Musings from the Mountains

I’ve never been to Colorado before. Technically, I’ve flown in to Denver International Airport two or three times but that doesn’t really count. Jenni and I are finally taking a sorely-needed vacation. Call it our one-year anniversary—slash—belated honeymoon. We decided to stay in Fort Collins. None of the trip is planned out yet; we’ve only got the vaguest idea of what we’d like to do while we’re there. I’ve always wanted to ride in the mountains, so after packing two suitcases with clothes, we throw our trunk-mounted rack on the back of my 2002 Nissan Maxima and load up our bikes. We also pack a cooler full of sodas on ice and bring a bag full of snacks: granola bars, dried fruit, potato chips, Fig Newtons and a few (always-popular) Oatmeal Creme Pies. The drive will take between seven and eight hours.

I’m a Nebraska native but I've never been further west within state borders than Lincoln—which is to say—not very far at all. I’ve only heard rumors of the vast expanse of wasteland that accounts for the other ninety percent of the state, an expansive nothingness that extends past the horizon on either side of Interstate 80. Today, I am finally going to live it, first hand, an experience I’m honestly dreading having never ridden in a car longer than five hours for any given stretch of time. Even then, five hours nearly felt as if it'd be the death of me. The problem is that I get extremely antsy. For longer trips, I’ve always flown to wherever I’m going.

***

The idea came to me as spur of the moment and “ah ha!-like” as ideas get. After visiting Estes Park (which is perhaps just a little too “touristy” for my liking) on our second day in Colorado and driving up the mountain road through Rocky Mountain National Park, I instantly knew it would be the first mountain I’d ever climb by bike—my epiphany. The scenery is simply breathtaking. The road weaves in and out of trees and rocks, serpentine-like, snaking its way up the side of the mountain. Elk and big horn sheep lazily graze by the roadside while traffic slows, children stare with inquisitive wonderment and onlookers snap innumerable photos. The ascending road is a living postcard. It captures the scenic panorama of my imagination as if it were placed there for my own discovery. It is, in my humble opinion, perfect.

Jenni drives me to the base of the mountain, just past the entrance where we’ve paid for a seven day pass. As I fasten the ratcheting clips on my cycling shoes and retrieve my bike from the trunk-mounted rack, I start doing a little math in my head. Omaha sits just at 1,060 feet above sea level. Even the steepest hills back home are only two to three hundred feet, at most. I’m starting my ride today at roughly 7,000 feet, ascending to 12,090 feet. My guess is that I will be pedaling for two or three hours—20.5 miles, uphill.

The air, even at the base of the mountain, feels noticeably thinner, becoming even more prominent the higher you climb. Signs are posted, warning visitors of the symptoms and dangers of altitude sickness: fatigue, dizziness, headache, nausea; typically occurring above 8,000 feet—be sure to drink plenty of fluids. Colorado is also nearly a mile closer to the sun, so a liberal application of SPF 35 sunscreen is compulsory—Coppertone Sport, nothing too fancy. After all, sunburn tends to put a damper on vacations very quickly.

I tightly fasten my helmet's nylon chin strap and clip into my matte-black, carbon fiber pedals, beginning my ascent toward the clouds. On this particular road, there is no room for a warm up; the grade begins rising immediately. My legs feel heavy and stale in the cool mountain air—my blood taking its time to circulate from my heart to my extremities. Higher altitudes force human beings to produce more red blood cells in order to better diffuse oxygen throughout their bodies. I hope the last two days at 7,000 feet have helped the acclimatization process. The going, however, is slow from the outset.

For the first twenty or thirty minutes of riding, my body stubbornly rejects the process—legs burning from lactic acid buildup, lungs desperately seeking more oxygen, each breath more labored than the last. I begin feeling a little dizzy and light-headed, similar to the first hour of an Ambien haze. I remember the altitude sickness signs and keep drinking, replacing lost electrolytes. I filled my two bottles with Gatorade to speed up the rehydration process. With legs on fire, I think of Lance Armstrong and the pedaling cadence he uses in the mountains of the Tour de France: easier gear, faster pedaling.

A faster cadence with lowered resistance forces the body to rely more on the cardiovascular system rather than the leg muscles, which fatigue much faster. If I’m going to make it to the top—without stopping—I’m going to need to keep my legs as fresh as possible. However, at least right now, neither my legs nor my lungs feel fresh whatsoever.

