. Everybody. The main culprit: thistles. Road maintenance workers in Spain don't use lawn mowers; they use weed-whackers. So the dead vegetation that blows onto the shoulders of the road and the bike lane tends to be sliced and diced into various pieces, rather than shredded so small that the resulting detrius can't cause problems. The thistle heads have given up their thorns, which are too small to see from the seat of a bike that's going 32 km/h. First it's Zurdo. Then Ángelito. Then Eva. Then Eva's dad. Then Agnes, the new woman who's joined us. Paul. Sebastià. In total, over a dozen people end up flatting out, which is a bitch for Raúl, who's driving the club car, but kind of a bonus for me, since it takes out the fastest riders.

But I still get separated. I get to the Autónoma, and all I see are heads disappearing as the bike lane dips under the turnoff to Alcobendas. I lay it on to get in and out of the tunnel, but they're going over the bridge by the army base.

I am not getting left behind today.

I don't know where the thought comes from. It's not even a particularly angry thought: it's just a matter-of-fact statement, like it's hot out or Alberto's wearing white shorts again.

I am not getting left behind today.

They've spent four months leaving me behind. Half of them just got back from holidays, which means that they can't keep the rhythm up forever.

I am not getting left behind today.

I come off the bridge by the army base knotted up in a gorilla tuck. Six hundred metres ahead, I can see them head up the hill.

I am not getting left behind today.

And then I start getting angry. Nadie te regala nada en el ciclismo, Pedro Delgado never tires of saying, and you know what? If no one's going to give me any gifts, I'm gonna start taking my due. I'm gonna start stealing what no one is willing to give. And if I blow up, so what? I just hang back and go with Group C.

I can see Alberto's white shorts ahead. I can see heads bobbing; and, most importantly, I can see heads start to bow down. Heads that start to fall are a sure sign that you have to attack, even more than a line of cyclists that get drawn out. In we go.

You bastards are not going to drop me any more.

Three or four mountain bikers are hanging off the rear wheels of our bunch. (A short aside: I realize it's a bike path, but can someone please explain why a man would pay two thousand Euros for a double-suspension mountain bike and never take it off asphalt?) I worm my way up through the group, the mountain bikers eventually veer off at Colmenar Viejo, and I hang on with most of the group until the turnoff to the M325 towards San Pedro.

"How long have you been doing this?" says Mario, who I've seen with the group but who I wouldn't have been fast enough to keep up with three months ago. (Mario is easily identifiable by his Barbie-pink Kaiku culottes, which can be seen by motorists a kilometre away.) One year. Well, less than a year. What do we consider "doing this?" Do I count the time from when I joined the Chamartín? From the day Ellie showed up at Ciclowork, her deep blue carbon frame glowing in the afternoon sunlight and Susanna kept grinning and saying, "Go ahead! Touch her! She's all yours!", and I spent the afternoon hugging her, watching the ascent up l'Anglirú in the 2008 Vuelta, cheering on Alberto Contador and wondering what in God's name I'd gotten myself into by buying an expensive road bike. I guess the easy answer is that no matter how long I've been doing this, I haven't probably been doing it long enough. But after twenty-six years of just thinking about it, I finally did do it. So I guess I don't know what the correct answer is.

We don't exactly fly up the west side of San Pedro, but we work it hard enough that the descent off the peak down to Guadalix is a treat. I feel good going down, too. I corner more aggressively and go down far faster than I would attempt to do if I were on my own, especially because I'm more confident about using all of the pavement and all of the road at my disposal.

Alberto, Carlos and a bunch of other are hanging out at the fountain that lies within the Guadalix town limits. We chat, we wait for the others, and when about twenty of us have gathered, we set off again - Edu and I going directly towards Miraflores, the rest (including Mario, who said he wasn't sure he was going to do the extension) head up to Bustarviejo.

Edu, having just come back from holidays, isn't up to a lot of hammering, so I head up to Miraflores by myself. We meet at a bar that's not far from the turnoff to Canencia, and the truth comes out: between the flats and the vacations, not many people made it up to Miraflores. Luckily, David does make it up - the first time we've had a chance to chat since he got back from the Alps - and with more people taking part these days, the atmosphere is a little lighter.

And on the way back, I pull harder. I pass a bunch of the guys in the club (though I get buried by Angelito and a couple of others near El Goloso) and I refuse to give up. I am not going to get left behind any more.

99 Things I Want to Do Now That the Season is Effectively Over

2009-08-18T13:38:00.001-07:00

1. Try to sleep in on Saturday mornings.
2. Do more Pilates.
3. Start working again and make money.
4. Get my nails done (and try to get the chain grease out from my cuticles.)
5. Get the triple chain ring back on Ruby in time for cyclocross season.
6. Wash the floors.
7. Go out for paella.
8. Go sit on a beach somewhere for a week.
9. Find a boyfriend.
10. Or find someone I can have a regular flirtation with.
11. Start planning trip back to Canada at Christmas.
12. Get rid of any other clothing that's bigger than a size 40.
13. Not look at either Coca-Cola or Aquarius for at least four months.
14. Take a cooking class.
15. Not look at any PowerBar products until at least March.
16. Take a trip up to Rascafría and actually *try* some of the restaurants I've always ridden by but never actually gotten into
17. Get a nice haircut without having to worry about what a helmet is going to do to it.
18. Spend afternoons in September watching *others* kill themselves in the Vuelta.
19. Buy a nice pair of heels.
20. Buy a form-fitting Lycra garment that doesn't have either a pad or three back pockets.
21. Go out for Mexican food.
22. Think about having a nice glass of wine (even though I probably won't actually do it).
23. Take a stretching class and get eight months' worth of kinks out of my back.
24. Wear makeup.
25. Join a gym and get more strength into my legs.
26. Join a gym and spend time flirting.
27. Escape for a weekend and spend the entire time sightseeing, reading books and soaking in the tub.
28. Work on the "Chicas por Chamartín" women's cycling project.
29. Plan the 2010 season with Yago.
30. Make a list of races that I could take part in, then train to get my speed up.
31. Take an endurance swimming class.
32. Go to Pontevedra next weekend to visit Scott and Luis.
33. Go back to using the handlebars of the bikes as a place to dry socks.
34. Not feel guilty about being up after 11.30 at night.
35. Experiment with more gluten-free recipes.
36. Take a language course.
37. Exfoliate vigorously every day to get rid of farmer's tan.
38. Read more.
39. Find a different Saturday group to go out with.
40. Learn how to make my own nut butters. I'm getting sick of peanut butter.
41. Take a fun dance class. Bollywood or something totally impractical like that.
42. Eat gorgonzola without feeling guilty.
43. Eat Mexican food without feeling guilty.
44. Eat Thai food without feeling guilty.
45. Put croutons and Caesar salad dressing on my salad without feeling guilty.
46. Start looking for a bigger apartment.
47. Catch and strangle the SOB who keeps taking my ESL ads down in the Central Library.
48. Listen to my iPod for the sheer hell of it and not because it's the only thing that keeps my brain quiet during training.
49. Watch "Lawrence of Arabia."
50. Plan and offer an English course for actors.
51. Get around to planting that window box that I bought with Kinga in May.
52. Tell that annoying guy from Illescas that I met when I was out with Kirsty last year that there's no way I'm, ahem, "inviting him over to dinner" again because I know damn well he's got a girlfriend.
53. Buy a new sofa.
54. Buy a new fridge.
55. Buy some nice linen!
56. Stay at 62 kg.
57. No, wait. Lose another 4 kg.
58. Watch all of Billy Wilder's movies.
59. Get my eyebrows waxed properly.
60. Start getting the paperwork together to apply for Spanish citizenship. (I can't do it until 2012 but might as well start sooner than later.)
61. Take singing lessons.
62. Sell the rest of my flamenco gear if I'm not going to use it.
63. Ascertain if a certain someone is gay, married or just not interested.
64. Flirt more with a certain other someone.
65. Flirt more. Period.
66. Get the chemicals and the blacks that I'd need to be able to develop black and white negatives in my bathroom.
67. Go to Girona to visit Josep and Delors and la Avià.
68. Go out somewhere in the country and do nothing except lay on my back and stare at the sky for a whole afternoon.
69. Go hiking in Navarra when the leaves start to turn.
70. Find a cycling mentor.
71. Meet up with The Oik "by chance", wearing something tight and sexy, and let him know just what he missed out on.
72. Fix all of those broken bead necklaces that are sitting in a Ziploc bag in my closet.
73. Get my Chanel earrings fixed. It's only been 17 years....
74. Start seriously looking at (and saving for) a tri-TT bike for 2010.
75. Go to a football game.
76. Have Tora, Des and Kinga over for dinner now that I have a dining room table.
77. Get a flat-screen TV.
78. Go hiking in the Sierra Nevada.
79. Take a rock climbing course.
80. Have breakfast in bed at least once a month.
81. Eat more chocolate.
82. Buy a better printer!
83. Go to a gig. Any gig.
84. Learn how to make paella.
85. Do a "matanza" with the girls and make my own chorizo.
86. Do "calçots" with the girls in Valls in January.
87. Learn how to make my own sushi.
88. Start saving to buy a flat.
89. Pay off my credit card debt.
90. Go visit museums, like the Sorolla or the Navy Museum, that I walk past all the time, but never go into.
91. Take the AVE somewhere.
92. Finish reading "Paris, 1919".
93. Have a bocadillo de calamares.
94. Borrow Tora and Des's drill and finally put up that knife magnet I bought last spring.
95. Get caught up on correspondence.
96. Give Ellie a damn good cleaning (including cleaning the chain.)
97. Fix my Waterman pens so that I can use them again.
98. File all of the photocopies that are left over!
99. Choose which of these things I would honestly, truly do, if I had the time and money!

Hello?

2009-08-14T02:55:00.000-07:00

In this month's CICLISMO A FONDO, Joaquím Rodríguez, almost-formerly of Caisse d'Épargne, writes of the declining tradition of cyclists saying hello to each other on the roads. Time was, he says, that it was just considered normal to greet anybody you came across because the mere fact that you were meeting someone on a bike meant that you belonged to an instant kind of fellowship - the Fellowship of the Chainring, as it were. The tradition, however, seems to have been dying out, to the point where saluting someone on the roads is more likely to get you a strange look than a hello back.

Ignoring someone who says hello to you is something I've never understood. Obviously, if we're talking about blowing someone off because said person slept with your wife or sank your business, then that's understandable, to a certain extent. I'm talking about just everyday saying hello to someone - or even just a nod of the head or a flick of the chin to acknowlege that the other person, you know, like, EXISTS.

Maybe it has to do with being from a small town, coming from a place where the failure to say hello to someone would be common knowledge amongst everybody in the town within forty-eight hours. (If you think I'm exaggerating, you're probably from a place that has a population greater than ten thousand people, and doesn't have a network of secretaries, bank tellers and supermarket cashiers whose knowledge of the townfolk puts the CIA to shame.) Maybe it's because my parents were raised in the 40s and 50s, where people tended to be far more aware of their manners. Maybe it just comes from being Canadian. But damn, the number of times that I've said hello to people and just not gotten anything back makes me wonder where Spaniards get that reputation for being friendly. Outgoing, yes. But friendly.......?

So I decided to conduct a little experiment.

ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº

Tuesday's workout was pretty straightforward - two and a half hours of not particularly strenuous riding. I decided to head down to the Casa de Campo at mid-morning, thinking that there would be a fairly sizeable number of subject to observe. And here's what I've found. Note that my observations are subject to highly questionable methods, and it wasn't like I could write down what I saw while I was riding (aside from never learning to ride no-hands, it would have messed up my heart rate):

Chicks never say hello. Yes, I know it is politically incorrect to call a female a "chick" (unless one happens to be Selene Yeager, The Fit Chick from BICYCLING Magazine - see link on the right.) But there are female cyclists and there are Chicks, and the distinction can be made by the choice of top and riding companions. Is she wearing a tank top that allows you to see right down to the elastic of her undies as she bends over the handlebars? She's a Chick. Is she wearing makeup in 95ºF heat in August? She's a Chick. Is she, all of five-four feet tall, riding a Decathlon Rockrider with a 57" frame and turquoise knobbies? She, poor thing, is a Chick with a Giant of a Boyfriend - and either or both of them is too cheap to invest in a decent bike for her (or one that is small enough to let her touch the pedals.) Not that there's anything wrong with being a Chick. Some females love to embrace, trot out, show off their inner Chick. More power to them. But if said female is so unstable and so unsure on that bicycle that she can't stop staring at the ground directly in front of her (or looking over her shoulder at the boyfriend riding behind and yelling inane comments), you might as well save your breath and start talking to the prostitutes or the recycling bins that line the roads of the Casa de Campo.

Guys with Chicks never say hello. Probably because your bike is nicer than theirs are, and the Chick in question would probably flagellate him with the bike chain.

Old-Timers on Aluminum Frames will sometimes say hello unless they're dressed in yellow Saunier Duval kit, which seems to beam some kind of radiation into their retinas and make them stare at you, the Female Cyclist, with a look that lies somewhere between Hangdog and Oh God Pass Me The Visine.

Guys on Really Expensive Bikes will never say hello, especially if they're riding tri bikes. This one has always made me curious, simply because almost every male cyclist I know has some kind of sixth sense that permits him to distinguish between carbon, aluminum and steel frames at a distance of one hundred metres. It's like watching a bunch of guys yabber on about cars, but with far fewer components to talk about (Carrie Bradshaw and her Manolos have absolutely NOTHING on a gearhead in a bike shop.) So why doesn't this extend to women? Perhaps they think that most women who ride high-end bikes don't know their Campys from their Shimanos, or use Speedplay pedals because they like the colors better. Who knows. But I've had so many guys on high-end rides blow by me without so much as a by-your-leave that any time I see a dude on a bike that's worth more than mine -- ESPECIALLY if he's wearing white cycling clothing -- I just think "asshole" and move on.

Guys from your own club will never say hello unless they're over sixty, have broken chains, or are from other countries. I try not to spend too much time thinking about this one.

Mountain bikers will never say hello. Backhanded snobbery, methinks. They don't like roadies and many roadies aren't exactly wild about fat-tire types (especially the ones who carry 30L backpacks, stuffed to the breaking point).

Guys wearing hockey helmets (oooooooooh, I WISH I were making that up) will say hello. And tell you their life story. And ask you a ton of questions about your bike. And not listen to the answers and ask you the same question over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. And then tell you about all of the meds that they need to take to make the voices in their heads go away. Guys riding bikes and wearing hockey helmets, ladies, are the reason why your bike comes equipped with a 50x11 configuration - to help you give life to your inner Fabian Cancellara and get the f*** away ASAP.

ººººººººººººººººººººººººººº

Like I said, these are just observations which were conducted without any kind of scientific protocol. At some point, I may get inspired and follow my buddy Lysander Cross' lead and invest in a helmet-cam to back up my observations. But for the time being, I think I'll run the risk of being considered an antisocial little snob - unless I happen to cross paths with Purito Rodríguez, in which case I expect a hearty "hello", the likes of which I've never seen before.

Keep an eye out for this guy.

2009-08-09T23:20:00.000-07:00

Funny thing about cycling - people tend to live so much in the present of racing that they don't tend to talk about The Next Big Thing as much as they do in other sports.

Well, here's the guy who gets my vote: Xavier Tondo of Andalucia-Cajasur. After having a season of "almosts" since April - almost won the Vuelta a Andalucia (came in second by a mere eight seconds) this spring and almost won the Vuelta a Burgos yesterday (if Valverde had exploded fifteen seconds earlier, we wouldn't be talking about second place). He's aggressive, explosive, tenacious, and, by all accounts I've read, a really sweet guy.

http://www.e-bici.com/index.php?page=24&ampliar=418&p=-1

The look on Alejandro Valverde's face says it all....he nearly got killed, and doesn't he know it. (Interesting that the media keeps refering to him as "young Tondo" - I think he's actually two or three years older than Valverde.)

I'd put €5 on him making the Top 5 in the Vuelta a España this year, and raise it to €10 for him making the Top 3 if Valverde explodes or pulls out.

One to watch!

Stormy weather

2009-08-09T05:43:00.000-07:00

As I write this, it's lunchtime. The weather looks as if it's going to take a turn for the worst. Thunderheads started building in the Sierra as we came back in from Manzanares and by the time we hit Tres Cantos, there were definite anvil-heads hovering over the peaks of Yelmo and La Maliciosa.

"Hurry up," yelled Álvaro. "Close the gap. Don't let them get away from you." And I thought, Why not? It's going to be inevitable anyway. I will push and push and I will still end up alone. But I didn't. I closed the gap. For ten klicks, I stayed with Álvaro and Alfonso and Ángel and Julio and A#2, who made a point of not talking to me all day. (It took me about five seconds to catch onto this; I made sure that it was mutual.)

And now I'm home, I've eaten lunch (ramen noodles and cherry tomatoes and a Diet Pepsi - whoo-freaking-hoo) and I'm watching the re-broadcast of the climb up Mont Ventoux from this year's Tour. I should get the laundry off the line; the weather has been threatening to explode for the last fifteen hours, but nothing's happening yet. Lemme see the lightning and the thunder first. Then I'll start to worry.

ºººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº

7:37 AM: Staring at the computer screen, re-reading Yago's instructions. Basically, climb if you've got the legs; if not, do whatever you want. Like SuperLopez would say, es lo que mi cuerpo me pide. It's what my body wants. I don't know what my body wants.

My brain, on the other hand, would prefer not to go alone today: my brain would like a little bit of company rather than beat the hell out of myself by myself without any kind of backup. I'm getting TIRED of being alone, damn it. I eat alone, I sleep alone, I mostly work alone, I clean the house alone, I earn something resembling a wage alone, I almost always train alone, I go to the cinema alone, and since practically everyone's on holidays until the first week of September, I'm pretty much in Madrid alone. I would really prefer to have one day where I have company.

