Reminder

The run up to Roubaix has been stunning this year. Cancellara is displaying world-class form, Boonen is riding right at the top of his game and the races we've seen thus far have all been riveting. Boonen has already knocked out 4 second place finishes in the classics campaign. He's maintained a (Belgian) sense of humor and is still my top pick for the Roubaix podium. Plus, he appears to be keeping clear of coke and I always like to see that.

Cancellara has seemed super-human as he can pull away from sprinters like Boonen without leaving his saddle. I've always liked Spartacus. Dude's got class. Remember Flanders last year, when his chain broke at the bottom of the Koppenberg? He went back, picked it up and hammed it up with the press and fans while the race tore on without him. What can you do? (Take note here, Matti Breschel, nobody likes to watch a child throw a tantrum).

My podium (not that anyone cares):
1.) Boonen
2.) Cancellara
3.) Hushovd

Sadly, unless purple bunny rabbits begin to fall from the sky while ACDC's Highway to hell blares out from the clouds above, then Hincapie's probably not going to make the top 5 (although THAT would be pretty good).

An easy ride.

I'm riding through a neighborhood called Solterra, it's a new developement in the hills above Golden and this street is lined with "patio homes" that offend me a little bit. I mean, yea, they DO have patios, but they're all between 3,000 and 5,000 sq ft with big yards and pricing starts (according to a sign we pass) in the low $400,000s. As we ride further up, the patio homes are dwarfed by single family mansions that I could describe as both capacious and palatial--in the same sentence--without worry of exaggeration. One of them actually has a three-story bell tower. Comparatively, the homes we just passed do seem patioesque. Otherwise, the view is truly amazing.


It is steep, I've been in my 27T cog for as long as I can remember, we're almost 2 hours in and have already gained something like 3,000 ft in elevation. There is a pretty serious headwind, I do not like it. I'm tucked in behind Matt, who's tucked in behind Joe. I can't really tell if the draft is helping matters any, the wind seems to be coming from every direction at once. Ahead, Joe's pedalstroke is like magic, constant, smooth. I glance down and can only compare the stilted, squarish motion of my own legs to chopping broccoli. We cross an intersection and the road tilts up further, I try to shift into an easier gear before I remember that I don't have one. Joe doesn't pedal faster, he doesn't slow down, I'm pretty sure he's not even breathing heavy. Matt stands up, hammers out a few pedal strokes and regains Joe's wheel. I do none of those things. As the gap widens I am, however, pretty sure that I can see Jesus over the next rise. He looks disappointed.

Later, in an unusual move for us, we decide to pretend like we we're friends who are just out for a good time on bikes instead of dudes who are out training for something and correspondingly, stop for coffee and pastries before heading back up the mountain and home on the final leg. The pastries are tasty and the respite has a reviving effect, if not for my lungs, then certainly for my soul.

On the final climb back home, I crack. Hard. Joe and Matt circle back for me and begin making excuses so I don't have to. That's what friends are for. After I've eaten something and am no longer dizzy, some light hearted ribbing will follow, that's what friends are for, too. Note: apparently, even during an "easy" ride, it is wise to consume more water than coffee. Also, one should eat stuff and apparently, 1/3 of a scone--no matter how delicious--doesn't replace 1,500 calories. Good tip.

Filthy

Things that are filthy: Congressional ethics panels, the floor at a strip club, my bike. Seriously, this is nasty. On the way home today, I was pursued by such a racket that I couldn't decide whether to pedal harder so it'd be over sooner, or to attempt to quietly coast the entire way home (as it's predominately uphill, I didn't have much choice in the matter). I passed some guy on a sparkling white Colnago who, as my screeching drivetrain neared, slowed drastically. I could pretend that I was just much faster, crushing a monster gear on my commute home, but the pained look on his face told me otherwise. It said "holy shit, have you got Rosie Perez caught in your chain? Hurry up down the road and away from me so I can continue to enjoy my Italian-themed ride in peace." And I don't blame him, 'cause I felt the same way. Except, you know, for the Italian part.

Tomorrow: it puts the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again. Actually, it's getting the hose anyway.