Yet after the initial twenty to thirty minutes, my blood vessels begin to open and my lungs don’t burn quite so much. My body is adapting to the mountain even as I ride. One pedal stroke then another; the gradient increases to more than ten percent, fifteen percent, yet I’m able to ride more comfortably than I had been before. My only goal is simple: do not stop. I keep pedaling because I don’t know any better. The terrain changes from thick, wooded pine forest, to sheer, rocky precipice and back again. Riding only becomes precarious when motorists—perhaps not coincidentally, those unused to mountain driving—pass on my left, unnervingly close; the sole buffer I have from a sheer fifty-foot drop to my right is a thinly-painted white line. Guard rails materialize ahead only when the road twists sharply to the left or the right.

I keep climbing.

There is nothing here to distract me from the mountain and my singular purpose of climbing it. There is no thesis here. No sickness. No heart attacks. No anxiety or insomnia. No obligations. There is only me, my bike and a mountain road.

The air gets colder as it gets thinner. Clouds begin rolling in and flecks of rain spit erratically against the carbonite lenses of my sunglasses. I soon realize I am not dressed appropriate for the higher altitudes of the mountain. Clad only in Lycra shorts and a short-sleeved racing-fit jersey, goose bumps draw my skin taut across my sinewy tissues. The hair on my arms stands up, follicles squeezed within my pores; erect hairs trap air to create a layer of insulation. In other words, it’s fucking cold.

A sign to the left notifies visitors that they’ve crossed the alpine line. I’m not sure what this means other than it’s now colder than twenty feet ago and the vegetation does not grow as densely. I’m also not sure how long I’ve been pedaling. The cyclo-computer on my bike that registers speed, distance and time stopped working after a battery change. I think it’s been ninety minutes, maybe more.

A car passes me, this time more carefully than those further down the mountain. A woman in the passenger seats yells something incomprehensible at me, adding an enthusiastic thumbs up! She might have said, “Way to go!” or “Finish it!” or “Keep going!” It could have been anything really. She possibly even said, “We think you are a stark, raving lunatic, but we appreciate and applaud your effort, nonetheless!” There is really no way to be sure. The air is too thin and I’m getting too tired to respond. I only summon up enough energy for a simple wave and return my hand to the comfort and security of my padded gel-taped handlebars.

Keep pedaling. Keep spinning.

Further up the road, another sign informs me that I’ve crossed into the tundra zone—a sparse and fragile ecosystem which takes years to revegetate. Visitors are encouraged to tread only on designated paths, not the grass. My only companions for a protracted stretch of this road are white, puffy cumulus clouds; my only reassurance is the pain I can still feel in my legs which are losing some sensation with each pedal stroke. It’s just like walking—one foot in front of the other—left, right, left, right… The rain is still only spitting—any colder and it would be drizzle.

I pedal past a group of sightseers overlooking the valley cast in a blanket of shadow, capricious rays of sunshine streaming to terra firma below. Most of them are bundled up in North Face wind breakers or Columbia fleece vests and, perhaps most crucially, long pants—snapping what I imagine are picturesque photos to show friends and family. Each one of them stares at me like I’ve arrived by spacecraft, their silent incredulity likely stemming from my inadequate choice of cold weather attire. I just nod, smile and keep pedaling. Disinterested in me, they return their attention to the valley below, drinking in the scenery through the lenses of their Canons, Leicas and Nikons.

It could be an illusion precipitated by the lack of direct sunlight in combination with the shade of my tinted lenses, but I’m pretty sure my skin is turning a bluish-purple from the cold. The wind is picking up and I start to wonder if my goal of reaching the summit without stopping will soon be in jeopardy. I start to wonder if I can even make it to the top at all. The spitting rain teeters on the verge of becoming a steady shower. I briefly debate whether it’s worse to be cold and damp or cold and wet.

I’m nearing the summit. Another sign lets me know that I’ve crossed the timber line. I’m now effectively too high up the mountain for trees to grow. The landscape mostly consists of earth, patchy grasses and rocks—boulders, more like. There is a famous climb in the Tour de France called Mount Ventoux, situated in the Provence region of southern France, located some twenty kilometers—12.5 miles—north-east of Carpentras, Vaucluse. While possibly not as high as the climb I currently ascend (if I recall correctly), the aesthetic backdrop is very much similar. Locals refer to the terrain nearing the peak of Ventoux as a huge, rocky “moonscape,” its spartan countenance sharing little in common with the rest of the lush, forested mountain below its timber line.

I've always thought moonscape was a fantastic word. Each pedal stroke propels me further into the atmosphere, a battle with gravity through essentially-barren surroundings, reserved for only the most inhospitable places. There is a purity and beauty in the nakedness of the mountain as there is a purity that comes with experiencing riding on the wheels of a bicycle. The air is thin and my lungs beg for more, not yet satisfied with what the mountain has provided, but something inside me keeps the pedals turning.