Which means, naturally, that with the reduced number of chamartinistas who will show up today we're only going to have two groups: Go like Hell and Take it Easy. I'd prefer not to take it easy, but if I'm to have company and not go by myself, then I don't have much of a choice.

The streets of Madrid are pretty much deserted at 8AM. There isn't even the usual assortment of teenagers and drunks and drunk teenagers spilling out of the bars, their hands full of toast and beers. Seventeen minutes up. I get there thirteen minutes before we're due to take off. Félix, Zurdo, Alfredo and Alberto are there. I get a cursory hello. (Has a certain someone read this blog? Did he misunderstand what I wrote? Or is he just hung over and in a bad mood? Who the hell cares?) I go to the bathroom. One quick pee (making sure to leave the seat down - I wonder if the guys ever wonder to themselves why the seat's never up after I leave), wash my hands, go outside. Stretch. Tomás shows up, as does Pepe el Presidente and a handful of other people.

I don't try to make conversation. Félix does, asking me how the preparations are going for the Delgado. I'm friendly, open. I just don't feel like being the stupid bouncy happy guiri today. Unlike most of these guys - especially those who were invited to come along on Thursday and didn't even have the manners to respond - I've already put 300 km into my legs this week. I've stopped counting how many times my gams have come back from the dead since the beginning of June. I'm worn out, emotionally and physically. I'm tired, lonely and working very hard trying not to let resentment and fear and anger choke me in the process, just praying that I make it past next Sunday without imploding.

We take off at 8:30. The ride up to Fuencarral is uneventful. The ride down and through Tres Olivos is incident-free. Not long after we hit the bike lane on the M607, a couple of the strongest riders take off. The attacks have begun. Let 'em go. There's precious little sense, on a day like today, trying to keep up with them when all it's going to do is make me even more tired and even more resentful.

Our little pelotón gets whittled down to seven of the most pleasant people in the group, including Tomás with his repertoire of corny jokes about the Guardia Civil. We're supposed to ride up to Mataelpino (which one of the other English speakers refers to as Kill the Pine Tree) and El Boalo but we cut off early and head directly to Manzanares.

Uneventful coffee in Manzanares. The groups divides itself among three different restaurants - quite a change from the last time we were all up here, when forty of us took over one of the terrazas and ran them out of tortilla and Aquarius. No one's really talking. A couple of people make the effort to be sociable, but then it occurs to me that maybe we're just all starting to get a little sick of each other.

I was supposed to treat Tomás to coffee, but he pays, saying that he needs to break a fifty-Euro bill. No one's making much of a move to get back. Finally, a couple of restless souls start picking up their bikes and start shuffling off towards the highway.

In a way, I don't want to go back with the main bunch; I'd just as soon hang back and go back on my own, wait to let the others catch up to me, but Álvaro's having none of it. Charles says that Álvaro rides with some pretty big names, plus he and I basically do the same job, and he's a helpful and friendly guy, so I'm more likely to pay attention to what he says than I am to others in the group. I don't ever really get up and inside the grupetta, but I do hang on enough to the back that by the time we turn onto the M609, I'm going fairly well.

And that's when the hammer gets dropped. Between the turnoff to Manzanares and Colmenar, there's nothing but bike lane, and the leaders start going like hell. Álvaro points at the leaders and shakes his finger disapprovingly at the same time: "You be careful with these guys on the way back. They can ride really aggressively on the way home." He gets no arguments out of me: I've seen how those guys are capable of plowing down unsuspecting cyclists.

But at the same time, it pisses me off to no end that I'm still not capable of hanging on with them. I know that it may be a lot to ask - there are some guys who have been riding for a number of years - but I also know that that group contains riders who have only been on their bikes for three or four years, tops. I train, I lost weight, and I'm still too damn slow to pose any kind of serious threat. Yet.

It pisses me off for about twenty kilometres. And for the final thirteen kilometres, I make up my mind: Any time I have any doubts about the need to get faster, I will remember this day and remind myself of how badly I would like not only to keep up with these guys, but unashamedly rip their goddamn legs off. I would like to have one day where I stick it to those mothers so hard that their knees squeak and their tongues scrape the ground. I'm not saying that it would always happen, but at least it'd make a nice change.

ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº

The storm still has yet to hit. The guys at the Café Moderno haven't even opened the joint yet, and the Mexican restaurant only has one line of tables out. The square is quiet, for once. I bet it's raining like hell in the Sierra. Good. Let it happen now and get it out of its system, so that next weekend I can do the Pedro Delgado, get it the hell over with, and get my life back in order.

Things probably will not change. I'll probably still get ignored by certain people in the Chamartín I thought I was more friendly with; my English-speaking non-cycling friends who live here in Madrid -- how do I say this? -- will go on with their lives and the fact that I'm about to do one of the toughest rides on the peninsula, a ride that scares the hell out of me, will pass unnoticed and unmentioned, and when they all come back from their holidays, I'll probably still be dealing with exhaustion and being broke and alone. But I asked for it. In the meantime, the priority this week is keeping my shit together. I can't afford to let things fall apart now.

Final Vuelta Route Shaping Up...

2009-07-29T23:10:00.000-07:00

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!

Too good NOT to share!

2009-07-29T11:08:00.000-07:00

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!!

OK! OK! Permit me ONE last swipe for this year!

2009-07-27T23:15:00.001-07:00

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.

Going with the Flow

2009-07-27T10:27:00.000-07:00

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.

If I had a Euro for every time someone asked me....

2009-07-26T23:39:00.000-07:00

...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.

Git down!

2009-07-25T08:43:00.001-07:00

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.

Passing on the "shrink and pink"

2009-07-24T23:01:00.000-07:00

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

Getting the 800-pound gorilla off the bike.

2009-07-23T00:33:00.000-07:00

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 think I want the Tour to be over.

2009-07-22T13:56:00.000-07:00

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...

The Last Bitchin' Thing I Will Ever Write About That Pretentious Redneck. I promise.

2009-07-15T23:39:00.001-07:00

(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.)

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

2009-07-14T09:45:00.001-07:00

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.)

Fight

2009-06-28T08:34:00.000-07:00

Elvis was a hero to most
Elvis was a hero to most
Elvis was a hero to most
But he never meant $#¡% to me....

There's no Group B today. There's only Group A, who are headed up to Abantos, me....and quite possibly some other bodies still staying upright on bikes from here to Guadarrama. God knows where anybody is. I got dropped right at the VOR airplane beacon just south of Colmenar Viejo. For various reasons, I only slept about four hours last night. I'm premenstrual and exhausted and hungry and bitched off. Remind me, again, why I pay over €85 a year to ride with a bunch of guys who can't seem to get away from me fast enough?

Armstrong was a hero to most
Pantani was a hero to most
Perico was a hero to most
But they never meant $#¡% to me....

There are two options: Option One is to return home to a blaze of indignation from various parties. Today was the day I was supposed to take my revenge on Abantos. "Let's see if we can finally kill the ghost of Abantos," wrote Yago in the training plan, and it's not that I'm against killing any ghosts, but damn, do I have to commit murder starting from so far away?

Option Two is to keep plodding along, wind and weariness be damned. And given that the body of the Ex Mex, splayed on the floor, was still generating snores that made his blankets vibrate when I left the house this morning (much as it did for all of last night) if I manage to get a couple of hours of peaceful riding in before I get home, then the day isn't totally lost.

Connie Carpenter was a hero to most
Mari Holden was a hero to most
Jeannie Longo was a hero to most
I gotta fight the powers that be....

But I resent this. I don't resent riding alone; I resent riding abandoned. Alberto, Alfredo, Moncho, Vicente, Miguel Ángel, Rafa...granted, they've all been riding at a higher level than I have, and for longer periods of time. I don't want to be coddled, but there are limits to how many times I can get dropped and feel happy about it. Especially when there's no one else around riding at my level. I'd even make a crack about being happy to have some girls to ride with, but Eva showed up with her dad this morning, and both of them took off like shots at the first opportunity. And I'm not even sure I understand why Eva is allowed to ride, since she doesn't have a license.

Get used to it, my inner cynic thinks. You think it sucks now, you just wait 'til it starts happening in real competitions and those young things start looking at you like the mutton you are...and wait for the showdown to begin. Mental advantage? Ha bloody ha, girlfriend. Either get faster or get lost.

My inner cynic is usually shut up by caffeine and food. Right. Breakfast run to Guadarrama, and if no one else is around, say screw it and take the train back from Villalba.

At least this time I know it's not personal. Or at least I don't think it is. Not like with the Saturday Bunch. It's just carelessness - no one called the B group this morning, everyone took off like a shot, the bodies will start showing up at some point in time.

Pee break just outside of Becerril de la Sierra. Couple of slugs of energy gel/food/something which is basically peach compote in a foil packet and doesn't taste that bad. Uphill through Becerril, Collado Mediano (what the hell is a collado, anyway?) Downhill into Guadarrama, and then I hear the beeeeep-bee-bee-bee-bee-beeeeeep! of a car horn. Too many beeps to be unfriendly.

It's Zurdo, who never misses an outing; he's driving the club car. You alone? Zurdo has a lot of problems understanding my accent, so any attempt at sarcasm will go flying straight over his head. I nod. I'm gonna park over by the big fountain; you know where the big fountain is? This is a bit of a dumb question - Guadarrama has at least three big fountains that I can remember. I just nod, and try to follow him into town.

Zurdo leaves me at the same bar where Luis Ali and Moncho and I had coffee before climbing up Alto de los Leones about a month earlier. The bar is hopping. The waitresses are stressed out, the owner isn't hearing much of what anyone is saying to him. I leave my bike in the presence of an older couple who are a with a boy who suffers from some kind of extreme cerebral palsy and I remember that Contador has a younger brother who suffers from mental paralysis and how scared his parents were, after Conta suffered a stroke, that they'd have two sons in wheelchairs. I let myself feel slightly ashamed of my attitude, and go in for coffee and tortilla.

The owner of the bar told us, when we were here before, that his niece rides with Bizkaia-Durango, but seeing me today doesn't ring any bells. I try to make myself small, eat and drink as fast as I can.

Bingo. Two magenta and gold-clad bodies walk into the depanneur next door. It's Alfredo and Jorge. If Alfredo's here, then Alberto #2 is around somewhere.

That's more like it.

Disappointment

2009-06-13T00:12:00.000-07:00

Sending a text to Yago goes something along these lines:

I end up texting him with whatever it is I have to ask or say for one of two reasons: One is that I don't feel I have the right to disturb him on a Saturday. He's a coach, but he's not a family member who can be rung up whenever I feel like chatting about something. The second reason is that I don't really believe that what it is I have to ask about is all that important - I probably know the answer to the question I want to ask; I just hate having to bother him for a reality check.

No, I'm lying. There are three reasons. The third reason is that I'm scared as hell of making him angry or disappointed in me.

Saturday, 5:00 AM: I probably would have been woken up by the kids doing wheelies in the plaza with their Vespas, had it not been for the Hiroshima happening in my stomach. I don't know what I got into yesterday, but it's not making me particularly happy today. By 6:05 I've made three shuttle runs to the loo, and am lying in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking, Ohhh, this is not good. It's never pleasant to have the trots anyway, but today is the Clásica de los Puertos, which means 154 kilometres of riding up and down and up and down in 35ºC heat.

I'm not stupid. I know that the combination of 35ºC heat and a case of diarrhea is a recipe for disaster. I know that going out today and risking severe dehydration is beyond moronic. Yet I cannot shake the feeling that I'll end up causing disappointment and anger if I don't take the start today, even though I've got the option of doing the Etapa Reina tomorrow. That's just the feeling. In my mind, I know that I'd get an even bigger chewing out for killing myself this close to QH.

After all, I don't get paid to do this. And he genuinely wants to see us succeed and triumph next week at Quebrantahuesos. So why do I feel like I'm back in Grade 6, continually cowering from someone who's perpetually on the verge of exploding, even though I probably have the coolest, most supportive coach on the whole peninsula?

So I text him anyway, an hour after I've sent him an e-mail which I know he's not going to read until Sunday night, and give him an abbreviated rundown of what happened. I know what's going to happen: He'll call, ask me how I'm feeling, we'll weigh the options of what we can do and then he's just going to tell me to do the Etapa Reina tomorrow. So where does the fear of being chewed out come from? I don't know. Maybe because I can't shake the feeling that I'm not doing enough, even though I don't know that I could have done more. Maybe because I'm worried about alienating my most trusted ally. Maybe because I'm so desperate to show that I'm not a loser that I need to behave like a total loser and continually seek reaffirmation that I'm not.

Anyway. He hasn't called and I need to go to the bathroom. Again.

GARMIN'S GOING TO THE VUELTAAAA!!!!

2009-06-12T06:19:00.000-07:00

The organizers of the Vuelta a España have announced that Garmin-Slipstream has officially been invited to take part in the 2009 Vuelta.

Two words:

YEAH BABY!

Kirsty, can I crash on your couch on September 4th, so that I can see DZ wipe the highway with everyone else's butts?

That is all. Thank you for your attention.

Last (adverb AND verb)

2009-06-07T01:41:00.000-07:00

There's a poem that has been circulating around the Internet for the past, oh, about fifteen years ago that ends in the lines (and I'm misquoting here): "Victory doesn't always go to the swiftest or fastest man," and today, looking back on what happened in the Marcha Cicloturista Iñigo Cuesta yesterday, I can't entirely say I disagree.

What happened? Hell, what didn't happen? The weather report was way off-base (to our advantage, luckily.) I got dropped by the pelotón within the first five kilometres, ended up making a new friend, got thrown in the sag van by the Guardia Civil so as not to be run over by a rally car derby (thereby missing one of the climbs), went up one of the longest climbs in Cantabria, got my period in the middle of the following climb, did NOT finish last, but finished enough last that I had the opportunity to hang onto the wheel of one of the most experienced pro cyclists in the world. It was just one of those days that you had to live, because otherwise you would never get the full flavour of the weirdness of the contrasts. But I'll give it my best shot.

Up at 6:30, a full half-hour before David. Laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, mustering all the greatest hits of "Mind Gym" so as not to get too freaked out (Rahsaan Bahati: "The race ain't in yo' legs, it's in YO' HEAD!!"). At seven he gets up, we get dressed. In the muss and fuss of the days leading up to the Cuesta I have somehow forgotten to put my maillot in the wash and it has developed an embarrassing sweaty pong. I can't find any hair elastics. My stomach isn't jumping around, and I can't decide if that's a good sign or not. Breakfast. Car out of the hotel garage, water in bottles, neoprene booties on feet, anything to keep our minds off the task at hand. David tells me to go ahead to the start line; he's got some final things to do. I ride ahead and in a group of nearly 400 cyclists, I see exactly two other women and a lot of very young guys with very ripped legs who pay no attention to me, which is good in a way - the last thing I need is someone getting in my face with some smack talk. Cuesta himself is at the front, giving an interview to the local press: you can tell it's Cuesta, not only by his distinctive profile, but because he's the only one who's not nervous.

The race is due to start at 8:30 but it doesn't get started until 8:43, which is still not enough time to find David. The group takes off like a shot and no matter how fast I ride, I'm still being passed left, right (and almost centre) by guys who are young enough to be my son or men old enough to be my father. How the hell fast are we going, anyway? I flip the computer over to the Speed function. Nothing. At some point, the magnet on the spoke has gotten twisted around. Damn, damn damn damn. At what point will I remember to check for this stupid stuff BEFORE the races start, instead of standing around like a catatonic teenager?

I stop, flip the magnet. The rest of the pelotón shoots off. I hammer to try to keep up, but it's not enough - my heart rate is climbing too fast, my athsma is starting to give me trouble and it would be ridiculous to kill myself in the first ten kilometres when there are still 140 to go.

We turn off onto a secondary highway after six or seven kilometres, and the first DNFs start to show up. One guy's hit something and has taco'ed his front wheel. Another older gentleman is being pulled out of a ditch by a Cruz Roja ambulance team. I start doing yoga breathing: better to finish last and in one piece, rather than go like hell and not make it at all. When they start paying me to do this shit, then I'll start doing crazy shit to beat the kids and the hammerheads. But this is my first year of riding - it's not even a year yet, more like eight months - and there's no sense in risking injury this close to Quebrantahuesos.

At some point, I catch up with a guy who's wearing a QH jersey, and I stick with him; he keeps looking behind him every so often, and I can't tell whether or not he's annoyed that he's got a chick on his wheel. We get to talking: his name's Roberto, he lives and works in Bilbao, and he did the Cuesta last year: "It's a LOT faster this year." We stick together through the first climbs, and make it to the Alta de la Magdalena, on the border with Cantabria, together. We're pretty much the last ones to show up, but we're still 45 minutes ahead of the final cutoff time. Roberto is a little flipped out: "I'm doing the same as last year, and when I got here last year, I was in the middle of the bunch. I can't believe how fast it is this year." Roberto takes off after Magdalena, but I take it a little more slowly: I don't know this road, and since I've never been to Cantabria, I want to enjoy the views a bit.

Cantabria, for those of you who are looking for a bit of green Spain, is gorgeous. It's amazingly beautiful. It's frightfully hilly. It's lush and green and friendly and requires a degree of concentration on the downhills that I haven't had to exercise since I left Kemptville - not because the curves are closed and dangerous (they're no worse than anything in Madrid) but because there's a surprising amount of cow plop on the pavement - not something you have to watch for in the capital. On the way down, Ellie's back wheel starts fishtailing a bit on the curves, something which I think is due to having caught a bit of cow pattie, but which turns out to be a fast-developing flat....which, of course, we discover on a closed, 3m-wide highway near Vega de Pas.

I say "we" because, at that point, I was last, and had the luxury of having the sag van, the mechanics AND the food van behind me. "Don't worry," yells Manolo, the sag van driver, "we gotta be behind somebody!!"

We get through Vega de Pas and up the second climb when, one kilometre up, Manolo scootches in front of me, slams the brakes on and yells, "Get in the van!!"

"What?!" I yell back. "Am I that far back!"