Dogs, sleeping. And me.

When I was drunk, I sometimes forgot about the things worth fighting for. The further I descended into my dark, alcoholic mental wasteland, the more I lost sight of anything tangible and good. It happened slowly, over the course of many long, shitty months, so I didn't notice. Like boiling a frog, by the time I realized anything was wrong, it was way too late: I was screwed (I've never boiled a frog, not really my kind of snack, but they just swim around all happy-like until they're cooked. Weird, right?).

In a crap mental space to begin with, I started to see everything, EVERYTHING as should'a been, can't have, no point, lost cause, don't deserve to be happy anyway, etc. I woke up one day and realized--drunk or sober--I was depressed practically out of my mind. I had been destroying my life like a narcissistic time bomb from Super Mario Bros. blindly running around and wrecking everything good with almost surprising success. Chasing and detonating madly until all I had left was myself for company and in that state, I was no fun to be around. Seriously, when you really, really hate who you are, who you've become, usually you're the only one left around to hang out with. I was so sad-sick and confused that I couldn't see what was happening, had no idea that I was an alcoholic, and certainly had no idea that I was an asshole. It's sort of funny, I always thought that it was easy to tell if you're an asshole, because assholes are so easy to pick out of a crowd. I have a knack for it, actually. But, especially under cover of alcoholic denial, I was the last to know. My fucked up brain kept me pretty much in the dark about it, which is a little slice of crazy that I never want to see again. With a startling, white clarity of purpose, I knew that everything hurt too much to go on, that drinking made it hurt less and that it never really hurt less, in the end. What I didn't know was how to stop. And no, it really never, ever occurred to me to try and quit drinking. Like I said: crazy.

So when I see my two dogs asleep on the couch (yea, I let 'em sleep on the couch) and the whole fucking world just makes sense, that's when I know I'm doing OK.

Winter is Dead to Me... The Legs are Shiny and New.

The many justifications seem to vary from aerodynamics (thin), to looking Euro/Pro (weird), to "chicks dig it" (creepy), to the application of embrocation and ease of massage (meh). But the crux is this: If you ride your bike on the road, chances are you shave your legs.

Yea, it is a little weird and no one apart from other roadies seems to get it, but there it is. I suspect some men do it because if one is to parade around in public wearing brightly colored spandex and chase other spandex-clad men about, it only makes sense to go the distance and shave the legs to really complete the package. I suspect, too, that it may be a thinly veiled attempt not to be outdone by female cyclists who (as the minority in this sport) can shave with a skill and aplomb that few men will ever achieve. SOME FRIENDS OF MINE are working pretty hard on the "minority" front, and if you are a woman, in Colorado, with a bike, I suggest you spend some time getting to know the Beti's and definitely, definitely check out THE BETI BIKE BASH on June 12th.

I am--at best--an inconsistent climber. I can occasionally sprint pretty decently and I am an absolutely dreadful time-trialist. However, I am a fantastically consistent crasher. No matter the shape I'm in, or the confidence with which I can sometimes handle my bike, I can count on falling rather ungracefully from my bike at least once a season. I have had only one really spectacular crash thus far, but my legs are littered with the many small scars of other minor contact with pavement, and in one case, a guardrail.

A long time ago, I rebelled against the smooth-legged roadie scene. Sure I had a shiny road bike and a fair amount of spandex, etc. But I was far too manly to spend too-long minutes in the shower shaving my legs. I perceived the act to be far too... feminine, and it was the last straw. I was intractable. I couldn't make the leap.

Then, one sunny day, I was descending, turning and a bit of gravel sent my arc a little too wide around a corner. Thankfully there was a guardrail there. An old, rusty, slightly jagged guardrail. I escaped nearly unhurt. My bike remained upright and only my knee hit the rail as my brakes grabbed hold and scrubbed speed 'till my wheels locked up and the cloud of my own dust overtook me. Later, after I spent a very long, painful time scrubbing the dirt, rust and (manly) leg hair out, I quietly decided that shaved legs might not be such a terrible idea after all.

In the offseason, I do not bother. Because, when it's 12 degrees outside, it doesn't much matter. Not shaving is part of my winter routine. But it's nearing the end of February and this is Colorado, so where the fuck is my sunshine? I am growing impatient and so I've decided to do something rash. I have shaved my legs while it's (literally) still snowing outside. I have declared the offseason to be over. Winter-be-damned and fuck-off icy, gravelly roads. Lets get on with it, shall we?

The Coffee Problem

I used to collect crushes on baristas like frat boys collect vodka bottles: As souveniers of days gone by that look much better after the glossy sheen of time has polished away reality's harsh sting. Yes former frat boy, I know it seems impressive, but trust me, to everyone else, your wall of shiny bottles once filled with cheap, flavored booze conjures up pretty clear images of projectile vomit and date rape. So you should recycle that garbage, clean up the kitchen, buy some clothes without a little golfer or a boat or an alligator on the chest (or at least UN-pop your collar) and you might meet a nice girl who likes you for your personality. Or not. But seriously, un-pop your collar. That shit was annoying three years ago.

Frat boys aside, sure, baristas are a bit dark and mysterious and often pretty. They can make espresso and they listen alternately to punk and indie rock. They smell of flowers and scones and coffee grounds. But they also listen to emo crap and moody experimental new world jazz and shit, so in reality, it's a bit of a wash. Plus, you know, they're still just people, so many of them are probably crazy bitches. Watch out for that.

As I have never, ever, in any way received anything more than a polite smile from a coffee lady (Doris at the greasy spoon included) and having long ago outgrown my own moody, brooding, angsty, cigarette smoking phase, I suspect I am intensely qualified to give a dissertation on romancing baristas to my single friends in the hopes that they carry on the torch. Or carry the torch anywhere, or pick up the torch off the floor before it sputters and goes out.

Should you wish to pursue one of these denizens of coffee-house culture, let me lay out a few guide rules gleaned through my moderately keen powers of observation (looking at stuff and writing it down): If you don’t have a Mac, you should probably get one. Or at least hide your PC. Macs are pretty awesome anyway, and baristas/everyone are not impressed by anything that smells even remotely like Bill Gates. Also, you aren’t picking up ANYONE, EVER if they see you with a netbook. It's like showing up for a first date in a Yugo. I know its convenient, practical even and I’m sure it works well for whatever you need it to… Facebook stalking your EX and surfing tiny-sized porn at a moment’s notice or whatever. But trust me, at first blanch, you probably don’t want to encourage that smaller is adequate association, "Vaguely sufficient for my needs" is not sexy. iPhones are good, as are ratty artists notebooks with clever or ironic phrases scribbled on the cover. Act disinterested if at all possible. And, if you are capable of projecting an air of tortured douchebag with the hint of a nice guy lurking just under the surface, you sir (or madam), are in.

I should note that D. (the chick I date) once worked as a barista, and while she's pretty far removed from her brooding punky days as well, she makes a mean pot of moka, and I still felt it bore mention.

Championships AND Champions

This weekend, Lars Boom worked his ass off and rocked his way to a Dutch National Cyclocross Championships win. In true euro-cross style the course was snowy and muddy as hell, the field was in top-form and Lars' victory is not to be under-appreciated. Proving, however, that he is not to be outdone by his rival, Sven Nys stole the spotlight by returning from a sub-par start and shedding dudes like Bart Wellens and Niels Albert to win the National CX crown in a country that really matters: Belgium. Now I suppose this really isn't fair, it's not Lars' fault where he was born. And you know...  The Netherlands is, (or are or whatever) pretty nice and all what with the legalized prostitution and those "city" bikes and everything. But Belgium gave the world Waffles. So, you know, suck it Netherlands.

Sadly, Nys had to take time out of his much-deserved victory celebration to reprimand a few of his fans for literally pulling Niels Albert from his bike at a critical section. This level of rabid behavior is unfortunate and sick and I am HUGELY impressed that Albert got back on and roared to a ninth-place finish. Then he performed like a true champion with grace and humility when, after expressing sadness at the behavior of the [douchebags] he said: ”But chapeau to Nys, he deserved to win.” That shit is classy and a true departure from the too-oft heard whiny-bullshit in the pro peleton.