"NO!" he yells. "I just got a call from the Guardia Civil and they're closing the road in five minutes! There's a rally car derby scheduled for two PM and the first practice sessions start NOW!"

"Does this disqualify me?" I yell.

"Just get in the van!" he hollers back.

He's got a 24-pack of Coca Cola and eight kilos of Martínez pastries in that van, and going with him saves me eighteen kilometres of riding. He's not gonna get any arguing out of me.

We pick up Roberto and another guy from Cariñena on the way up the hill and drive down to the next village, where we're dropped off and sent up the Alto del Caracol. By my calculations I'm probably an hour behind David, but not so far back that I'm going to get disqualified.

And this is where the really annoying problems start. At some point something sharp has gotten embedded in the €35 Kevlar rear tire, making the rear wheels floppier than Sylvester Stallone's jowls; the mechanics, glad for something to do, cheerfully change the wheel in three minutes. I start again, ride a couple of kilometres with the mechanics behind me (Manolo's headed off to the next intersection to drop off the Coke we didn't drink) and then I start feeling those sharp pains in my back that every woman dreads.

One note to organizers of races and sportives: If you want to increase the rate of female participation in your events....PROVIDE TOILET FACILITIES. I don't care if they're Port-a-Potties or calling up the owners of the bars along the way to ask them to let the ladies use the loos. There is NOTHING more embarrassing than having to drop trou (culotte?) on the side of a highway, behind a pile of gravel, Tampax in hand, praying that no one happens to drive by at that moment...and it's even worse when you've got the unfortunate luck of having a van full of mechanics who genuinely care about you arriving safely, but don't hang back enough to allow you to pee in private. Luckily, the mechanics I was with had to stop for the same reason, so that gave me two minutes of privacy. That said, I'm pretty shameless with stuff like that; I can't say that most other women I know would be as willing to attend to nature's call in the middle of a road as I am.

Which is a shame because, really, you CAN go faster with an empty bladder. Surprisingly more quickly, really. Make it over Alto del Caracol ten minutes later, quick downhill to the turnoff, where there are now eight guys waiting for me with Aquarius, pastries, gels and Coke in hand; I now have an entire entourage waiting to see if I can get my butt over that next climb.

The entire climb up Lunada, when done in its entire 32-kilometre length, is rated at 220 on www.altimetrias.net, making it an HC if it's included in the Vuelta. The final 15 kilometres up to the ski resort really isn't THAT bad if you take it easy - something which not everyone is able to do. I haven't let my competitive gene come out much this year simply because I don't want to blow up that close to the end. Especially when it's not terrain I know well. Technically I should have gone up the first three climbs with a cadence of 75, keeping my heart rate below 150, but since I didn't do the second climb, I consider Lunada the third climb and try to maintain the same stats, which I manage to do by repeating, like a mantra, in yo' head, not yo' legs, in yo' head, not yo' legs, in yo' head, not yo' legs, for LITERALLY twenty minutes.

(I'm gonna knock you out. Momma said knock you out.) In yo' head, not yo' legs.

(Enfer du nord, Tourmalet, Tour de France, Tour de France....) In yo' head, not yo' legs.

(The only one I know is waiting to take me away....Most of the time you are happy; you're a weirdo...) In yo' head, not yo' legs.

I'd rather listen to the fight between my mental iPod and my inner coach rather than think about what's happening to me.

The further higher I go, the more empty packets of PowerBar gels I see. A little further on, small puddles of vomit start appearing on the edges of the pavement....

(I'm gonna knock you out. Momma said knock you out.) In yo' head, not yo' legs.

I pass a guy from Hondarribia CC who is paler than my untanned stomach and looks like he's going to suffer a coronary any minute now. I offer to stick with him but I don't think I can go that slowly. He just looks at me like he can't decide whether he should say "yes" or hurl.

The mechanics have gone ahead and are sitting on a curve about five kilometres from the top.

"How you feeling?" they yell as I brake and stop and pull out what's left of some PowerBar candies.

"I'm all right, to be honest," I say.

"That's good," says the cute one with the long curly black hair, "'cause that poor bastard is really suffering." He jacks a thumb towards a guy who I think passed Roberto and I at the first feed station. "You might want to ride with him and make sure he makes it to the top."

I nod and push off. "See you at the top."

Going up Lunada presents one other problem that I hadn't anticipated: the view down. On most climbs, you get a pretty good view of the surrounding scenery, but because the climb up Lunada basically follows the inside line of a crescent of mountains, your view of the scenery is basically limited to the surrounding peaks and a bird's eye view of the highway you just climbed. All. The. Way. Down. All. Eight. Hundred. Metres. Down. This is where my vertigo, which I manage to keep in check on most occasions, kicks in big time. I literally cannot look down because it makes me nauseous in a way that climbing itself does not manage. I keep my eyes focused on the guy suffering in front of me because I know that looking over my shoulder will make me seize with fear.

"Hi," I say, pulling up beside him. "Want to hang on my wheel for a while?"

He nods. We make small talk, about as much small talk as you can when one person is totally blown and the other is afraid to look side to side. His name is Nacho. He's one of the organizers of the Clásica de Bilbao. He looks a lot like Yago. Do NOT look down whatever you do. He freely admits that he only got about two hundred hours of riding before this. Don't look to the right. Don't even look at the billy goats feeding by the side of the road. Nacho is surprised by the calibre of rider who's chosen to take part "It's a lot like a race but without prizes." Boy, does he ever look like Yago. Does Yago have a brother who lives in Bil--Christ Almighty, Dawn, do NOT look to the right --

"How much longer?" he puffs.

"Two kilometres," I lie. This is how the Arabs got Lawrence through Arabia: they never told him the truth about how much further there was. Maybe they lied to themselves, too, in order to survive.

We make it to the top at 14:42, three minutes before the cutoff time, to applause and cheers from twelve different people, including a couple who are hiking in the area. They cannot force enough Aquarius or Martínez pastries or Coke on us. There is no sign of Hondarribia Man; the Guardia Civil on a motorbike who's waiting there says that the man refuses to stop.

All I want to do is get off this effing mountain and get down to Villarcayo and hope David's not too pissed off that I'm taking so long.

Snowplows have basically scraped the living bejesus out of the surface of the road, which makes the six kilometres down to Espinosa de los Herreros a living hell on the ankles and hands; I keep under 40 because I'm not sure who's likely to be sent flying by a pothole first, me or Nacho. Both of us are pretty frigging shaky.

And we get down to the bottom, where the mechanics are waiting for us with a thin guy wearing Cervélo team gear, and it doesn't hit me immediately just WHO this guy is. It doesn't hit me, honestly, until I see the Cervélo bike and see the profile that we're being led home by Iñigo Cuesta himself, who traditionally has accompanied the final riders home on the last 35 kilometres. Cuesta is gracious enough to keep the average speed down to about 35 kilometres, though you get the sense that he wouldn't think twice about riding up this road to go to Santander, oh, to do something simple like have breakfast with a buddy.

The mental iPod gets shut off and Yago's voice comes on: Stick to his wheel!!!

Bloody damn flipping well RIGHT I'm sticking to his wheel!! You think I'm gonna give up bragging rights to something like this??? Hang for an hour on the wheel of the guy who helped Carlos Sastre win the Tour de France last year??!?! SIR, YES SIR!!!

We make small talk on the way down - you enjoying the ride? What do you think of the jerseys? Think you'll make it back next year? - and I'm impressed by Cuesta's personal involvement in the project. Frankly, aside from the lack of toilets for the ladies, I'm impressed by the whole setup. The entire town of Villarcayo has gotten involved in this to a degree I haven't seen since I was in college and Canton would back St. Lawrence's hockey team.

Cuesta breaks into a grin. "Hey, I forgot to mention...we've got one more climb before we make it back to Villarcayo."

"Cat One?" I yell back.

"Of course!"

"Well, let's get it done now before the effects of the Coke and gels wear off!!"

Cuesta laughs. Nacho looks like he purposely wants to take a header into the ditch.

It occurs to me later that maybe I should have made more of an effort to converse and be funny and witty and stuff like that, but it's not every day that you get the chance to follow the line and the wheel of someone who's got more than twenty years of pro experience under his belt. You can watch pro cycling on TV to try to get ideas on what to do (and what not to do) but there's absolutely nothing like riding with a pro to learn. Cuesta is the very image of calm on his bike, and in my pre-bonk mental state I focus intensely on trying to pick up hints: Don't move your hips so much. Focus on the fluidity of your pedaling. I take his line through curves: he pedals through curves, I pedal. He drops his outer leg, I do the same.

I hope I'm not making him nervous staring at him like this, but I know that it will be a long time before the next time I get the road handling lessons that I will get in these 35 kilometres. And let's not kid ourselves. We all want to believe in the magic of being with someone special. We want to believe in the transfer-ability of an experience like this, hoping that we get touched with some kind of magic touch, hoping that something like this will prove to be transcendental and career-changing. I want to impress him, too: "Wow, there's this chick who rides with Chamartín who's not all that bad...." As if: If I were really that impressive, I wouldn't be third from DFL. But if I weren't third from DFL, I wouldn't be getting a lesson like this. I wouldn't be riding with the guy whose name everyone mentioned when I bought Ellie last year: "Why can't you ride at 40? Look at Cuesta: he's the same age as you and he's still enjoying a pro career."

We make it into Villarcayo just after 4, when they're in the process of taking everything down. David's at the finish line, camera at the ready, and he breaks into an enormous grin when he sees Cuesta and I come in together. Cameras are out. High-fives are exchanged with the various guys who manned feed stations, the various support vans. Photos are taken. I manage to get off the bike without falling off. At some point, Nacho disappears and I don't see him during the post-race meal and raffle. I can't even think of taking a shower now: I'm so out of it that if I submit myself to a flow of hot water I will fall asleep on the spot.

Roberto's sitting by himself in the sports centre for the post-meal ride (I win an Orbea mountain biking shirt that will look good on my little brother). We invite him over to sit with us, have a good laugh with some of the other cyclists and volunteers. We pile our stuff into David's car at the end, swap, exchange numbers so that we can go for coffee at Quebranta this year. The drive back is uneventful, since we manage to stay ten minutes behind most of the thunderstorms that are blowing through Castile.

And it strikes me that even though cycling has come very close to breaking me physically and emotionally many times in the past year, I have never seen so many rainbows as I have while on my bike.

Exceptional

2009-05-29T08:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Chuffed!

2009-05-27T11:16:00.001-07:00

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.

Huh?

2009-05-26T23:07:00.001-07:00

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!

This little piggy...

2009-05-25T23:43:00.001-07:00

...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.

Force

2009-05-23T09:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Outliers

2009-05-19T12:48:00.000-07:00

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.

Alberto #2

2009-05-17T12:24:00.000-07:00

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.

Human

2009-05-10T13:48:00.000-07:00

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"

Holes

2009-05-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

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?

Really?

2009-05-01T01:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Decision

2009-04-26T00:19:00.000-07:00

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....

I found someone!!

2009-04-25T16:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Tunes to train by

2009-04-21T02:17:00.000-07:00

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?

A moment to myself

2009-04-20T23:10:00.000-07:00

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.

Jealousy

2009-04-13T10:21:00.000-07:00

"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.

Uck.

2009-04-12T09:09:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2009-04-10T23:15:00.000-07:00

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!!

Elation: Clásica de Bilbao, Part One

2009-04-03T03:17:00.000-07:00

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.

Trepidation: Clásica de Bilbao, Part 2

2009-04-02T02:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Cotton

2009-03-24T02:24:00.000-07:00

There's this game I would love to play with my students, if any of them (besides Mari Luz) actually owned unlingual dictionaries. It's called The Delphic Dictionary. You think of something - a problem, an issue - then you close your eyes, flip the dictionary open and point to some word on one of the pages. The task is to then draw a parallel between what's on your mind and what's on the page.

Today's word is pedestrian enough: cotton. A fitting word, really. The sheets are in the washing machine; I'm looking at a cotton hankie given to me by a guy named Craig, who I taught with when I lived in Prague. Cotton is porous, easy to wash, requires ironing and smoothing out to be presentable, is used around the world, is comfortable.

It looks like I'm going to Bilbao by myself. Jesús and AG don't want to ride the Clásica in the rain, and I have no idea whether Luis is going to bail or not. Josu's going to be up there, staying with his family, but I don't really have a lot of contact with Josu any more. No cotton in the rain; it'll have to wait until after the post-ride shower, comfortable clothing for the bus ride back to Madrid on Sunday. I hope I don't have problems taking Ellie on the bus. AG is not particularly chatty today. I don't know if he's mad at me for not riding the Brevet on Saturday or he's ashamed to admit that he's already made up his mind that he's not going to Bilbao, but he hasn't told me. I am porous. I don't care. The Clásica was one of my target rides for this year. I can deal without them - there'll be three thousand other riders.

I have a new riding buddy. His name is Charles and he's a Protestant minister who works as a consultant to various Protestant churches in the Madrid area. He, his wife and kids have been in Madrid for about three years. He's like me in that he knows he wants to get as good as he can get now that he has a bit more leeway to ride; culturally, I'm much closer to him than I am to the Saturday guys. The Saturday guys tease me for what they consider to be a Lutheran way of looking at cycling, but you have to keep in mind that "Lutheran", to them, is the opposite of "Catholic". As in, not like us. I never got through enough of Max Weber to get a grasp on what "the Protestant Work Ethic" was, in Weber's eyes, but I have a sense that a lot of it is you do what it takes to get the job done. Keep your head down and don't complain. If you really want it, you do what you have to do. Can bicycles be seen through the eyes of religion? Because they sure can be seen through the filter of culture.

Why Lance Armstrong Never Ceases to Bug the Bejeezus out of Me, Part II

2009-03-14T14:29:00.001-07:00

So: Alberto blows up and bonks in today's Paris-Nice, about ten kilometres from the end. Within hours, Lance is on Twitter, and writes: "Unfortunate day for Alberto. Amazing talent but still a lot to learn."

And all I can think of is....

a) When you failed to place in the Top 10 in the Tour of Australia, was Alberto on Twitter saying that you lost because you were washed up?
b) Had you won all THREE of the Big Three races before YOU reached 26 years of age? No! Because you only ever focused on the Tour.
c) Then SHUT UP.

Boobs

2009-03-14T13:10:00.001-07:00

Today was supposed to be the day Pakefte did the Seis Tetas - the Six Breasts ride. I don't know where the name comes from - it's basically 105 kilometres riding up and down the various sides of the Tajuña Valley, east of Madrid, and none of the hills taken in by the ride actually looks like any part of anyone's anatomy.

Antonio L. bailed early, citing family complications. Buje did the same, but because he actually hasn't been home for an entire weekend in the past month. AO had the typical problems of getting away on a Saturday (though he didn't blame it on his significant other this time...) and yesterday Jesús and AG bailed, by Instant Messaging, at 9:40. Their idea: to take advantage of the good weather to knock off a couple of mountain passes. I didn't need much convincing. If it comes down to the choice between climbing a mountain and having to listen to the creepily symbiotic relationship between Juan and Pilar, who are so busy nailing the Zen-like nature of riding brevets that they tend to forget that there are other people along on the ride who really couldn't give a shit about how involved they are with brevets or each other....gimme a granola bar, and I'll see you at the top.

They say that Morcuera is one of the toughest rides in the entire Madrid region. I know from experience that it's not the toughest, but it's still worthy of respect. A shitload of respect. It's well over seven hundred metres to the top, in over nine kilometres, most of it at more than a 6% grade (ten is more the norm.) The catch? We were not supposed to do that climb first. The plan, as I understood it, was to go up the Puerto de Canencia, which is a lot easier once you get out of town, head down into the Lozoya Valley, and come up Morcuera on the other side. But Antonio's chain developed a nasty habit of busting apart spontaneously; we wasted more than an hour on severeal occasions trying to get his bike in functioning mode. When it began to look like time was running out, the boys took an impromptu vote, decided on climbing Morcuera, then looked over at me and said, "You in?"

I know that they cut me a lot of slack for being a girl, and I'm grateful that I'm not expected to jack up the intensity of any hammerfest that involves climbing. But there are times when I can't tell (culture? language? guy culture in a different language?) when I'm simply being invited, and when I'm being tested to see what I can do. The fact that they invite me along in the first place is a sign of respect (I think.) I don't want to blow it by adopting a girly-girl stance and not being able to hold my own.

The first two and a half kilometres aren't so bad but at Km 12 on the M611, the angle pops up significantly and both my and Jesús's altimeters are registering a grade that bounces between 7% and 13%. This is tough - but I'm not suffering. My heart rate is staying steady at around 140; Jesús has problems bringing his down below 150. It's just l-o-o-o-o-o-o-n-g. It's the kind of long that makes you start thinking of weird-ass songs that you haven't thought of since you were a kid ("Nashville Cats" and Deucette, anyone?)

"Don't push too hard," says Jesús. "It doesn't lighten up until you get past Km. 14." And sure enough, the second of three crap things happens right at Km. 14 - Jesús flats and tells me to go on by myself, that he'll catch up. I continue up, slow, slow, slow, slow, Km 15, Km 16 - on a clear day it must be a hell of a view into the plains but with the snow melting and subliminating the haze gets thicker by the minute. (By the time I get back to the train station at Tres Cantos the Sierra will have all but disappeared.) And at 16, I blow out. Where there was power, there is only shakiness. Where there was consistency, there is jelly. Thank God I have ONE PowerBar left - and eating a PowerBar on a 7% grade is something that people should try. ONCE. That way, you'll learn to take breaks and eat BEFORE you climb. Edu passes me, another older gentleman passes me, some skinny young thing dressed in Caisse d'Épargne blows by me, with a look on his face that is part bemusement and part there-but-for-the-grade-of-God. I'm so tired I don't even bother trying to get a look at him to see if he's anyone recognizable from Caisse or just some blowhard trying to pick up....

...wait a second. Where ARE the chicks??? We passed ONE girl with strawberry hair when we first cleared the town limits. So where are the others?