To the Velodrome!

What's the best way to gauge the extent of fitness degradation experienced over the course of three entire months spent virtually off-the-bike? Head to Boulder's indoor velodrome with 10 other dudes, the likes of which include a few current and former PRO cyclists, your boss, coworkers and Velonews' own Ben Delaney. Then, after a little more than a quick rundown of shit one should never, ever, under any circumstances do on the track, jump on said track with said people and pedal like hell.

I've been told that BIC has a steeper-than-average learning curve for a velodrome -- because of its very short length and steep banking -- as I do not have any other track experiences to compare it to, I can only say that the first moment, the "oh jesus, am I going to stick, or am I going to slide off of that fucking wall and crash" moment at the Boulder Velodrome is pretty intense. Maybe its not so bad on bigger tracks, but who cares? That is one fun joint.

BIC is a 142 meter wooden track with 45-degree banking. It looks like this. Lap times can often run in the sub-15 second range (the current record stands at about 7.5 seconds). It is, at higher speeds, very slightly dizzying. The experience is something of a cross between a criterium and a ride on an old wooden-tracked roller coaster (with no brakes).

I am -- for the record -- basically unfit. Three months is more than enough time for muscle and cardio systems to assume I've decided to let myself go. For the most part, I hung on. Abstaining from hard effort drills, content to rip around the track as fast and as smoothly as possible. Also, due to some very solid advice from some very solid and helpful guys, I was able to do pretty well at NOT embarrassing myself. *Best piece of advice? "'Stick' and 'Stay' mean exactly the same thing: Don't fucking move" or rather: Hold your line. Also, thanks Joe for insisting I get rollers so many years ago, and for forcing me to ride on them. Balance -- it just so happens -- is important.

The only injury I sustained was a small scratch on my wrist, when, like a rookie instead of a seasoned professional mechanic, I clipped my wrist on the chainring as I hurredly removed my pedals from the rental bike on my way out the door.

The List of Things that I am Afraid of:
- Sharks
- Bears
- Girls with only one name
- Earthquakes
- Steven Spielberg using his vice like grip on big budget scifi to rape another classic movie franchise.
- Riding a bike up a 45 degree wall (in a very straight line).

So I am confronting said fears (just the track bit really). We can go flick off bears at the zoo some other time.

Two Years

730 days ago I woke up sober. I have managed to stay sober since then. That makes today my birthday. There will be cake, preferably chocolate. With cream cheese frosting.

Exactly two years ago -- and for a long time before then -- my life was in absolute tatters. Desperation, depression, panic and quiet denial were all I knew. Hope was at best a distant memory. I generally regarded solitude, comfort and serenity as oblique and beautiful ideas as far removed from reality as really poorly written science fiction. Inner peace, I fathomed, was something you could only achieve in death and maybe not even then.

There are no echoes of that lost-empty outlook now. These days, the world seems a brilliant place to be. Sure, its occasionally shitty for everyone. People are still just people and, people are often assholes. And bad things continue to happen to people who cannot possibly deserve the wrath of man or nature or god or whatever. All that is exactly the same and perhaps it always will be. It's my outlook that has changed. I no longer rail endlessly over the raw injustice of the world, content to sit miserably on my ass as though my self-righteous rage might somehow forgive my own sins. I like to think, instead, about what I can change. I like to think that when I'm lucky enough to wake up in the morning, I may have the opportunity to help someone in some small way. And sometimes that opportunity does come, even if all I can do is smile. Because sometimes, someone will smile back, and while -- in the scale of the universe -- a stranger's smile is tiny and inconsequential, I was there to witness it. And that is good enough for me.

Today has been a good day, and as its now 11:20pm I think its safe to say I'll make it to 731 days sober. Which is only two days away from a prime number. So I got that going for me, which is nice.

Updates

The addict that I mentioned in my last post disappeared again only a day or two after we spoke. Back to the street, to an ugly and very scary life that is much worse than I had been led to believe (and I had been led to believe it was pretty bad). This is both the fault of the lies inherent to advanced addiction, and to the sad-sick denial present in this individual's caretaker (this is all-too common as well). I expect a great deal of dishonesty and denial from an addict, from any addict. It is the plain-and-simple nature of the disease. But I underestimated this one.

The thing is: It doesn't matter. Had I known, I wouldn't have said much differently. I wouldn't have used the examples of the immediate and not-so-immediate past as weapons. And this person wouldn't have listened any more carefully if I had. Denial is -- in the case of addiction -- FATAL. Not "scared straight" fatal. Not "it won't happen to me" fatal. Just plain, goddamn fatal. Every time. Always.

The message, however, isn't a dour one. The message is one of hope. It just so happens that I am not Suzie-fucking-Sunshine. I am, at my very core, a cynic. And I do struggle sometimes to find the very decent nugget of humanity in mankind-at-large. But addiction is an awful bastard. And you can't beat it back with sadness, or depression, or fear. You can't cure it with voodoo, or denial, or happy thoughts. There is no reprieve for half-assers. To beat this cancerous illness that turns our bodies and our minds against us, the weapon is hope. I have seen addicts and alcoholics that find sobriety, but without hope, fail every time. Without hope, the road ahead seems too long, too dangerous and too hard. I found some, once, at a rehab center in a cold valley in Estes Park, in the middle of December, and I cling to it with all of my tenacity. I found it. It is mine. I will not let it go.

With that in mind, I received word on Saturday, that "George" is currently sober, out of the hospital and living temporarily with his son in Chicago. There has been some talk about a trip to Colorado.

Sometimes, I have to go looking for it. And sometimes, hope finds me.

The Gift of Hope: A Short Story about a Friend

In sober circles—when it is important—we use only our first names to maintain anonymity. This does, of course, cause some confusion with more common names and can lead to irreverent surnames and qualifiers being used. My favorite Bruce for example, is familiarly known as Lawyer Bruce. Because he’s a lawyer, and the other Bruce is not. My friend Jim, is Big Jim, or sometimes just Big. Because, well, he’s biggish. The old-timers had handles like "Boxcar", and I suspect they used up all the good nicknames.

Because of this easy familiarity and in order to further protect the anonymity of a friend, I’m going to change his name. I will, in this entry at least, call him George.

George was breathing with the aid of an oxygen tank when I met him. He could barely stand, and needed a wheel chair to get about for the first half of his month in our recovery center. His physical health was perilous to say the least. He was surly. His silver hair always disheveled. He was occasionally ill-tempered and closed off. He was every bit the death’s door alcoholic, and I liked him. He is the brother of a friend of mine, although I did not know it at the time. From Chicago, he brought something of the guarded, gray, windblown city in with him. He had some trouble with the program of recovery (this is not abnormal for addicts in a treatment center) but towards the end of his stay, I felt confident that he had a very good chance of making it.

When George left our treatment center, a few days before me, he was able to move about freely, and talk without oxygen. He had reestablished contact with his children, and he had hope and a plan for the future.  He smiled—often. He told crass jokes with enthusiasm. And he was looking forward to a planned move to Colorado. He was and is my friend, and I will always remember his coarse sense of humor and rough-and-tumble mannerisms. Not long after he returned to Chicago, George began drinking again. It was a matter of weeks before he was homeless, destitute, and unreachable. A couple of months found him tied to a hospital bed. Virtually dead. Unrecognizable as his former self.

It has been nearly two years since I saw my friend, and while he is still alive, I do not know if he would know me, or if he could remember me or the conversations we shared. Last I heard he was in some type of hospice. A wrecked shell. And I do not know him.

I miss my friend. And while I am thankful for the opportunity I had to get to know him, the tangible loss of his presence is painful.

I spent the better part of my Sunday talking to an addict about my age who had just returned home from a drug related disappearance. It can be difficult to maintain an optimism for recovery under the circumstances and with such a high rate of relapse. And it may seem strange to draw hope from a friend who did not make it. But that’s the way it works. George didn’t make it, but he came close, and I still remember the swell of joy and admiration I felt when he became himself again, if only for a short while.