I finally make it to the top of the climb -- 1,796 metres, the highest I've ever climbed in my life -- and I just want to collapse. The boys applaud, all I want is a cup of coffee and some lube for my chain, and the vote becomes unanimous: let's go back down to Soto, have a break and then decide what we're going to do.

An older man looks at my arm warmers and my jersey and insists that I take his windbreaker: You're going to die of the cold!! I'll be fine, sir. I have an extra layer of insulation over my thorax that most guys can only envy.

One very unfair thing about climbing - it doesn't seem right that it should only take 12 minutes to go down something it just took you an hour to climb. Oh, those 12% grades.

Fired up by the thought of tortilla at the Miratoros (without Antonio whining about the onion), we blast back downhill, but in the process, lose Javi, who hasn't been out on a ride with us since the season-end luncheon last November. I'm blown, he moans as he picks at his tortilla. Jesús has a commitment at 5PM; he's not sure he's going to go all the way. Cerro de San Pedro? asks Edu. Okay, fair enough, I say. I doubt sincerely that I'll be able to do better than the 23.31 that I did on Valentine's Day, but I want to feel like I've knocked one bastard off today.

Third thing to go wrong: a piece of glass embedded in my rear wheel sinks the inner tube and Edu, Jesús and I spend ten minutes fixing the flat on the side of the road. After mucking about and some creative language lessons on my behalf, Edu and I set off; Jesús decides to take the bike lane back to Tres Cantos so as not to get too far behind in the day. I try not to let on that I'm disappointed that he's not coming. Up the hill. Roundabout. Down the hill. Guadalix. Same wrong right turn that takes us out past the chocolate shop that I want to try some time before it ends up closing in the recession. Regional road. Town limit sign. Hit the lap marker on the Polar. There's a bit of a breeze catching us in the face. Lots of traffic streaming into town. I try passing Edu, who's suffering on the uphills, but as soon as I do, he gives me ten seconds before passing me again. This is holding me back. And when I hit my groove I do not like to be held back.

Finally, as we're getting to the top, I think, enough of being a boob for one day. I may have gotten my butt kicked up Morcuera, but I can handle myself on this one. I pass Edu. I'll see you at the top by the maintenance hut. And I lay it on. I make it hurt. It's only a kilometre, it's certainly NOT the only time I will have to kick my own ass on this hill, and I am determined to show that I can do it. I make myself hurt, I think I make Edu hurt, too, since he feels like he's got to keep up...but damn, I have to make this day worthwhile and have at least one fist-pumping moment.

I think about Alberto suffering in the Paris-Nice yesterday, burying Toni Colom and Frank Schleck. I think about what it's going to mean, all those hills included in Quebrantahuesos and the Perico and whatever else I get myself into, and I think of what Greg LeMond said: It doesn't get any easier...just less scary. And I bare my teeth, in pure Contador style, and I give it all I've got.

I drop Edu by a minute and a half.

"You ARE getting stronger," he mutters as we get to Tres Cantos. "If you keep this up you're going to be pretty damn good by the fall." Edu used to do brevets; that's how he met his wife, Paloma, who is bright and funny and a delight to ride with, and who hasn't been out since the end of January. And I think that we need more nice guys like Edu and Javi and Jesús and more boobs and fewer idiots in our Saturday morning group.

Perhaps it's time for a schism or something? Is that a particularly female way of looking at it?

Wheat from the Chaff

2009-02-28T12:01:00.000-08:00

Normally, any train ride that we have to take to get anywhere for a ride ends up being a humph-fest that can only be stopped with massive infusions of caffeine. Not today. Within ten minutes of getting on the train to Aranjuez, SuperLópez is on a rant about the Saturday morning gang. This surprises me. He's usually more discreet, but today, he lays into everyone and anyone - probably would lay into me, too, if I weren't the person he was talking to. I don't know if this is because of the early hour or the crap weather, with the sky threatening to open up and dump on us at any moment. It's like the dropping barometer has set everything loose at once.

Loose, indeed. Wind, grit, trucks (but no tumbleweeds, oddly enough.) We get out of Aranjuez (easier than I thought) and head over the Madrid-Castilla La Mancha border to a small town called Ciruelas. I try to keep to his back wheel; it's hard, considering how much taller and lighter he is - he doesn't have to fight against weight and wind as much as I do. It gets slightly better as we head over the plains by Yepes, but deep down into the bottoms of the gulleys, the wind gets channeled against us - not with enough force to push us backwards, simply blowing hard enough to fool us into thinking that we're going faster than we are. Which is disheartening after an hour.
My mind is suprisingly quiet today - a bit of Amy Winehouse, a bit of positive thinking - but it's easy to let your brain drain of thoughts when the wind keeps scraping against the Buff covering your ears.

Rain comes. Okay.

Rain starts to freeze. Okay.

Two big trucks blow past us, throwing our balance off just enough to push up the adrenaline. Okay.

It is what it is.

La Guardia. Three Guardia Civil trucks sit outside the Bar el Cono, where the bartender takes pity on us and slaps down half a tortilla each and only charges us €4 for a serving and a Coke each. We decide to cut it short and take the train back from El Romeral. Problem - train doesn't come for another three hours.

Screw it. Lunch in Tembleque.

Luckily, neither López nor I have anyone waiting for us at home, which makes it easier to grab lunch and mess about town, taking in all of the sights which I'd already seen on the Trans-Iberian. It is what it is.

Easy ride back to El Romeral, at about 3:15 (train comes at 4:20) and my brain starts going. Right, then: If these things are sent to try us, but we're in a position to get rid of some of them, then why do we tolerate them? Why maintain a friendship that is no longer friendly? Why belong to organizations which don't work to defend our interests? I went to Ikea on Friday to get stuff to reorganize my apartment; what's stopping me from doing the same thing from the shoulders up?

Every so often, we pass tractors disc-ing the fields, pulling up all kinds of gems from the earth. Small flocks of birds trail the tractors, seeing what food and treats the tractors have pulled up. Spring cleaning, spring changing, even with rain looming close by.

Differing ways of being

2009-02-24T12:50:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, when we still cooked our meat over open fires and probably only bathed twice in our lifetimes, English had three verbs that meant "to be". There was "to be", which described permanent situations; "art", which was for emotions and more temporary situations; and one very old, very temporary verb called (and I don't have the proper characters here:) "phtet", which was for passing phases, like being hungry or tired. Spanish gets around this by having three different ways of expressing this: ser, for more or less permanent situations; estar, for situations that can change; and tener, to have, for things that don't last.

Tener is for situations like the trainer. Tener sueño, to be sleepy, when you've spent the entire morning running around like an idiot, and have to get on the trainer an hour after lunch because it's the only space in the day that you can find. Estar cansada, to be temporarily tired, because you're not used to training at such high levels and with such intensity, and you think that you're going to blow out. But never ser cansada, to have had it up to here, to be so fed up that you're at the point of no return.

How's the training going? Des McC. asked this morning. And I said it was going all right, because I am generally enjoying it, though I think I'd enjoy it more if I could focus on it more and not feel like it's something that has to get squeezed between everything else. I am happy, but I am not too tired, yet.

Attack of the Killer B's

2009-02-22T11:18:00.000-08:00

So to get the ride going, Ángel yells out for the guys (and it's almost all guys) in Group A to join him. Nobody moves. This is a bad sign. It means that the riders who are capable of holding higher velocities (but who are too lazy, hungover, whatever, to do so) are going to slip down into Group B, which means that the rest of us who are barely holding onto our positions in Group B are gonna get creamed. Group B ends up with about 20 riders, which means that Group C, the technically slowest group, is gonna be full of people just messing about. So. Group B or Group C? I take my chances with the hammerheads. At least it'll get my heart rate up and I have a chance of looking like I gave it a shot.

I hang on until Tres Cantos. No, to be fair, I hang on until the Autónoma, and by the time we pass the Army base at El Goloso, my tongue is hanging out and I feel like barfing. I pushed too hard yesterday. There's no way I should have raced Buje and Antonio G. to the top of Marañosa (though I was very proud of my winning sprint at the top) and I really should take it a lot easier on Pilar, try riding with her even though she can't open her mouth any more without any of us wanting to scream. But yesterday, I needed to show my stuff. I wanted to show them that I'm not the dumb, fat guiri that they can all laugh at, that they'd better take me seriously or I will kick their asses from here to Finisterre.

And until I bonked on the fourth climb, I think they did.

By the time I reach the Foxá hotel in Tres Cantos, there's no seeing Group B for love or money. They are GONE. God only knows how far behind Group C have gotten; they're far more conservative when it comes to things like jumping red lights or letting the group get too far spread out. Whatever. I have intervals to do today anyway. Once past the main area of Tres Cantos, I push the gears up to a 54X14 and push, hard. I try invoking Amy Winehouse songs, the chattering monkeys, thoughts of Tom Boonen wearing nothing but leather trousers and a smart-ass smirk, anything to keep my mind off the fact that I feel like I'm blowing up. No pain, no gain, says Yago, but I'm not sure I'm gaining anything. All I can feel is the seething anger at being left so far behind.

Which makes it doubly irritating because I'm having trouble keeping my heart rate up. The whole point of doing intervals is to try to keep my heart rate at about 80% maximum for twenty minutes, but I can't; every time the terrain levels out or goes downhill, it plummets from about 154 to 128. I'm five minutes away from two climbs that would make it soar through the roof, but I can't hold on.

And then the snot comes. Oh my God, does it come. Someone turns on the faucet at the back of my sinuses and before I know it, I'm choking on it. I can't hork it out. I can't blow it out. But it's there, washing around but not loose enough to get out in one big loogie. I check behind me. I look in front of me. And, being left-handed, I blast it out onto my left arm warmer and feel relieved that I can breathe. Until four really good-looking guys pass me, muttering "Ánimoooo...." in the same tone of voice that one uses to berate the dog for peeing on the carpet.

But I accidentally hit one of the buttons on the new cycle computer, and bring up the altitude function. I'm riding up a 12% grade. I'm not sure if that makes me feel better or not.

I never get to the point of wondering why the hell I'm doing this. Not on the bike. Those thoughts tend to come when I'm exhausted and there's been no time to shop for food and the house is a disaster. But I do wonder how well I am doing it. I know that I'm climbing stronger, that (when I don't blow out) I can climb faster and go faster on flats. What I do wonder, though, is if this ever gets to the point where it gets effortless. Or just feels like it is. I want to be one of those guys who flies up hills and still has enough breath to talk about Real Madrid's season. I don't know how long that'll take. All I can think of when I get to the top of the 12% bit is that it doesn't feel like it's coming fast enough.

We take over one of the cafés in the plaza across from the church in Manzanares el Real; the B's have headed up to the to the Canto Cochino parking lot of the La Pedriza Park, which is packed with cyclists and cars. The C's roll in ten minutes later -- "Where the HELL did they shoot off to?" Pepe grumbles, shooting the hammerheads a poisonous look. The sun is shining, the protein and carbs are starting to settle down.

On the way out, I try joining the B's again, but their numbers have swelled, and instead of having a three-tier system, we've basically broken down into Those Who Go Like Hell and Those Who Take It Easy. I start in the second, chatting with Pepe, but those who can, do, and we get caught in a sub-group which should be Group B, but technically isn't.

And then another problem comes up, sort of. While I value the experience of riders like Pepe and Miguel, who have been riding for over forty years, I'm not sure how to gently extricate myself from being with them so that I can do my second interval. I'm supposed to do a second set of 20 minutes going like hell; but, blocked in with six older guys who are determined to show me the ropes, I end up in a paceline, straight behind Pepe and beside José Antonio. Knowing that these guys are all retired, I take extra care to do this well; me breaking a bone is nothing, but them breaking a bone would mean being laid up for months. But I can't break free, I can't do the Z4, and I don't know which is the bigger sin - not doing the exercise I was prescribed (which is, after all, meant to make me faster and stronger) or passing up on damn near 200 years of collected experience riding around me. I opt for the latter. I'm not in a position where I can turn down more help.

We head back into town going at a pretty good pace, about 28 kilometres an hour, and Pepe gives me some pointers about descending. Let's face it, I'm a lot more corpulent than a LOT of the guys I ride with, and since most of my weight sits from the waist down, it tends to drag me a lot faster and further than any guy who tips the scales like I do. Unless you can get around him safely, don't race him, says Pepe. If he comes down or slides out when he hits the curve, he's gonna take you with him.

And the gang collects again just inside the old town limits of Fuencarral town, where Miguel and a couple of the other guys are hanging out by the club car.

"How she'd do?" says Miguel.

"She's doin' all right," says Pepe, with a big smile on his face. "She's doing quite all right."

Well, they haven't chucked me out yet or demoted me. That's something in itself.

Bad Cyclist

2009-02-17T13:07:00.001-08:00

"No pain, no gain," says Yago, and by the time I'm finished screwing around with trying to get the Polar on the bike, it's damn near nine and I DO intend on trying to get the training in. But I don't. The trainer is misbehaving and keeps snapping out. The phone rings. I can't focus. I'm days away from the ever-feared arrival of Aunt Flo, and I am in SUCH a mood that, after a while, I give up.

I hate this. I hate not being able to focus and shut my brain off but it's still so damn loaded with irrelevant, non-cycling stuff that I don't half wonder if I'm going to do more harm than good. Which I don't. My f***-it gene is too strong to go so hard I actually hurt myself.

It's ten p.m. I'm sick of messing around with stuff. I still haven't eaten dinner. I'm going to bed, a bad cyclist who can't focus.

But at least I'm honest about it!!!!! :O)

Logjams

2009-02-17T07:18:00.000-08:00

Something evil happens when you start losing weight and start burning more energy than you ingest: practically everybody you have contact with turns into an idiot.

The biking buddies who don't clarify where you're supposed to meet for coffee, so that you end up parking your arse in front of their office building for half an hour while they're waiting 500 metres away because they thought you meant another building....morons. The bank? Unmentionables. Tax office? Don't get me started. The student who refuses to use the English she learns in class and, instead, insists on translating every single blessed word from Spanish to English? It's a miracle I'm still employed.

I used to think that I could like being hungry. I know what it's going for, I know why I'm doing this, but God, this is hard. I would rather bike an extra fifty kilometres a day (and I would, if I had the time) rather than have to cut back on carb consumption, like I'm doing now. I feel continuously like I'm three minutes away from either a meltdown or a migrane, and I really, seriously have to restrain myself from talking. ("Are you sure that you're not going through early menopause?" my mom said last night. "When I went through The Change I was never ever really sure what the hell was going to come out of my mouth.")

I look at my Facebook "friends" and think, Why are you here? You're not my friend, and blow them away. I look at the bathroom and before you know it, every surface has been blasted with window cleaner. I look at the pile of photocopies of ESL handouts sitting on the sofa and think, Screw it - it's saved on the hard drive, and chuck them into the recycling bin. And all the time, I'm thinking of bread, of pasta, of all sorts of things I probably should not have, and am thankful that I don't live really, really super close to a grocery store, because I'd be the size of a Volkswagen Beetle right now.

And all the while, I keep trying to calm myself down by thinking, you asked for it...you knew what this would entail when you started...you know what you're like when you're on a diet...you know you love it when you walk into a room of your friends and one by one, you're becoming skinnier than most of them...you know how good it feels to blow by the guys on the rides, especially coming home when you can hold a higher cadence than most of them...you know that it'll be worth it when you win an important competition...ride with Group A without thinking twice...zoom up Canencia or Navacerrada or the Marie-Blanque....

And then I have a piece of bread and some butter, with some spices spread on top.

And then I stop to breathe.

And then I start thinking that it's probably a very good thing that I'm still single and live alone.

Why Lance Armstrong Never Ceases To Bug the Bejeezus out of Me, Part I

2009-02-16T04:30:00.000-08:00

So: Lance had his time trial bike stolen yesterday. Apparently it's worth more money than I make in a year. About twenty grand, they say.

So Armstrong gets on Twitter and tells his 118,400 followers that he's offering a reward for its safe return.

And all I can think of is...

a) Did you pay for that marvel of engineering out of your own pocket? Or was it given to you by Trek, who know they're going to make the investment back off of weekend warriors who walk into bike shops and babble, "I want a bike just like the bike Lance rides!!!!!"
b) How much money do you make in a typical year?
c) Then SHUT UP.

Home is where the head tube is

2009-02-15T07:49:00.000-08:00

Nothing earth-shatteringly important or meant to move mountains...just a lovely little blog post from Bill Strickland at BICYCLING magazine that I wanted to share:

http://sittingin.bicycling.com/2008/10/bicycle-gothic.html

And what are you still doing inside, Mr. or Mrs. Madrid? It's going up to 15ºc today. There's not a cloud in the sky. It's the first decent weather we've had since December. Get outside already and stop reading dumb blogs like mine.

How bumblebees fly

2009-02-14T19:07:00.000-08:00

I was going to write that there are days when I really don't know why I do this, but that'd be kind of lying. Most days, I feel pretty confident about why I'm doing this: I want to get better and faster. This morning, though, I had one of those mornings where I began to wonder if I was just plain out of my mind.

For the past five days, I've been fighting chest and nasal congestion. I refuse to call it a cold or the flu: it's a seasonally-induced physical low point, albeit one that is going through most of the offices where I work. The Saturday morning gang were going on a big, long, 145 km ride, and I knew that I was not going to be in any shape to handle that kind of riding. Besides, I had a bigger challenge to complete. I needed to knock five minutes off a Cat 3 climb.

I'm not a climber. I come from one of the flattest regions in North America, and if I'd actually gone through with my dream to be a cyclist at the age of 14, the only place that I would have had to practice would have been the bridge crossing the CPR freight train line, just south of town. So one of the biggest problems has been learning how to climb, how to have the patience and measure energy and output and not flat-out panic every time there's another hairpin turn on the horizon.

The good news is that Madrid is an excellent place to learn how to climb well. There are climbs of all categories, from dips and swings right up to Cat 1 hammerfests, and you basically can't ride a bike here unless you know how to go uphill without killing yourself.