There is hope for us all. I think.

Baxter The Stand In

Another week gone by without a new post. I'd feel terrible if I weren't so damn busy all the time. The new job is taking up -- no joke -- 40 hours of my time, per week. Yup, straight up full-time, yo. That coupled with the hours and hours of school work and a wicked case of the bike doldrums, and I'm wrecked. So here's Baxter to cheer you up in the meantime.

The Rebirth of a Student

I've suffered as a sub-par student for much of my academic career. Poor organizational habits were a contributing factor, as was a frankly bad attitude towards education that was caused by a sort of aimless life-view. The principal cause of my absentee education, however, was the inevitable lack of motivation and skewed outlook that accompany the denial and depression inclusive to my hard-drinking lifestyle.

The last time I attempted to return to college and finish my degree, I never even attended my first class. I registered, paid, picked up my student ID, signed up for two courses, one classroom and one on-line. Then, not-surprisingly, I didn't show up for the first, second or third day of class and so-on. I couldn't even manage to log in to my online course from the relative comfort of my own couch.

I remember -- with startling clarity, given the general fogginess surrounding the period -- sitting at the kitchen counter in the sunny, early afternoon. My small, white Mac open to the course login page. A very full tumbler of cheap gold-brown whiskey sat just to the right of the keyboard -- not the first of the day... At some point between adolescence and semi-adulthood, I had forgotten, probably intentionally, that one isn't supposed to fill a rocks glass to the rim, only stopping just shy of the lip, squeezing every last drop into what one's wounded psyche could qualify as a "serving." Sometimes I listed slightly as I poured, spilling whiskey, or gin or occasionally vodka across the counter. Sad, lonesome rivulets of wasted alcohol dribbling away like my future...

I was staring at the comics and magnets and photos stuck haphazardly to the refrigerator in front of me, sipping whiskey, oblivious to the notion that most people, normal people, happy people, might think twice about drinking straight whiskey before eleven AM. Something snapped or popped, or rather, shifted back into its broken home and I decided either that there was no point in even trying to study, or that I might as well wait a few hours (probably a little of both) and I gave up before I even began. I shut the computer and wandered from the sunny kitchen into the dark, closed-in basement to empty what remained of a bottle of Canadian Mist in front of a glowing TV. Not your model student.

That echoes my original college experience as a student at DU through some unlikely miracle of GPA sleight-of-hand, luck and forsaken kismet. Attending class only sporadically, very occasionally completing homework on time, and failing fantastically to note any correlation between brazen alcohol abuse and grade-killing apathy. I made it two years -- sort of. The clarity and focus I’ve gained through a rigorous personal inventory and active participation in A.A. and other sober activities has helped me to cement my goals in my mind. Where I previously floundered, I now have a clear perspective. Before I didn’t know what I wanted, now I am sure that I want to graduate from college. I am plainly and intensely motivated.

I have to admit how incredibly surprised I was when I recently entered my third week of classes at Regis University, to find that I'm actually a college student. I'm reading, doing my homework, writing papers, paying attention to deadlines. Its shocking, but I'm actually STUDYING. Thank God for third chances.

A Minor Complaint

The wintertime hath arrived.

I am a little disappointed in whoever's controlling the weather, as they seem to have forgotten to include fall in this year's lineup. Remember the cool-but-not-cold, golden-lit, season of change? The gentle epoch that eases the harsh transition from summer to winter? I like fall, it's my favorite season really, And 3-10 inches of wet, white snow is a far cry from "fall"

I find it hard to be too grumpy though, because something else arrived yesterday, courtesy of UPS:

I present you with, perhaps, the coolest pair of Chuck Taylors ever made. Custom built per my sisters' specifications, and all for me.

Riding Bikes Indoors

Last week, I offered to help a friend out with his training program. That's no big deal right? We're both cyclists, so it's just riding bikes with a friend right? Wrong, because this friend isn't a cyclist at all. He's a triathlete. An IRONMAN triathlete. Triathletes may well be the running joke of the roadie scene, with their sleeveless jerseys and refusal to wear socks. but the level of fitness required to even finish an Ironman distance race is patently absurd. Them's some fit mofos.

So I had committed to ride before he sprung the details on me: 5 hour bike, followed by a 20 minute run. In the season of 1-hour, high intensity training/racing, I inadvertently signed on for a century-plus. Hooray for friends.

Matt arrived Friday morning before the sun was out (scheduling conflicts mandated an early start). Now, let me preface a little here: I was born in Colorado, I learned to LAYER before I learned to walk. I am to fleece jackets what Imelda Marcos is to shoes (except without all the murder and embezzlement). When Matt arrived, however, it was 27 degerees, windy, chance of snow, no chance of warming temps. And that, my friends, is cold. Rather than deal with 5 hours of burning lungs and numb fingers/toes, we opted for the -- perhaps less comfortable -- alternative: 5 hours on the trainer.

It was an endurance event in-and-of itself, and rather than bitch about it, I'll let Matt to fill in the details here: Good times, Cold Rides

And for the record 5 hours on the trainer is every bit the suck-fest you might imagine. But it was fun, and it was hard, and it was more base-miles than I've been able to cram in the last month altogether. So, when Matt asked me to do it again this Friday (for 6 hours) I did what any reasonable person would do: I agreed.

God-Fucking-Damnit

Recovering pro cyclist relapses, living on the streets again.  Story here.

I followed Chad Gerlach's return to Pro Cycling from a yearlong crack binge on the streets. Addicted to drugs and alcohol, his life an empty shambles. He had gotten sober, found hope and purpose, and returned to the pro-ranks to race with Amore e Vita. It was (and still is) an inspiring story. Read about it here.

Relapse is a vicious and terrible thing to witness. Even from afar it saps hope. It's a little like watching a friend get eaten by a bear. And you want to help. You're right there, and you're not getting eaten, and you want to shout "Hey, just do what I'm doing and it will stop eating you!" But you can't yell, and they can't hear you anyway. And, really, what's keeping you safe from your bear wouldn't work for them, because it's a different bear.

The harsh truth is: Substance addiction is primarily a disease of selfishness. The damage that we can cause to others as a result of addiction is staggering. When I was drinking, I acted principally in my own self interest.  Unconcerned about anyone's feelings, except where it was convenient for me to be. It wrecks me to see that echoed here. Chad doesn't know the color of his newborn daughter's eyes. That is tragic. The disconnected indifference he displays when he talks about it, however, is as telling as it is heart-wrenching.

Many addicts and alcoholics relapse before they find lasting sobriety. SOBER Chad Gerlach is a cool guy, with a family, and a future, and a life. I hope we get to see him again soon.

Aging Not-So-Gracefully

Malaise, I fear, has sunk its dark black teeth into my legs. I don't know about you, but I feel very much like I need a vacation. It's not my work schedule, which fluctuates more than Oprah's dress size, thereby granting me ample time to sit comfortably on my ass. (Not quite a vacation, but still). And its clearly not a semiconscious desire to escape some gritty, unpleasant climate -- Colorado in the fall just flat-out rocks. The leaves are beginning to splash yellows and oranges through the mountains and streets. Its sunny and cool, leaving behind the heat of summer. It's just nice out. Fall in Colorado is what justifies Winter in Colorado. Otherwise we'd all just go live in Phoenix AZ.

Scratch that. I don't know how anybody deals with that 111 degree crap. When do you ride your bike in Phoenix? 2:30 AM? I'm out.

Perhaps it has something to do with my age.  I'm 30 now. The golden age that very slightly predates regular prostate exams. Considering that one year and ten months ago, I was trying pretty actively to drink myself to death, I'm pretty pleased to be, well, to be alive. Some other people thought it was an occasion worth celebrating and correspondingly there was a party. The trouble with surprise parties is that they're pretty hard to avoid. All your prospective alibis are already there, and they know you don't have anything else to do. There was a piñata, and let me tell you, if whacking wildly at a paper mache car with a bat was fun when you were eight, its gonna be fun when you're thirty. Plus there's candy inside of those things. Yes. Candy.