So: me and the chest cold set out from the train station at the Autonomous University, and we took it slow. There was no sense in hammering away; there was no sense in killing myself on the ride up, because I was going to need the energy for later. And why blow a beautiful Saturday morning - the first warm, pleasant, totally sunny Saturday that we'd literally had in months - trying to prove what a toughie I am?

I took the bike path all the way up to Soto, had tortilla and coffee and set off on a leisurely spin through Guadalix. The roads were full of cyclists - mountain bikes, road bikes, and everything in between - and I was ready.

I visualized this. I don't know if I visualized the warm weather, the pleasant guy cyclist wearing a blue jacket and riding a white Canyon who smiled at me as I hit the town limits of Guadalix, the fresh sent of the soil and earth coming from the sides of the creeks. But I visualized doing it in less than 27 minutes. I visualized the smooth flow of the chain and the cadence, hitting high speeds before the real climbing began five kilometres in. I didn't visualize the heavy traffic, the motorcycle fanatics dressed in Valentino Rossi green-and blue outfits dodging and weaving on out of the lines of high-end cars coming down the M625. I did visualize the work, what a 7% grade was going to feel like in my hamstrings. I didn't visualize the kids hiking up the vía pecuaria. I visualized what it was going to look like, riding up to the caseta and pulling out the phone and telling Yago that I'd done it, that I'd got my time under 29 minutes.

I did NOT visualize knocking damn near eleven minutes off the time.

It has been said (I don't know by whom) that aerodynamically, bumblebees are not supposed to be able to fly, that their heavy, ball-shaped bodies cannot be lifted by wings so small. No one has ever told bumblebees that. So it just goes to show that there's no sense in trying to limit yourself, because if you don't think about what you CAN'T do, it's amazing what you can do.

A solution with lots of bottle

2009-02-14T05:31:00.001-08:00

Back last August, when César and I were riding through Burgos and Soria, we were surprised at the amount of garbage you could still see on the road after the Vuelta a Burgos. Signs, flyers and even bottles littered the ditches, and while I'm not ashamed to admit that I scored a couple of very cool cycling bottles (thank you, Andalucía-Cajasur), what we saw probably didn't go a long way towards helping cycling's image as an environmentally-friendly sport.

So kudos to CamelBak, who have teamed up with the Coolest Damn Team in Cycling (i.e. Garmin-Slipstream, the Argyle Armada) to turn trash into treasures. Spectators who pick up Garmin bottles from the sides of the roads during the Amgen Tour of California can use the bottle as a kind of raffle ticket. Each bottle will have a code on it, and when you find a bottle, you simply enter the CamelBak website to see what you've won. And these are REALLY cool prizes we're talking about - a team-issue Felt bicycle, a set of Zipp wheels - I mean, really COOL swag.

Which makes me think I should write CamelBak and ask them why they don't extend the promotion to Spain, where Garmin will be racing in the Vuelta a Murcia in a couple of weeks' time. I mean, hell....I KNOW I am not the only one who recycles bike bottles recovered from the ditches.

For more information: http://thisjustin.bicycling.com/2009/02/the-roundup-t-1.html

Attack of the Mental Chattering Monkeys

2009-02-09T22:57:00.001-08:00

I don't know why I'm having such a rough time sleeping in lately. On Tuesdays and Fridays I don't have to be at work until the early afternoon but, without fail, by 6:30 in the morning I'm bolt awake, my brain blasting with thoughts about everything and anything. I don't know if that means that I'm sleeping more efficiently, but it sure doesn't help to find your eyes open, staring at the ceiling, knowing that you're about five minutes away from suffering an Attack of the Mental Chattering Monkeys: Pilates or pool today? When do I get down to the health centre to get the blood test sorted out? What fresh hell am I going to encounter at the perfume pump company? Do I go to get weighed in this morning or do I leave it 'til Friday? Is it worth trying to get to know Jesús better or should I just leave it and let him make a move if he's truly interested? Do we have parking at the youth hostel if we take the cars to Bilbao? If Igo to the pool in the Casa del Campo is it going to be full of pensioners who swim too slow? Has the chain stretched? Why doesn't the toilet drip water in the morning, just at night? Why doesn't Paloma the lawyer pick up the phone when I call?

I know why this is: I don't really have anyone I talk to about normal stuff (well, I do, but I'm also aware that I can't push the limits too far.) And the thoughts end up stuck in my head, and to tamp them down, I end up doing stuff like swimming and cycling and Pilates and teaching and messing about on the Internet. Because it's therapy. Because it makes me feel better. Because it's a good way of ignoring the little stuff that ends up getting blown out of proportion by stress and worry because I didn't take care of it in the first place. I don't want to bother Kinga or Tora or my parents or Yago with shit that really isn't that important. But I'm also fully aware that canning feelings and worries and stress inside is not a way of dealing with it, either.

I don't want this stuff to affect my progress, especially since some of the Chattering Monkeys do actually talk about cycling-related issues from time to time. Maybe I should think about joining a Zen dojo to try to learn to clear my brain so that the Mental Chattering Monkeys just stay that way - they stay inside my brain, where they can be silenced and prevented from causing trouble.

YOU'RE leaving at 8AM.

2009-02-06T23:47:00.000-08:00

I like it when Jesús organizes outings, because it's clear and precise: We're leaving at this time and we're gonna do this and them's the breaks. AO, on the other hand -- there is just no nice way to say this -- is an unmitigated disaster.

We're meeting at 8AM, he says, even though the sun didn't come up until 8:25 and leaving at 8:00 means having to ride though several questionable areas (both in terms of road quality and safety) in the dark. AO, we say, do you really think that that's such a hot idea? We're meeting at 8AM, he says, because that way those who want to do 100 kilometres and those who want to do 120 kilometres can be home before lunchtime. So does that mean that you haven't specifically picked a route, then? We're leaving at 8AM, he says.

I don't really mind AO all that much, but he strikes me as a very...well, Canadian...Spaniard, in a way. He's so busy trying to find a middle ground to make everybody happy that he doesn't realize that his vacillating pisses everyone off to no end. He'll yammer on about the importance of taking yourself seriously as a cyclist, yet show up looking like a Hobbit or an art student, in baggy pants gathered round the ankle with a big elastic band or metal clip, a windbreaker that's big enough to hold his wife and both daughters. When the wind picks up, you don't have to look at where he is in the pace line: you can hear him twenty metres away, flap flap flap.... A couple of months ago, he was doing the climb up the Cerro de San Pedro and got smoked by a bunch of guys from SanSe, who made fun of the clothes he was wearing. He was indignant as hell. None of us were surprised: Well, what does he expect, if he goes out riding looking like a Bosnian refugee?

It may be a uniquely Anglo-Saxon hangup (or maybe I'm just really, really being a girl, here) but appearances count. If you don't have enough self-esteem or pride to kit yourself out well (and don't talk to me about money, the guy's a federal civil servant and makes good coin), you're gonna have to expect that people are going to think that you're not taking this seriously.

And I know why he was so uptight about leaving at 8AM. Gloria, his co-habitant (as he romantically calls her) is continually referred to in his e-mails as the person with whom he must negotiate time. You coming to Bilbao with us or not? I haven't consulted with Gloria. You going out on Saturday? I haven't asked Gloria.

I haven't met Gloria, but frankly, if she's like a lot of Spanish housewives I know, she would probably be thankful to have him out from under her feet and doing something regularly that doesn't involve a Lazy Boy, a six-pack of Estrella Galicia and the remote control. Gloria, I suspect, is being used as a convenient excuse to get some cycling in because AO hasn't really sat down with her and said, look, this is important to me and I know it's hard with two kids, but I'm willing to negotiate and make this work. I don't think Gloria has him on a short leash at home by any means. Dollars to doughnuts, AO just kind of sneaks out whenever he thinks he can get a couple of hours in, just enough that he's not missed, but not enough that she starts thinking he's having an affair or something.

So if he wants to leave at 8AM and drag the rest of them with him, good luck to him. It's freezing out there and the road to San Martín is not the best - it's busy, full of broken glass and garbage and God knows what else. I may be crazy enough to ride in snow, but I'm not so desperate for a ride that I'll go out somewhere that's hazardous if you can't see where you're going.

10:23 AM

2009-02-06T01:23:00.000-08:00

Random thoughts while cleaning up and putting the bike on the trainer.

- It's only rain. It's really not that big a deal. Some poor 22-year-old Belgian cyclist died in his sleep yesterday in the early morning. He'd been riding the Tour de Qatar, went to bed and never got up again. Things must be kept in perspective.

- A year ago, Kirsty and I almost got attacked by a turkey and got nailed by sunstroke on the Ruta del Quijote near Alcázar de San Juan. How can it be that last winter was so amazing, and this winter sucks?

- It's rain. At least it makes it easier to wipe the bike clean of crap and dust and stuff.
Crap and dust and stuff. Amazing how such general, vague language can generate such strong mental images.

Right: 90 minutes of riding with 15-second sprints.

9:43 AM

2009-02-06T01:08:00.001-08:00

John, the guy who taught countless adults and kids from Kemptville to drive, once stopped a driving practice session I had with him because I was so pissed off and wound up from work that I wasn't able to concentrate properly on driving. He literally stopped the car in the middle of Asa Street, ordered me into the passengers' side seat of his adapted K-Car and drove me home. I felt ashamed. Controlling my temper is never something I've been particularly good at, especially when it's something that I can't change anyway. I turn into Dawna Duck: quacking (qwacking?), yelling, not able to disconnect enough to talk myself out of the red fog.

It's 9:41. In 2.09 km I have been cut off twice, had three different people with umbrellas walk out in front of me to cross the street without looking. (Want to know what Hell is going to look like when you die? I'll tell you. It's raining and full of very short Madrileños with golf umbrellas.) I am now standing under the eaves of the Teatro Real and the sleet is coming down so hard I can't see the Palacio Real, 250 metres away. Enough of this shit. I call Yago.

¿Hola?
Hi, it's me. I'm sorry to bother you, but I have a question.
Shoot.
I'm standing beside the Teatro Real and it's been sleeting and raining for the last ten minutes. I know that we said that I had to do the five rides up La Marañosa today, but can I please do it tomorrow with the group ride? This is nuts.
Yeah, the weather is pretty bad. Go ahead and do it tomorrow.
So, trainer today?
Yeah, do a bit on the trainer and then tomorrow when you go out riding, do the rides up during or after the group ride.
OK. Thanks.
Hey, by the way, thanks for the funny e-mails with the English cycling slang. I've really enjoyed them.
No problem. And if I get more, I'll send them your way.
Right.

I hate bailing like this, but hell, it's Friday and there'll be no one out on those roads. The one person who you might even run into down around that way, training on a Friday, is in California, the lucky bastard. I don't mind riding in inclement weather if I'm with other people but there ain't no way, no how I'm going down those hills with no one to look out after me.

7:46 AM

2009-02-05T22:46:00.000-08:00

It's 7:46 AM. I've been up for an hour; the sound of the rain woke me up at 6:30 and every ten minutes or so, I poke my head out the curtains to see if the rain has let up, which is kind of stupid because it's still raining hard enough that I can hear it in the kitchen. Maybe it'll go away before 9 or 10. Maybe it'll blow through once the sun comes up; the radar images on the national weather website shows that the band of precipitation going through central Spain is not solid, that there are breaks. Accu-Weather says that the weather is going to get better this afternoon, but that doesn't help me at all because I have to work at 3PM. So: suck it up, head out in the rain and just hope that it doesn't get worse than this.

If the status on my Facebook page doesn't change by 6PM, call the Civil Guard. I'm doing climbs on the bike lane beside the M301, between Perales de Tajuña and the turnoff to the Warner Brothers theme park by Góquez de Abajo, near San Martín de la Vega.

Qwacking up

2009-02-05T03:29:00.001-08:00

Four and a half more hours to go and the weekend begins. Before Christmas, I was pretty sure that I could strike a balance between cycling and working, and I'm still feeling pretty confident about it, but I am not going to lie: this may be the first time in my life when I actually wish I were married, because it would be SO much easier to have someone to help out with...stuff.

Four and a half more hours. Two with the perfume pump people - one fun hour, one grind hour. Mabel, who uses most of her class to talk about the problems of her life. (How much do shrinks make an hour?) And then the kids, who are 12 and 13 and going through puberty and are VERY sulky and who turn me off the idea of teaching kids forever. Alfonso's not bad (how can you not like a thirteen-year-old who likes Henry James?) but I could slug Guillermo for being such a sulky little sod. So it inevitably happens that my mind starts wandering: Can I still make my reservations for the Clásica de Bilbao? Is SugarLopez gonna show up this week, and why hasn't he been out since early December - did he really gain that much weight? And is The Oik not coming out because of me or because he's so out of shape?

I teach and my mind starts wandering towards cycling. I cycle, and my mind doesn't always veer off towards teaching, but it does sometimes. Am I qwacking up? That's the last thing I need - to qwack myself.

Viva el Meatball!!

2009-02-03T12:37:00.001-08:00

Over the last couple of weeks, I've been explaining a couple of the, ahem, finer points of English cycling slang. So far, he's learned (and I hope he's been able to use) snot rocket, hork loogies, and do a Fred Flinstone. I know a fair amount of slang, but I bow down to the comic madness of Mike "Meatball" Friedman, who rides for Slipstream-Chipotle. Dave Zabriskie used to be the quip of the pelotón, but he's had to cede that title to Meatball, who has rightfully earned his nickname. This guy is nuts. And not only is he nuts, he's pretty damn funny, too. The word of the day today was to "quack" someone, which, to quote Meatball, is when:

Quack or qwacking is the term Tommy D (Tom Danielson)likes to use when his 130-pound dainty little arse makes an abrupt move on a guy next to him in a treacherous situation. It’s you or him out there and nobody is nice. Well, unless it’s your teammate. So I quack in Tom’s honor!

Lord knows my hinie is not dainty, but I love the expression. And it's a good thing, too, because I know that, for the next twelve months, every time I make a move on someone, I will not be able to silence my inner duck. Smoke Pilar and/or The Oik on a climb...quack quack, quack. Attack a group of guys from SanSe....quack, quack, quack....

It's not enough to love Slipstream because they're the cleanest team in cycling. They are the only group of cyclists who you could even remotely dream of playing beer pong with. They're the only ones who have cyclists who have anything resembling sense of humour. They are the only professional cycling team who aren't afraid to let it all hang out, which is brilliant for some of us who are trying hard to get a handle on this cycling lark.

¡Viva el Argyle! ¡Viva el Meatball!

http://www.slipstreamsports.com/

PS: Mike, if you ever read this....and you decide that you're not particularly fond of the moniker "Meatball".... sorry, dude. I think you've earned it so well that you're stuck with it whether you like it or not. ;)

Everything is relative

2009-02-01T08:53:00.000-08:00

We get back to the Chamartín's clubhouse (which isn't a clubhouse, exactly, just a converted office that lacks heat) and Paco looks at Luis, Rob and I like he can't make up his mind if he should high-five us or smack us upside the head. Nobody, I mean nobody, knew that the morning was going to end up like that - huge, gobby snowflakes that came down horizontally more than once, visibility down to 200 metres, speeds slowed to damn near 10 km/h because you just had no idea what lay under the snow.

Canadian weather, vamos. Stuff that would not have flipped out any urban cyclist living in Toronto, Ottawa or Montreal - if you were a bike courier in any city along the eastern seaboard of North America, it would have been nothing at all. You would have dressed appropriately, dug into your mental maps of any potential problems like grates or crap pavement, and just kept going. But looking at the faces that greet us as we come in, get dried off and warmed up (just enough), you'd think that we'd just run an Alley Cat through Madrid traffic on a Saturday night. It's equal parts respect, confusion, and a burning desire to chew us out.

Me, I don't care. I'm Canadian; I've ridden in far, far worse conditions than what we encountered today. I am kind of pissed at myself for not having the foresight to bring a change of clothes -- but, then again, we didn't think that it was going to be quite as wild as it got. Had I known, I probably still would have gone out, but I would have brought home two of those plastic gloves that they make you wear in the supermarkets when you serve yourself in the produce section. I would have brought a change of clothes. And I would have made sure to have brought warm socks. But otherwise? I probably would have gone out anyway, even if it meant that I would have gotten soaked in the process.

None of the Spaniards went out. None of the Spaniards even went so far as to budge their arms up when the vote went down at 9.41 AM to find out if we were gonna go out or not. This mentality may be the reason why there are so few Madrileños in the pelotón and most of the ones who do compete get their asses kicked by the Basques during the Spring Classics, who grow up riding in this stuff and have to do it straight through from October to May every year.

I mean, it's just snow, right?? To me, riding in 40º weather, in the middle of the day, with the sun beating down, when there hasn't been rain or clouds for the previous six months...that strikes me as being a wee bit sick. If I can learn to ride in the oven, riding in the freezer shouldn't be such a big deal.

>>BONK!!<<

2009-01-31T11:46:00.000-08:00

It was all right today until Colmenar Viejo. One of us was hung over, one of us was tired, and then there was me, who blew out after twenty kilometres because I didn't have enough to eat yesterday.

Oh God, I hate bonking. I really do. There's nothing that makes me angrier than that feeling of energy evaporating, of feeling dead and useless against a hill that would have been nothing a week before. And on top of that, the battery died in the heart rate monitor band and I have no stats on what I actually did.

They say you learn by making mistakes. They also say that disasters are never caused by one mistake alone, but by a series of mistakes. How close did we come to having a disaster today? Probably not that close. We only did 80km. But I certainly learned my lesson about not starting the day with coffee, and making sure that I eat more than I probably need in the morning.

And the first outing of the Chamartín is tomorrow......

Peso-dilla

2009-01-30T00:37:00.001-08:00

Joder. Here we go again.

There's a reason why I don't particularly like canned tuna. Canned tuna, to me, is deprivation food. There's sacrifice. And there's deprivation. Sacrifice is working hard to reach your goal. Deprivation is desperation when you feel like nothing else you've tried is working. And when I got on the scale this morning and saw the weight - 73.7 kg (162 lbs) - I thought. Oh, God, here we go again. Six months of tuna and Wasa bread to get down to weight for Quebrantahuesos.

You're going to be at 72 kg at the end of the month - no ifs, ands or buts, Yago wrote the other day. And I thought I was on track. Looking at my watch, which also records estimates of the number of calories I burn when I work out, I've burned just under 12,000 calories - and there are how many calories in a pound, 3500? I haven't had any huge, disgusting meals since New Year's Eve. I haven't had a drink since then either, and I can count on one hand the number of cans of full-on sugary drinks, like Coke, I've consumed (and it's always to rehydrate and get more sodium in my system on Saturday and Sunday rides.)

So what's changed? Well, I certainly eat more carbohydrates than I did before. A LOT more. And supposedly, I need these, and I've made more conscious choices to burn "clean carbs", as Chris Carmichael calls them - but hell, does this mean that I'm going to have to manage a perennial tango between getting just enough food and trying not to bonk every time I stand up?

I guess it's back to the Weight Watchers rigamarole of writing down EVERYTHING I eat. And I mean everything. I thought that controlling the quality of what I eat would go a long way towards helping, but it's obviously not enough. So: butter (and I thought I was being a lot better with the butter) goes in the freezer, only to be used for cooking. Cut back on the Nesquik. (I know that that was a big one right there.) More brown rice, less white rice. More veggies to snack on. Buy a food scale (and DON'T get me started about how expensive food scales are in Spain!)

I didn't want to be obsessed with food but it's looking like there isn't any other option. But I draw the line at canned tuna. Fresh tuna? Fine. But canned tuna has too many bad memories of deprivation and self-hate and depression. That's a line I just don't wanna cross.

A GREAT cause to help fight against doping in cycling....

2009-01-25T10:37:00.001-08:00

No doubt there are a lot of cyclists, both professional and amateur, who've had it with being accused, however jokingly, about being dopers. Finally, somone's standing up and doing something about it.

BIKE PURE is a new organization, based in Ireland, that aims to work towards getting cycling cleaned up by advocating clean riding on all levels and in all disciplines. Teams such as Garmin-Chipotle and the new Ouch-Maxxis crew (which Floyd Landis is riding for this year) have made clean cycling a condition of employment for their riders. Up until now, to my knowledge, no organization has made an effort to bring anyone and everyone together to fight something that pisses us all off.

The website hasn't been live for very long, but it already boasts an impressive roster of riders who support BIKE PURE'S aims, and every donation to the organization's cause gets you a head set spacer and a wrist band.

http://www.bikepure.org

Ouch (part 1 of........)

2009-01-25T00:37:00.001-08:00

Oh boy, I sure feel it this morning. My forearms are fairly stiff from gripping the handlebars - something I tried really hard not to do. There are two knots of muscle in my lower back that were pulsing with my heart beat when I woke up. I went to bed at eleven and woke up just after 8:30, pretty much eliminating any chance of being in time for today's Chamartín ride. I don't even remember the alarm going off at seven.

I feel kind of bad about not going out with the Chamartín club this morning, but every time I think of it, I keep thinking the same thing: Ooooh, that's probably NOT such a good idea today.

I really overdid it yesterday. Not out of any raging desire to kill the rest of the group (OK, in all fairness, not MUCH desire) but just because riding into a headwind like that is so damn taxing.

I'll do penance this afternoon in the form of Pilates and an hour or two on the static trainer. Right now I'm not even sure I should be sitting upright.

Sporty vs. Mental (part 2)

2009-01-24T11:13:00.001-08:00

mental (adj)

1. of or pertaining to the mind: mental powers; mental suffering.
2. of, pertaining to, or affected by a disorder of the mind: a mental patient; mental illness.
3. (Informal.) slightly daft; out of one's mind; crazy: He's mental.

You know that it's going to be a mental day when you're biking to the train station and one of the first things you encounter is a bunch of cops putting a cow into a police van.

"Bunch of kids," muttered one, "decided to be funny and ran into the cow with a scooter." The poor Cow Parade Cow wasn't even a "real cow", in the sense that it didn't even look like one of the horned, hoofed pseudoruminants that dot Madrid these days: it was shaped like something like a four-year-old would draw, with bubble-round head, a body like a bag of flour and soup-can legs. None of which made it easier to put in the paddy wagon. It may have been an omen. I'm still too tired to work it out for myself.

It was a mental day all around. I wanted to convince myself that it was sporty, and in some ways, it was - there wasn't anything with road conditions or weather that I didn't have to deal with while I was on the Trans-Iberian. But on the Trans-Iberian, I was only doing about sixty kilometres each day (and most days, not even that). I wasn't training for anything specific. But it reminded me that there were a number of things that I did recall today: If you have to stop to pee, do it on an incline, on grass, with the wind in your face. (And don't tell the guys. They get REALLY weird about girls needing to pee.) Don't fight the wind - you're gonna lose every time. Stay small. Keep pedalling. Remind yourself that, whatever happens, you're going to be in bed by a certain time and that nothing lasts forever - not wind, not good days, not bad days.

Sporty, indeed, with some fun climbs and some re-surfaced roads which made the going a lot easier. And being able to drop Pilar on every single climb was certainly good for my ego (and my pedalling.) At the beginning, coming out of the Henares Valley and going towards Tórtola de Henares, the secondary highways were still pretty crumbly, but the CM1103, which we'd had so much trouble with over the October long weekend in the fall of '07 was delightful and smooth - both for us and the tumbleweeds. It's not that I haven't seen tumbleweeds blow among Spanish highways; I've just never seen them become AIRBORNE over Spanish highways.

Our weekly Spanish tortilla stop took us to the town of Caspuñas, in the deepest Alcarría region - honestly, why there aren't more cyclists who take advantage of this gorgeous area's proximity to Madrid blows me away. The landscape was gorgeous, the hairpin turns were challenging (OK, Chris Carmichael, now I see what you mean about cantered turns) and while we were in the valleys, it wasn't such a big deal because we were basically protected from the wind while we were down. But when we were above the valleys, on the plains that hadn't been excavated by earthquakes or rivers, we got blasted. And I mean blasted. No matter what we did, we couldn't get the wind to work with us: it came from the sides, it got into the front wheels, it sent drops of snot flying horizontally from our noses and set distance records for loogies horked. (Disculpa, Yago. I will explain "horking loogies" the next time we go for coffee.) But it tested us. It tested our patience with weather and ourselves and each other, frankly, because in a situation like this, I would normally have expected being able to count on teamwork to save us the need to fight individually against the wind. But not this time.

For some reason we don't know (and have been too ashamed to ask), Pilar doesn't see stuff. Oncoming cars, overlapped wheels, things falling off her bike: I don't know if it's just a lack of observation skills or if she suffers from some kind of vision impairment, but it's the bane of any outing she's on. Admittedly, I'm no master at group riding, but I hope that I know better not to overlap wheels or close a gap in a pace line that's going along with the wind. I know Juan tries hard to show her how things work. But at one point, as we were riding down the Valle de Ungría towards Caspueñas, she got her rear wheel to within four inches of my front wheel and I had to jam on the brakes to give myself enough space. I tried hard not to snap too loudly - "Pilar, be CAREful!!!!!" and Juan looked back with one of those "what's-goin'-on-back-there" looks, but he didn't yell at me for yelling at her, which surprised me. It soon became pretty obvious why: she stays parallel with him because that way, she gets constant input on what to do and what not to do - which has its logic, to a point, but which makes me nervous as hell.

And the ride down to Iriépal. Iriépal is one of those hills that I have a seething resentment against, because, trying to ride it up it in 2005 (probably the first serious climb I ever had to do in a group ride), I came as close as I've ever come to dying of an athsma attack (not VERY close, admittedly.) It's four kilometres long and four hundred metres up, a broccoli-shaped regional road that hugs a Wild West-style valley. Normally, you can do the entire descent in less than five minutes. I don't think that we did it in less than fifteen.

So now: dinner, toothbrush, stretching, bed. EVERYTHING hurts tonight. Absolutely everything. The weather websites are calling for 95% chance of rain with snow in the sierra tomorrow, and I'm sincerely praying that it comes through, because I want a legitimate reason not to go riding tomorrow. Somehow aching and hurting and being stiff doesn't seem like reason enough. Who knows. Maybe the winds will get so bad that all of the cows in the city will start flying, the cops will freak out and the city will get shut down. Maybe that'd do it.

Sporty vs. Mental

2009-01-24T07:29:00.000-08:00

Among the actual crews these missions are referred to as "sporty", as in "Boy, it sure was sporty out there last night." In general, sporty is good; it's what rescue is all about.

-- Sebastian Junger, "The Perfect Storm"

Boy, it sure was sporty out there. How sporty?

Sporty enough to look at the heart rate monitor, see that I'm working at 152 beats per minute ... and then looking at my odometer and realizing that I'm only going 11 kilometres an hour.

Sporty enough that we had to dodge tumbleweeds for most of the way.

Sporty enough that, on the way back to Guadalajara, we ended up riding at a 70º angle because of the wind.

I'm wiped, and I'm going to bed to get some sleep. Back in a couple of hours..........

Heart Rate Heaven

2009-01-17T13:43:00.000-08:00

I never thought I would get to the point where I wanted someone to tell me it was all right to ride. But I find that, increasingly, I rely on Yago to have the "cold head", as the Spanish say, to haul me back and tell me to lay off. So it was a relief to get the green light to head out this morning. Two Saturdays in a row with revolting weather - thunderstorms on the 3rd and ankle-deep snow last week - were starting to give me really, really bad cabin fever. Jesús, who is living in Tres Cantos (north of Madrid) while they finish his flat in Arganda del Rey (south of Madrid) organized a relatively challenging route through the mid-sierras.

We started out as seven - AG, Paloma, Edu, Buje and a new guy named Mario, who has wild reddish hair and a very light cadence that allows him to flow uphill. Paloma, who hasn't been out since the beginning of December, decided that she wanted to start ahead of us but drove herself so hard that she was spent within five kilometres.

We met Jesús up in TC, blasted up to Colmenar Viejo, and headed up towards the Cerro de San Pedro - five kilometres that were so, so much easier than when we first headed up that way at the end of October. There may even have been an opportunity for a breakaway, had the Civil Guard not cut traffic because of a transhumance issue - fifty head of cattle decided to park themselves in the middle of the highway and not move. (Spaniards will go insane when the car in front of them doesn't move for two seconds after a red light changes; but when livestock decide to plonk themselves down in the middle of a road, they won't say a word.)

The downhill: light and easy. One of the advantages of working so much on the trainer (and I know, this is going to sound silly considering that I've only had the trainer for less than a week) is that I'm getting better at pushing the limits. I headed down from the Cerro at 55 km/h, about 12 faster than the first time, and managed to catch up with the guys before they reached the town limits of Guadalix de la Sierra.

I like it when Jesús organizes outings. He knows the outlying areas of the province well enough that he never takes us on the same ride twice. From Guadalix it was uphill and around through Navalafuente, where the snow on the ground and the frost in the trees was worthy of a Currier and Ives Christmas card. The climb from Navalafuente up to Bustarviejo wasn't particularly difficult, just long; the other blasted ahead (Paloma and Edu cut their trip short in Guadalix to head back to Madrid) to Bustarviejo, up a stiff but scenic hill into the town.

I don't suffer on hills as much anymore. It must be said that I don't exactly blow up them (yet) but I'm able to hold a much higher cadence for a much longer period of time without my athsma kicking in or my legs blowing out. (I love phrasal verbs, I tell you.) I see a hill and I know that it may take some time, but I know I'll get there. I see the guys heading up the hill and I don't worry too much about catching up with them because I know that I'll get to them sooner rather than later. I see the mountains and they don't scare me, because I know that when the snow comes off them I'll be ready for them.

We have the obligatory tortilla and coffee stop, we head to Miraflores de la Sierra (where I almost had a little contratiempo with the driver of a Ford Ka who had the pedal to the metal) and then we head home. I am determined to keep up with them. I do not want to be the red lantern any more. Let someone else take that job for 2009.

We get back to the Locademia. Ninety-eight kilometres in just over four hours (not including the coffee stop) and fifteen minutes. And I feel good. I feel like I have worked hard and I've done a good job, and that when we go back to do that route again, I'll do even better.

"You're getting a lot better," says AG as he drives me home. We talk about the need to work together as a team, how we need to stick together, and I sneak a look at my heart rate monitor: I've spent over an hour and a half at 80% maximum heart rate, and I feel great. (Admittedly, when I get home, I have a carb-heavy lunch and spend an hour's siesta snoring like a lumberjack...)

And tomorrow is the first ride with the gents from Chamartín.

Poco a poco.

Stuck

2009-01-11T10:48:00.000-08:00

I'm stuck at home and getting a bit squirrel-ly. I did abs. I did stretching. I did try to go out this morning with Antonio G. and Edu but got a really, really bad feeling from the state of the Colmenar bike lane. The snow still hasn't melted enough to make the bike lane safe (I think we hit a glorious high of +3ºC today) and three kilometres in, I backed out.

Every fifty yards or so, it was the predictable mess: a stretch of ten, fifteen yards of crusty snow lying on top of scarred ice that was frozen solid to the bike lane. Had I been riding a hardier bike, I probably wouldn't have thought twice about plowing right over it, but it was not the job for a skinny tire. I kept thinking of the time Marty Vloet nearly scoured his left cheek off, wiping out on his bike behind the Kemptville Community Centre, Marty with the haunted eyes and precarious home situation, and how he howled in pain as my dad tried to help - and how Marty glared at me every time he saw me for the next two years, like I'd somehow caused him to hit the pack of ice on his low-slung, banana-seat bike.

No way, I thought. It's too early in the season to be asking for trouble like this and the last thing I need now is to do myself in.

"Sorry, guys," I said, thinking that, as a Canadian, my wasted efforts at trying to get through Toronto traffic in snowstorms might have given me a moral imperative, "I really don't like the looks of this. I'm going back to the Autónoma and taking the train home."

"I know what you mean - if this doesn't get better by Tres Cantos, I'm gonna take the train back," said AG.

"Okaybye," said Edu, pushing off.

I haven't heard from either of them, which means that it either went all right or they're both in hospital, too sheepish to make contact and say those words which would kill a Spanish man by instant strangulation: "You were right."

Not having heard from Yago yet (what was this thing about getting back to e-mail inquiries within 24 hours??), I assume that missing this weekend because of the snow and ice basically qualifies as force majeure. But I am going to buy a trainer tomorrow.

Which still doesn't help the problem of feeling like I'm sitting here, wasting my time. Which, realistically, I am doing. I have had four of my five meals. It's ten to eight and probably too late to go out and take a walk, which I've already done today. I could do something that's vaguely related to my wage-earning activities (like write those student reports for the Perfume Pump Company, or finish writing comments on the exams for the courier company guys), but that would mean surrendering to the fact that Tuesday afternoon at 1PM marks a six-month slog of juggling a full class schedule with the demands of training and that when classes wrap up, Quebrantahuesos will be over with.

What to do, what to do, what to do....

2009-01-10T02:29:00.000-08:00

Antonio G. sent me an SMS at 10:30 last night, saying that the bike lanes up to the sierra were too messed up with snow and ice, and that the Saturday ride was cancelled. Great. I know that I should be thankful to have the time off, to have some time to myself, but this was supposed to be my paliza week, the week where I really cranked and got some kilometres in before heading back to work on Monday (well, Tuesday, really; Monday's classes got cancelled.)

I wrote Yago asking for some advice. Yes, I know that the whole point of this weekend's group rides was to get used to riding in group formations, but I want the ass-kicking. I want to feel totally spent and done for on Sunday night, and I don't know if he's going to let me ride on Monday to make up for not having the chance to ride today (or last Saturday, for that matter.) I feel bad writing Yago. I feel bad reclaiming the help that I need because I don't want to bother him. But then again, I am paying him for the right to bug him. He's the expert. I'm not. I have enough common sense to know better than to go ripping up to the Sierra if the bike lane isn't much better than a curling rink. But I'm paying him to keep a cool head and tell me when I'm going overboard. In a sense, I'm paying him for the right to say, "Nah, weather sucks. And there are still six months until Quebrantahuesos. No big loss if one weekend ends up being too crappy to go out."

It's grey and blah out there today. I was up at 6:30 AM, for some reason I still don't understand, and I started thinking about how, basically, cycling is becoming a panacea for how...well, empty...my life is on so many fronts. Let's be honest: I take advantage of the holes in my life (no kids, no man, no regular job) to work on my cycling, but I know that I'm using cycling as a way of ignoring (or actively blocking out) the loneliness I feel because I don't have those connections. (Man, am I glad no one ever reads this blog.)

So now it's 11:37 in the morning. I'm resisting the siren calls of Facebook and taking €100 down to Calmera to look at trainers, and I'm trying to focus on getting ready for work next week. I'm listening to a BBC Sport report about FIFA's efforts to address problems with homophobia. I'm not calling Yago; he can write when he's ready, and it's not like I don't know what he's going to say anyway. But the minute someone tells me it's all right to go out there and cut myself off from society by going to train for a couple of hours, I am the hell outta here.

Oh. No. Snow!

2009-01-09T02:23:00.000-08:00

So much for the accuracy of some weather forecasting websites. We've just gotten nailed with ten centimetres of snow.

It looks gorgeous, true, but I shudder to think about what the bike lanes are going to look like tomorrow. I've been given two group rides as part of my training and I got a bad feeling that they ain't gonna happen...

That's like hypnotizing chickens

2009-01-08T12:37:00.000-08:00

The more I train, the more I'm amazed at the amount of cooking that I have to do. "Five small meals a day", They say, but They don't tell you that that also means an increased amount of shopping, perusing cookbooks, washing dishes, digging Tupperware out of the back of the cupboard to be able to save the leftovers in the hope that you'll have one less meal to cook some time in the future.