Additionally MFK allowed himself to be photographed in what I believe is next year's cold weather racing kit. THIS also marks the first time a human has been seen wearing a snuggie while standing but not on the way to the bathroom or the fridge.

Thanks everybody.

Now... For that vacation:

The Mexican

I knew a man, once, who walked almost joyously along the line that separates a blissful, grateful, childlike goof from an unqualified asshole.

He often wore jeans and a pressed white shirt with broad blue pinstripes. He smiled -- a lot. Typically to himself and for no good reason. A sort of sly, satisfied grin. Casey was plainly happy to be alive. Everyday.

Not terribly sentimental, he usually found a way to lighten the bleakest mood -- cracking jokes at his own expense, or at someone else's, in his crisp, gruff voice. When I met Casey nearly two years ago, I was struck by his cheerful-kinetic attitude and his ability to seamlessly weave expletives into ANY sentence.

His self-deprecating, often biting humor led him to posit that as a sober Mexican in Boulder, he must have been a tiny-tiny minority: practically one-of-a-kind. Thirty-three years of sobriety, and survival of a vicious pancreatic cancer, actually did put him in rare company.

Casey was struck by a car while riding his bicycle in Boulder this Sunday; he died shortly after. I imagine that he was grinning his sly grin as he rode, grateful in that moment to be alive and doing something he enjoyed.

I woke early today, to spend an hour with my friends and Casey's friends at an early morning meeting. It's clearly fall in Colorado now, the steel-grey clouds and icy drizzle echoing my mood. I'll go for a ride later, and Casey, whether you FUCKING like it or not, I'll be thinking about you.

The Apology

An open apology to the spectators at VeloCross (wherein I relate myself to a fat sea-mammal)

I must apologize to any spectators unlucky enough to witness my grim, spittle-ridden visage as I tore about the Velocross course at roughly half the speed of a small child on a tricycle.

On the road, during moments of intense physical output, I like to imagine that my face breaks into something of a half smile, half grimace. The sort of look Death would wear (if Death had a face), or perhaps the way Ozzy Osborn looks at a bat shortly before he eats it. I'm sure, however, that I look a bit more like this:

Anyway, off-road, where I'm typically struggling to find my balance, my balls, and my fitness -- while attempting to avoid/bunnyhop/accidentally smack my chainring into that drainpipe someone left in the middle of the course -- I seem to loose control of my facial features altogether. So I'm sorry cheering lady at the corner of the U-turn in the parking lot, I didn't mean to look at you like a crazed escapee from Arkham Asylum. I was trying to smile.

Watching me race a bike -- I imagine -- is a lot like watching walruses attempt coitus. (If you're into that sort of thing). Sure, they're fat, and ungainly, and akward as hell, but eventually, and without any style, verve or fanfair whatsoever, they'll get it done.

And thus I crossed the finish line of my very first cyclocross race last Sunday: Feeling overweight, akward, exhausted, and a little like I got fucked by a walrus.

I have never had so much fun on a bike.

The Table

Everyone knows that if you want to sit at the cool kids table at a cyclocross race, you need a few things:

A working knowledge of embrocation including -- And this is important -- A full understanding of the order of application. (Put on bike shorts first. THEN apply embrocation.  Trust me, if it keeps your bare knees warm in 30 degree weather, it will keep your junk roughly: the surface temperature of the sun.)  You won't be sitting at ANY table if your nether-regions are burning with unquenchable hellfire. -- Sidenote: "Balls Aflame" ... Good band name?

A healthy love of WAFFLES.  Oh jesus, I can't even type that word without salivating a little bit.

A borderline psychotic-man-crush on either Lars Boom or Sven Nys, and not both. Thats like siding with god AND the devil, I'm a Sven Nys guy, by the way. That dude's pretty badass.

...And tubular tires...

Enter the Fango. OK, I'm pretty excited about this. Not just a new bike for me this year, but a new wheelset, and some of the more porn-tastic tubies you can get. I finished building the wheels today, first coat of glue is curing. Can't wait to ride them.

I've never gotten to sit at the cool kids table... I wonder if I'll be the only "Journey" fan there?