I'm not complaining, really. Five small meals a day also means that you get the opportunity to try new recipes, to diversify what you eat (you don't repeat recipes with five small meals a day, especially if they're recipes that require a lot of prep.) New fave: Chris Carmichael's black bean hummous (good thing that it only takes five minutes to make.) But on the bike, I'm thinking of food. Lying in bed in the morning, I'm thinking of food. What I can eat. What I can't eat. I hear "Lust for Life" by Iggy Pop on the iPod as I'm riding in the Casa de Campo, I think of how to prepare chicken breasts in some flavourful way so that I don't gag on the white meat. I smell meat barbequeing in the restaurants around the Lago and I start thinking about how I don't eat enough beef.

I think about food a lot when I go to the Mercado de los Mostenses and think about what a good thing it is that I only have one person to cook for. It's one of the things that makes me grateful that I live alone, that I don't have kids: I can eat things like liver and Brussels sprouts, food that would cause a minor revolt in most households.

In, out; in, out; in, out. Energy consumed; energy expended. That's like hypnotizing chickens, sings Iggy. I don't know where that line comes from (or, for that matter, what it's actually supposed to mean) but it always makes me think of food.

Get around, get around, I get around....

2008-12-31T09:58:00.001-08:00

When it clicks, it's beautiful. When it clicks, there's nothing that can hold you back and the world just flies. The music is pumping on the iPod, the wind loses all importance and there is almost no traction with the pavement. Your heart rate slides in perfectly with the beat of the music and you get that marvellous tunnel vision which allows you to shut out everything that doesn't belong - the sound of the traffic from the A6, the comments from the old guys who can't believe that there's a woman in Lycra in the Casa del Campo who isn't selling sex.

I have a new weapon in my armoury. I bought MIND GYM, by Gary Mack, and if you're looking for a great book to help you get over yourself and your mental obstacles, you could do a hell of a lot worse than this book. Carlos Sastre estimates that 90% of cycling takes place from the shoulders up, and in my case, there was a lot of work to do with that 90%.

I was not athletic when I was growing up. When I was a kid I suffered from severe athsma and allergies (not helped by carrying around the typical extra ten pounds that a lot of teenage girls get saddled with) and in the 80s, it was widely believed that athsmatics should abstain from any kind of overly aerobic exercise, should it result in an automatic trip to the Emergency ward. So I didn't really do anything. I swam competitively for five summers, something which I tried to do when I got to Saint Lawrence (and dropped within three months - couldn't handle the highly Republican, trustafarian vibe.) Except for a period of three years when I was in Toronto, and tried to lose weight and be gorgeous to get back at a couple of losers who really weren't worth the effort, I basically did nothing until I got Ellie.

Every day is a struggle to bury my self-image of being useless at sports. That's why I like cycling: it's one of the few sports (with the exception of swimming) where I don't feel like a total goof or an uncoordinated fool. It's one of the only sports where being bottom-heavy is a potential advantage - especially in a country like Spain, where everyone's so slender, bodies drawing a straight line down from the thorax to the knees, and do not always have the legs to propel themselves quickly and with force.

I wrote Yago yesterday with my results of climing La Marañosa - I did the four and a half kilometres in 11 minutes 1.7 seconds. I told Yago that I wanted to do that climb in under ten minutes before Easter. He wrote back and said that he thought it was difficult. Ah, yes, I thought: Difficult....is not impossible.

Not only do I want to have the best cycling legs in the Comunidad de Madrid, I want to have the strongest mental game going. For once in my life, I am going to be mentally unsinkable.

Down! Down! Down!

2008-12-29T02:09:00.000-08:00

Just got back from the pharmacy. I got myself weighed in and the scale said that not only am I two centimetres taller than they told me I was at the INEF (sorry, but size DOES matter), I'm also down 1.2 kg since mid-November. I don't know how that compares with mid-December (I should have gotten myself weighed in before the excesses of Christmas) but it does mean a lower number than before.

That means that I still have just over 11 kilos (24.8 lbs) to lose before June. I look at my face in the mirror and wonder where it's going to come from. Then I sit down - ¡plaf! - and I can feel at least four areas of my body that can give it up a little more for the cause.

I wonder what I'll look like when I reach my goal weight?? If -- WHEN -- I hit goal weight, I will weigh exactly the same as I did when I was fifteen years old. Strange.

New photos!

2008-12-28T03:38:00.001-08:00

Right. In celebration of becoming member #228 of the Club Ciclista Chamartín (http://www.clubciclistachamartin.com/), here are some shots of me with the club jersey on.

I need to get a new tripod.

Not exactly works by Beaton or Platon, but you get the point.

One thing I didn't mention yesterday - when Buje and I were riding back to Madrid yesterday we rode for a while with a half-dozen guys from the UC San Sebastián. The Sanse guys have a reputation for being real hammerheads, so I thought I did rather well to hang onto the back of the pelotón (such as it was) for five minutes.

Buje got his digs in later -- "You realize that these guys go really, really fast, right?"

And I thought: You know, the real victory with that was that I at least TRIED. A year ago, I wouldn't have even tried.

Small victories = big steps (part 1)

2008-12-27T07:52:00.000-08:00

I hate climbing.

No., I don't hate climbing. I love climbing. Climbing shows me how much better I've gotten. Climbing is my ultimate test because it's the biggest challenge I've got. Climbing is my meter, because I get to see how good I am compared to others who don't train or who don't get out very often.

I hate training.

No damn way. I love training. A wise cycling philosopher, whose name is Bobby Julich, pointed out that even a bad day on the bike was still a helluva lot better than being stuck inside on a good day.

I hate cold weather.

There's nobody out here today, just me and Buje. No clubs, few cars, just lots of cows and sheep and patches of green which have been slightly frosted by the snow. The Cerro de San Pedro is partially shrouded by clouds which have left long, thick streaks of white in the breaks of the granite. The climb is not that big, really; it's a Cat 3 climb, 204 metres over 8 kilometres, just enough to give us a lovely view of the Guadalix River valley - a view that would be spectacular if we could see the sierra, to boot. A singular landscape, as the Spanish would say. I cleared that climb in just over half an hour, and I know that I can do better. I look forward to doing so.

"Do or do not do. There is no 'try'."

2008-12-27T07:11:00.000-08:00

Buje doesn't think I can do it. Part of me isn't entirely convinced I can either (245 km with four Category 1 climbs??) but the more I think of it, the more I'm convinced that I need to at least try. I have until February 16th to make up my mind, anyway. And Buje being convinced that I can't do it makes me even more determined to do it.

It's cold outside as we head out from Pedrezuela. We did ten kilometres of the old maintenance road of the north canal that brings water into Madrid, and while it was nice, it was something that I would have preferred to do on a stronger bike, like the Orbea. And then the uphill into Pedrezuela - a full kilometre of 15%, which wasn't as bad as I made it out to be, with the inevitable swearing and groaning. My heart rate didn't spike above 151 but I got to the top only feeling slightly like hell. I was bitchin' more than I was actually hurtin'.

Buje doesn't think I can do it. "You do realize that the Mariblanca is a full four kilometres of hellish grade," he says, pointing out that his Orbea Aqua comes armed with a 54x30 set of chainrings and even then he had to do almost all of the climb standing up. Buje has seen me try to get up Abantos on the Orbea, and realizes that I'm not the greatest climber ever. I'm not even a good climber. Yet.

Andrés and Susana and Yago aren't sure I can do it, either, but at least they're willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. I have six months to train and prepare for this, and if I can knock Quebrantahuesos off, the Pedro Delgado's gonna be a piece of cake, especially because I can spend most of July training for it in the mountains. (Who's up for a weekend in Segovia?)

I refuse to think about whether that's a big "if" or not. It is what it is: 245 kilometres of riding through France and the Pyrenees. There's only one way to know, and that's to do it.

It's a new beginning!

2008-12-14T04:20:00.000-08:00

To give you an idea of how sure I am that none of my friends read this blog: If any of you (and I mean those of you who live in Madrid - if you're in Ottawa, you're gonna have to wait until Easter) read this, and ask me, "Hey, who's Yago?" - I will buy you lunch.

Who is Yago? Yago is Yago Alcalde, the brains behind Ciclismo y Rendimiento (http://www.ciclismoyrendimiento.com/). I read about Yago's online training system in Ciclismo a Fondo last month, and spent the weeks following seriously mulling over whether I was a good enough candidate to do it. Looking back on it now, the fears seemed silly (as all fears do, sooner or later), but there's something intimidating about asking for help. Singling yourself out for assistance is scary; most people (including me) would rather try to figure it out for themselves rather than surrender and ask for help. So I caved. I spent two days drafting and crafting an e-mail that would lay things on the line and be honest without sounding like a total idiot. And he wrote back.

I'm not sure what to expect, but at least I took the step

Whatever

2008-12-12T12:33:00.000-08:00

Hola'tllamoporlodeSPORTLIFE.

He's probably somewhere between twenty-five and forty, and probably isn't entirely sober. He's calling from a cell phone because he probably doesn't want anyone - someone specific - knowing that he's calling. The first time the guy introduced himself he spoke so quickly that it took me a moment to realize he was calling about the ad that I'd placed in SPORT LIFE magazine. Not that there was much room for making mistakes. I thought I'd been pretty clear about what I was looking for - women with whom I could ride road bikes here in Madrid. Busco chicas aficionadas de carretera.

Guy Number One calls from Huesca. He calls at 11.30AM and speaks so quickly that, at first, I'm not even entirely sure that he's speaking Spanish. It takes a minute to extricate exactly WHY he's calling - he's not a female, he doesn't live in Madrid and confesses readily that he doesn't even own a bike. All right, then, I say, as the other shoe slowly drops, why exactly ARE you calling if you're lacking those three things?

Para lo que surja, he says. For whatever comes up.

Now, we're all adults here. We all know that "whatever" does NOT mean "whatever", anymore than "Want to come up for a cup of coffee?" at 2AM does not involve coffee whatsoever. We know that any man that calls from a cellphone, and not from a line with easily traceable numbers, is, as Chris Rock so memorably put it, only as faithful as his options.

I am not an option.

I am flattered....and slightly insulted. I want to believe that I'm going to meet someone someday, but I'd rather it not be in such a tawdry, tasteless manner. I want to believe that there's more that's attractive about me than the idea that I can help someone get away with something.

I am not an option. I am a rider.

Drop you like a Kleenex

2008-12-04T13:20:00.000-08:00

I dropped him like a bad habit on Sunday. Up Pingarrón Hill we went, Antonio and Javi first and then me, plus a bunch of guys from one of the cycling clubs. Then me and The Oik. The Oik stopped to relieve himself and I took advantage of him being off.

The first time I went up Pingarrón it took me nearly 40 minutes to climb the four kilometres. I rode the Orbea and the hill kicked my ass without even trying. This, supposedly, was the hill that Alberto Contador flew up the very first time he raced a bike. And I was mortified. I hadn't done any serious riding since I got back from the Trans-Iberian, but this, this was awful. I got to the top of the hill and it felt like someone was dancing on my chest.

Not now. I have been up Pingarrón half a dozen times since then, and on Sunday I did it in just over 14 minutes. I only looked back for him twice. I do this, did this anyway, even in spite of the fact that him staying over on Friday night and staying until noon on Saturday didn't mean anything, and we both knew it, because of his lack of performance. (Ladies, if you have any doubt if a Spanish man is Really That Into You, judge him by whether he stays for coffee or not, and if his, erm, enthusiasm, among other things, is maintained.)

I don't ride fast. But I ride faster than he does going up a hill. And it will only get better from here on in.

I have no problem dropping someone who didn't think twice about dropping me.

I mean, if he had Really Been That Into Me, I probably wouldn't have waited. Much.

But from now on, The Oik is just enough another face in the pelotón.

Ring-a-ding-ding

2008-10-18T05:13:00.000-07:00

"Out with the old...in with the new...ring-a-ding-ding."
-- Shirley MacLaine as Fran Kubelik in The Apartment (1960)

I put the Pedro Delgado DVD away this morning, probably for good. I put it in the section with "Grizzly Man", "Super Size Me", "Startup.com". Not because I don't necessarily want a reminder that it's probably the coolest gift anyone's gonna give me this year - not because it's kind of wistful to watch Steve Bauer lose the yellow jersey to Delgado on the Alpe D'Huez - just because. There's no reason to pull it out again, because I know that I won't see Jesús again. And it was fun watching the video with him, getting to see him be passionate about something aside from getting laid, but it's a historical document. Water under the bridge....

I turn 40 in just over two weeks. I've pretty much assumed that I'm going to be turning 40 with a small handful of the most faithful friends I've got - those being Lu, Scott and Toño - and I'm kind of just thinking about cancelling the whole damn thing and turning 40 by myself with a bottle of champagne and a big tray of sushi. I can't postpone turning 40; having a small army of friends with me on the 4th is not likely to make the blow any easier. The Americans are all going to an election party at the Circulo de las Bellas Artes. I'm not American, and couldn't give a toss about the election. I just want to ride, and would have ridden had I realized how out of whack the weather forecast was going to be.

I'm in a right royal mood today. It struck me this morning that I've spent so much of my adult life being alone that cycling is probably the only sport that wouldn't frustrate me. I don't mind riding alone. I wouldn't mind riding alone now, except that I've got to meet someone in half an hour for a drink. This said someone is the second person to tell me that she gets pissed off when friends find their soulmates and let their friends fall by the wayside. The other person who told me that, who is male, got married yesterday.

September seems like a much more appropriate month for making new year's resolutions; after all, we do it for ten to twenty years when we attend school. I was thinking of this watching "The Apartment" for the nth time the other night - Fred MacMurray and Shirley MacLaine drinking quaint cocktails on New Year's Eve, and the look of boredom in Shirley MacLaine's eyes when she realizes that, in spite of Fred MacMurray having been tossed out on his ass by his wife, things are not going to change. Out with the old, in with the new...ring-a-ding-ding, says Shirley. Two minutes later, the other shoe drops; she takes off to Jack Lemmon's apartment. There's no guarantee that this relationship is going to work out, either. But at least she's taken the reins and made a decision to excise the crap in her life that isn't working.

Jack Lemmon: I love you, Miss Kubelik. I absolutely adore you.
Shirley MacLaine: Shut up and deal.

Indeed.

Decision time?

2008-10-09T01:56:00.000-07:00

It's nice out there today. I should be out on my bike but I can barely keep my eyes open - I slept like a log last night and wouldn't be awake if it weren't for the alarm on my watch, and the jet fighters flying over the centre of the city. (Día de la Hispanidad is on Sunday, and I assume that the jets were rehearsing the big fly-over.)

I never really know what I'm supposed to do on days like this. I didn't bike a lot yesterday - 25 miles getting around the city - and tomorrow Gonzalo and I are going to try to do the entire Anillo Verde that circles the capital. Then Saturday the gang are off to the Sierra and on Sunday, there's always the possibility of heading down to San Martín (if I don't catch up with the Chamartín gang.)

"The guy who wins is the guy who trains hardest" - Floyd Landis dixit. But then again, Floyd was paid to beat the hell out of himself, and I'm just starting....

Back in the Saddle

2008-10-03T22:43:00.001-07:00

In addition to being one of my favourite cyclists, David Zabriskie, of the Garmin-Chipotle squad, is also one of my favourite bloggers. Read Dave's blog, when he's got the chance to update it, and you get an untarnished, no-holds-barred look in on the world of cycling - the last entry, at www.davezabriskie.com, is a heartbreaking look at what happened during and after he crashed out of the 2008 Giro.

Yep, you read that right. LAST entry. As in, not long after fracturing his 1st vertebrae, his wife gave birth to a baby boy and then there were the small matters of the Tour de Missouri and the Worlds in Varese, which means that DZ's attention, to put it mildly, has been slightly fractured. So I'd keep on checking out his website, hoping to find a new blog entry or piece of information, some nugget of wisdom, and realize that the final thing he'd put down was the run-down of his return from Italy.

And then I'd think, oh boy, he's not the only one........

So this weekend, in addition to taking Ellie out (you'll read about Ellie below - she's the other reason I'm somewhat house-bound and not able to do much beyond pottering about the new apartment, riding and writing), I'm going to catch up on all of the blog entries I should have written (and did, in some cases...just in other blogs) so that the last six months accurately reflect everything which has happened - getting into road cycling, the Trans-Iberian Express, and other things.

Stay tuned...much more coming up!

Why there aren't more female cyclists (Part I)

2008-10-03T00:27:00.000-07:00

This morning, Carlos Sastre, the 2008 winner of the Tour de France, had a cyber-chat with the readers of the Spanish sports newspaper, MARCA. One of the reasons why Carlos became a cyclist was the effort his father, Víctor Sastre, who started a sports foundation in the town of El Barraco. According to Sastre Senior, drugs were a big problem in the town in the 80s, and sports (especially cycling, of which the elder Sastre was once a practicioner) seemed to be one of the main ways out. And to this day, the Fundación Víctor Sastre trains kids to be competitive cyclists...and the website says that some thirty boys and girls currently take part in the program.

Given that the thought of traning and developing up-and-coming cyclists should not be that alien to either of the Sastre men, then, I put forward the following question (somewhat abbreviated because I wasn't able to save what I wrote):

Hello Carlos:

Congratulations on an outstanding season. I recently took a look at the webpage of the Foundation in El Barraco and I noticed that you've got a number of girls who are taking part in the program. I was wondering if you have any opinions about why there are so few women who ride professionally in Spain and who continue as they get older.

It's probably not surprising that he didn't take that one on: firstly, because he probably has very little to do with the Foundation (aside from giving the occasional pep talk) and secondly, because cyclists, like a lot of athletes, are not really given to deep reflection on things that do not fall within their scope of interests. Sastre isn't alone in this respect: Alberto Contador's Televisión Española blog from the 2008 Olympics (which is no longer available on the RTVE website) only has two mentions of his female companions - Maribel Moreno, who got sent back to Spain after testing positive for EPO; and Leire Olaberria, who took home a bronze medal in track. In both cases, Contador's second sentence was "I don't know [said cyclist], but....."

Admittedly, there's no geographical reason why these cyclists should know each other (Leire's Basque and Maribel is from Valencia) but it made me wonder why the national cycling teams couldn't have, at least, had dinner or gone for drinks or some such thing before heading off for Beijing. It's not like there are tons of women cyclists racing in Spain: this list gives the ranking of the 44, count 'em, 44 Spanish women and their national rankings. I should point out that not every cyclist on this list races in Spain: Eneritz Iturriaga is currently riding as a pro in Italy. (To see the most current list of Spanish women's road rankings, click on this link: http://rfec.trackglobe.com/familias/INDIVIDUAL%2022-09-082.pdf

I've been thinking about this a lot in the last couple of years, but I had two moments of clarity yesterday, especially after my credit card rebelled in Calmera as I tried to buy a new odometer for Ellie:

a) COMPETITIVE ROAD CYCLING IS EXPENSIVE. Not just expensive - bloody expensive. A decent bike will run you at least €1500 (and that's for an Orbea, which is produced in Navarre.) A 2008 road licence is €52. Then there's the kit, the expense of getting to and from races, entry fees for races... The RFEC is trying to combat this by offering grants to cadets and sub-23s and their families, but if it's like trying to get ANY grant in Spain, it'll involve a ton of paperwork and ultimately not be worth the pittance you'll get. As they say in Spain, water that's gone under the bridge can't move the mill.

b) COMPETITIVE ROAD CYCLING REQUIRES A LOT OF FAMILY SUPPORT, or a lack of emotional and work obligations so that you're able to focus on the stupid stuff, like being able to cook healthy, nutritional meals for yourself, to be able to shop regularly, to have someone to talk to. I used to think that male cyclists were insane for getting married so young; now I see that having someone on board to work as a butler, laundress, nutritionist and secretary is a very intelligent way of keeping your head out of your hands and your tears of exhaustion and frustration in your eyes.

All of which doesn't mean that it's not worth trying to race - but it does require the ability to keep your head on straight, to know what your priorities are and knowing what you want. And that's not necessarily something that most young women are able to do easily.

ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº

Stupid Piece of Trivia for the Day: One of the possible translations of the name Carlos Sastre is Chuck Taylor. As far as I've been able to find out, the cyclist from Ávila is not a b-ball player, and he has yet to be seen in a pair of high-tops.

ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº

If your Spanish is up for it (and judging by the calibre of questions, you don't need a particularly high level of fluency), the Q&A is still available online at http://www.marca.com/charlas/carlos-sastre/03102008.html

Still "Haulin' Anchor" with Radio Euskadi

2008-07-02T00:26:00.000-07:00

Very few people are as up on the movements of Spanish travellers as Roge Blasco is. Roge is the host of "Levando Anclas" on Radio Euskadi, the Basque regional radio station; and during the Trans-Iberian, we chatted on a weekly basis about how it was going and what the challenges were.

About a month back, we had a chat (in Spanish) that sort of summarized the entire trip, and it was funny to hear the recordings that he'd made and to think back to when we were doing the trip, trying to keep the panic out of my voice as we got blasted by every storm imaginable.

As I mentioned, the interview is going to be in Spanish, and I don't know if it's going to be broadcast over the internet...but here's the entry about the interview, in Roge's blog:http://blog.eitb.com/rogeblasco/2008/07/01/levando-anclas-13-de-julio-caballos-y-ch/.

"Levando Anclas" is broadcast on Radio Euskadi every Sunday night at 9PM.

The Grass is always greener in someone else's cracked pavement...

2008-06-14T06:45:00.000-07:00

Even though I haven't lived in Toronto for nearly ten years, and have no intention whatsoever of returning to live in Canada, I still subscribe to "Cyclometer", the e-newsletter put out by the City of Toronto's municipal cycling department. Stacy, the coordinator, is a wealth of information about cycling and urban mobility policy, and it's inspiring to see the way cycling is taking off in Toronto and other North American cities....

Then, yesterday afternoon, I opened the latest version of "Cyclometer", and saw this:

There are a number of theories for why cycling in Europe is both safer and more popular than in North America. One theory relates to transportation infrastructure: European cities most often feature cycle paths separated from motorized traffic, while Canadian cyclists are more likely to be sharing the road with parked and moving cars. "The relative safety of these two styles of infrastructure has been the subject of much debate among cycling researchers and advocates, but little research," explains Teschke.

Now, to be fair, there is one mention, in the first part of the announcement, that both the University of Toronto and the University of British Columbia are going to conduct research into cycling safety in NORTHERN Europe, not Europe as a whole. It strikes me as facile to assume that things are better on this side of the ocean than they are in Vancouver or Toronto or wherever.

I'm not aware, for example, of any European city where cyclists don't have to rely on road riding to get around. In Madrid, we have a decent cyclepath that rings the city, but only two which take you east-west - and both of those are less than a kilometre long. Until the so-called Green Ring was built, Madrid had 60 km of bike trails, and 30 kilometres of those were to take you up out of the city, to the Sierra. Never mind the fact that you needed a car to get to the trailhead. And getting grannies, small dogs and kids off the bike trails? Yet I still get a chorus of "Oh, you live in Spain. What with Contador and Indurain, things must be great for cyclists there." Well, maybe. Contador lives in suburbia and Indurain's Basque. And neither of them use their Treks to get the morning paper, you wanna bet.

I know that things really aren't that better in other cities, either. Reading the CYCLOTHERAPY blog on The Independent's website, for example, doesn't give me the sense that things are much different in London. Julián Illara, the coordinator of Burgos en Bici, recently came back from a cycling conference in Rome and told me of being horrified at ending up on a six-lane motorway during Rome's Critical Mass late last month. Rome cyclists are so pissed off at being marginalized that they have no problem doing what they can to screw up traffic.

If the UN is so worried about climate change, I have an idea: start a Directorate of Alternate Transport. Instead of spending money on allowing the sons of third-world despots to live the high life in Manhattan, let's take some of that dosh and start a library/website/information office/whatever that allows cycling organizations, academic bodies, government organizations or whoever to share information, policy, research, whatever.

But don't let's make the mistake of assuming that eveything that's not where we are is brilliant and good. It's a common enough refrain here... "Oh, but everything is so much easier for cyclists in Amsterdam...in Northern Europe....in Denmark...in Chicago...whatever." It isn't.

It's the same mindgame that makes people assume that if they can't reach perfection, it's not worth the effort to even try in the first place. We all work with what we've got. We can learn from others, but we can't be them.

It's all right if it sucks.

2008-06-06T02:22:00.000-07:00

One of the things that kept me riding (and sane) throughout the trip was my weekly chat with Roge Blasco.

Roge is the host of two renowned radio shows about travel, La Casa de las Palabras (The House of Words) and Levando Anclas (Hoisting Anchor) on Radio Euskadi, the Basque regional broacasting network. At the end of every week, after 9:30 in the evening, we'd talk for ten or fifteen minutes about how the trip was going. No one in Spain is as up on the movements of travellers as Roge is: you name the means of transport or the country, he knows someone who's been there and done that, but there's always a note of enthusiasm and jealousy when he interviews you. It's like at any moment you expect him to say, "Gimme a couple of hours, and I'll be there..." and for him to slam down the phone and show up at your hotel before sundown.

Yesterday we did a taping for an edition of Levando Anclas which will be broadcast in July, and Roge brought up the fact that a lot of the problems that we had on the trip were weather-related. And I thought about something that I read last week, which makes all the more sense now that I've got some space to reflect on the trip.

CNN correspondent Anderson Cooper is the cover story on this month's edition of OUTSIDE magazine and has been a reader of the magazine for decades. When he was 19, he was inspired by the article to take a trip across Africa, and from there went on to be one of the channel's best-travelled journalists. For copyright reasons I can't clip the particular question and answer that moved me, but if you click here(http://outside.away.com/outside/culture/200805/anderson-cooper-2.html) and do a search for "It's supposed to suck", you'll see which one I mean.

It was a great relief to read this. It was a relief to see someone else say that it was all right if the trip didn't go perfectly, if the weather sucked or you realized that you were generally a lot happier when your travel companion went off on his own and you didn't see him for three days. It was all right to be awake at night, normally at 12:03 AM, obsessing about whether someone was going to steal your bike and leave you stranded in some lost town in Soria. (Funny, I never obsessed about breaking my neck - but the thought that someone would nick Ruby gave me more than one sleepless night.)

And Mr. Cooper is right. You learn a lot more about your own limits and your own sense of possibilities when things don't go perfectly. If you don't have adversity, you don't learn how strong you actually are, how resourceful you are and that it's all right to be alone. A woman travelling alone is not an automatic target for all the evil and crime in the world. As women we receive messages, consciously or unconsciously, that if we go down into the woods today, we're going to end up dead in a ditch somewhere, that we're just asking to be raped or attacked or God knows what. (I should get my mother to fill this part in.)

That doesn't mean that we shouldn't take precautions. But fear has limited value when undertaking something like this. If you're too fearful, everything is going to seem like a threat, rather than just crap that happens to everyone.

You don't get bad weather because you're a woman travelling alone.

You don't get pelted by hail because you're a woman travelling alone.

Sometimes it is going to suck. You just can't take it personally.

You shrug it off, you learn, and you keep your head down and keep going.

The Adventure Begins

2008-03-18T04:46:00.000-07:00

Well, whatever. Whatever isn't done can be mocked up, ad-libbed, put into order or taken care of at a later date. I got to Chamartín Station without too much difficulty except that the bike, fully packed, is quite heavy, so.........

8:29 - Shortly before the train took off, a guy got on the train with a LeMond ten-speed that had to be a good ten years old. Looks like he's heading up to Ávila. I think he's gonna be disappointed. There's rain in them thar hills. LOTS of rain.

14.17 - Good stuff. Turns out that the train I took DOES go all the way up to Irún, which means that it also goes by Ordizia, where Stuart and Jools live. Hur-RAH, as my host would say. The train going up from Vitoria is full of university students, and quite a number of them are speaking in Euskera, which sounds comforting when they speak it. Now that I just hope that one of them doesn't put his or her bike (all of their bikes are made by Orbea, not surprisingly) against mine, so that I can get off more easily in Ordizia.

I love the Basque Country. Everything's so tidy and orderly up here. And there are so many bidegorris (bicycle lanes), making it easier to get around by bike. Three of the students on this train have brought their bikes and they just fling 'em on the train without any ado - bang! and on they go.

18:33 - If it stays like this for the rest of the weekend, we'll have gotten off lightly, that's for sure. It's a heavy mist, more than anything, and Stuart seems to think that the odds of having an epic, ripping boomer worthy of King Lear is pretty minimal. He said that last weekend they were supposed to get snow and instead they ended up sitting around watching the rugby match in their shirtsleeves. So who knows.

How do you know when you're ready to go?

2008-02-08T04:49:00.000-08:00

SIGNS THAT YOU NEED TO GO ON YOUR CYCLING VACATION NOW:

a) You live in a 20-square-metre studio apartment and you start thinking, Hm. Rather roomy, this.
b) You've sworn at the noisy neighbors once today. You've sworn at your laptop three dozen times. And it's only two in the afternoon.
b) The manager of your gym complains that you've worn out two static bicycles since Christmas.
d) You're cooking on your Campingaz stove for the sheer hell of it.
e) You're using your camping towel for the sheer hell of it.
f) You find yourself spending far more time than usual in the dried-pasta-and-soup section of the supermarket.
g) You can't find anything wrong with the idea of spreading cream cheese with your index finger.
g) The only clothes you find you wash on a regular basis are black, black, dark brown, washed-out-black-going-to-grey and the occasional red garment (for visibility, natch).

Right, then...what have I missed?

A slightly adjusted route

2008-01-20T23:53:00.000-08:00

After taking a look at some maps (and as usual, more maps and even more maps), I've decided to tweak the route a bit during the final days going through Andalusia.

Originally, we were going to go through Arcos de la Frontera and head down through Medina Sidonia. But, after a bit of reflection, I realized that that presents a couple of problems:
a) It'd mean having to take the A393 regional highway, which is pretty enough, but which can't really be recommended, due to heavy traffic and non-existent shoulder to ride on.
b) We wouldn't get to see Ronda!

So the route's changed a bit. Instead of doing the entire Vía Verde de la Sierra on Sunday, April 20th, we'll backtrack a little bit so that we can head to Setenil de las Bodegas, so that we can visit Acinipo, the Roman settlement that essentially served as the first Ronda. From there, we'll take some back roads and country paths in to the north end of Ronda.

The next day, Monday 21 April, will be a rest day, which will allow participants to take part in some sightseeing, get caught up on e-mail and get some shopping done for the next couple of days. If you've never had the opportunity to visit Ronda, you're in for a treat: it's one of the most atmospheric cities in Spain!

And if you want to stretch your legs even more, go for it: you can take a bus up to Grazalema and bike around the north end of the park, and meet us in Alcalá de los Gazules on Wednesday, April 23rd. This essentially gets us into Tarifa one day later, on Friday the 25th of April, but it's worth it in order to avoid traffic and to enjoy the fabulous views to be had from the south end of the Alcorconales Regional Park.

12000 and a snowstorm to boot!

2007-12-22T01:36:00.000-08:00

Like most North American cities, Ottawa has its fair share of right-on coffee shops inhabited by goateed types banging away on Macintosh notebooks while sipping espresso. Even in the steamy environs of Bridgehead on Bank, Andrew Cameron stood out among the hippies and hipsters. Not because he was, easily, twice as tall as everyone else; but because when he emerged from the snowstorm, he was totally decked out in cycling gear: two Buffs topped by a helmet; a well-loved pair of lobster gloves; about four layers of different tops...and a big smile.

"Cycling in Ottawa in winter is like being able to go on a big mountain bike ride without getting muddy," Andrew laughed, and he would know. This past fall, Andrew had the opportunity to take part in the Tour D'Afrique (http://www.tourdeafrique.com), a twelve thousand, hundred-day-long cycling tour that cuts across the African continent, taking thirty-two cyclists across more than a dozen countries.

I'd found out about Andrew's trip through the Events board on Mountain Equipment Co-op's (http://www.mec.ca) website, and was interested in hearing more about what it's like to take part in such a long trip. Given that Andrew was a racer, not an organizer, of the Tour, most of the information that he could share with me had to do with what it's like to do something like this - useful to know what works and what can be done better.

Thanks, Andrew, for taking the time out to meet with me! And for those of you who'd like to know more about Andrew's trip, be sure to check out his blog at http://12000km.blogspot.com.

Ready to roll

2007-12-04T00:31:00.000-08:00

Nine-forty-nine in the morning, and I have decided that I'm ready to go.

Not go to the gym, not go back to Canada, just GO and do the damn Trans-Iberian already.

The only thing that's missing is the time off. I have the maps. The GPS unit is on its way. The weather is nippy, but it's not impossible.

All I'd need is some time free, and I'd be ready to roll.

I WANT A (SUBSIDIZED) BIKE, TOO!!!!

2007-11-14T13:58:00.000-08:00

For a couple of months now, the Spanish Traffic Directorate (DGT) has been offering grants of up to €1000 for 17 to 25-year-olds who want to get their drivers' licenses. While I'm certainly not anti-car (I had a gas-guzzling convertible once, too), it seems a little hypocritical to give money to drivers when the people who don't create pollution don't get squat - in spite of not creating more pollution or circulation problems.

So, too, do the nice people at the Plataforma Carril-Bici de Córdoba, who are calling the DGT out on this discrepancy. They're asking cyclists from all over Spain to download and fill out the PDF file on their website, reclaiming the fact that, no, we're not interested in grants to get us driving - but a bit of cash to get a new bicycle would be more than welcome!

Check it out at: http://www.platabicicordoba.org/bici-dgt.html.

Double Life

2007-11-07T07:58:00.000-08:00

Winning a prize like the Salomon Women Will competition is fun, but it's a LOT of work. There are days when I feel really nervous about the fact that there are three and a half months left until we go on this trip; and at the same time, it feels like it'll never get here. Slowly but surely, however, it's getting there. I've started making reservations in youth hostels and campsites, and I've got the route worked out; I just need to make more phone calls, make more contacts, do more work than I've been doing...

The easiest thing will be getting on the bike and riding the route when it finally comes!!!

Dear Madam:

2007-10-10T12:08:00.002-07:00

(From Rosa Urbión Izquierdo, General Director of Tourism, Junta de Castilla y León:)

Dear Madam:

We have received your letter, in which you talk about the difficulties in crossing National Highway 601 between the towns of Valdefuente and Puente Castro, in the province of León.

The Department of Tourism and Culture is responsible for tourist signage for municipalities of Castilla y León, as well as the Camino de Santiago, and the placement of signs on the town limits in the provinces of Burgos, Palencia and León.

Your letter makes reference to signage of highway, the responsibility of which falls under ther jurisdiction of the Ministry of Public Works; as of this date, we will pass your observations onto them.

Thanking you for your interest in the promotion of tourism of this Community.

Warm regards,

Rosa Urbón

ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº

(As-of-yet unsent response:)

Dear Director Urbón:

Thank you for your letter of the 25th of September, in which you make reference to my letter sent in August. As much as I appreciate your response, I am concerned that you did not make reference to the core issue of my letter: the danger that pilgrims face crossing that highway.

This is not an issue of signage. The issue is that this a very, very dangerous stretch of road to expect bikers, walkers and horseback riders to have to navigate. There is no way the Camino de Santiago should run right beside a four-lane highway. Nobody's arguing that the signage is good - it's the best of all the four communities where the Camino goes - but the problem is that it's extremely unsafe to walk those 350 metres. The entry into León is one of the low points of the Camino and it shouldn't have to be.

We look forward to hearing of future initiatives, on the part of the Junta de Castilla y León, to improve and re-route this very dangerous part of the Camino.

Patricia Dawn Severenuk
SPANISHCYCLEPATHS.COM