Further up the road, a sign indicates that I'm now 12,090 feet from sea level. I promised my cycling coach I'd take a picture of me standing next to my bike at the highest posted elevation on the climb. I'm pretty sure this is it. I coast to a stop and prop my bike up against the sign. Fortunately, a woman snapping photos with her husband offers to take my picture. I'd known on the way up it was getting chilly, but the biting cold didn't really register until I stopped pedaling. She takes two pictures and I tell her that's perfect! I realize it's more important to start pedaling again than agonizing over whether or not the pictures turn out well.

My trek by bike marks my third trip up the mountain in as many days. Thus, I'm nearly positive the Visitor's Center is just a switchback or two further up the road from where I'd just stopped. The clouds are darker now, thicker. The intermittent spritzing is becoming steadier and steadier. The descent into the Visitor's Center parking lot is fast. Pedaling my largest gear, I eclipse forty miles per hour with ease, approaching fifty. The wind whips at my face and tears—forced from their ducts by the velocity of the wind—begin streaming from the corners of my eyes, across my cheeks. I start losing my nerve amidst the wind and high speed and begin to squeeze the brakes, alternating evenly between front and back. At thirty miles per hour, I take my right hand off the handlebars to signal a right-turn and glide into the parking lot, coasting to the curb. I dismount my bike and slip the rear wheel into a bike rack just outside the Visitor's Center door.

A boy and his father walk past me on the way to their car.

“Aren't you cold?” the boy asks me, a perplexed look on his face.

“I wasn't,” I say. “But I am now.”

I retrieve my phone from my rear jersey pocket to check the time. The trip up the mountain took two hours and thirty two minutes with only one stop.

The only question remaining is how to get back down the mountain in the cold and rain while being dressed more appropriately for a ride in Arizona.

I decide no conclusion will be arrived at without coffee, so I venture into the Visitor's Center Gift Shop, clicking across the floor in my carbon fiber-soled shoes. I'm immediately greeted by a sign advertising “authentic Native American jewelry: made in the U.S.A.” It would have never occurred to me that authentic Native American jewelry would be made anywhere else before contemplating this sign's declaration.

On my way to finding a hot beverage, I make a quick detour to the Gift Shop's apparel section. I walk directly over to a hooded sweatshirt I'd been contemplating the day before and purchase it right away. I figure it can help warm me up now and keep me warm(ish?) on the fast, rainy descent.

People inside the Visitor's Center give me the same quizzical and amused glances as the onlookers on the road.

“How long'd it take you?” the coffee barista asks.

“I'm not too sure,” I say. “As near as I can guess, about two-and-a-half hours.”

“Not bad.”

“Thanks.”

“What can I get you?”

“Grande light roast, please.”

“Room for cream or sugar?”

“Nope, I need all the coffee I can get.”

I pay for my coffee and toss my change in the tip jar. As the feeling returns to my legs, I scan the cafe, searching for an empty table. Just as I sit down, a pair of couples approaches me.

“Tell me you got a ride up here and are getting ready to go down,” a woman says.

“No,” I say. “I'm not that smart. Rode up from Estes Park”

“Geez,” she says. I'm always telling my husband,” pointing at the man to her right, “that he's crazy for doing things like this—races, triathlons, mountain pass rides.”

“Sometimes she thinks I'm the only nut who does things like this,” her husband says.

“Yeah, my wife thinks I'm crazy too,” I say. “She was smart enough to go explore the mountain today in the car.”

I joke with the couples for a few more minutes. They wish me good luck on my ride back down. I thank them and finish my coffee. I munch on a chocolate chip granola bar I brought in my jersey pocket as well, taking my time before venturing back out into the elements again. Just as I finish my meager snack, I see a familiar face bobbing in and out of the crowds of shoppers.

“I kept wondering if I was going to see you on the way up,” Jenni says.

“Here I am,” I say, more than a little glad to see her.

“I started to get worried,” she says, smiling and relieved.

“No worries! I'm just that fast.”

“You want a ride back down?”

“Actually, yes. I don't think this hoodie was going to cut it,” I say, holding out the sweatshirt for her to see.

“Did you freeze?”

“Not until I stopped.”

Jenni decides to shop a little while I walk to the car to retrieve a change of clothes from the trunk. I wheel my bike over to the car and take the front wheel off and slide it into the back seat. I take my change of clothes to the public restroom—curiously located outside of the Visitor's Center—and get dressed. It's also nice to put on a comfy pair of sneakers rather than continuing to wear the restrictive, tight-fitting cycling shoes.

Jenni meets me at the car.

“You want to drive?” she says.

“Sure.”

I get in and move the seat back to accommodate my longer legs. I put the key in the ignition and crank the heat, just sitting with my frozen hands underneath me. The rain gently patters against the windshield. The old wiper blades leave streaks each time they sweep across the glass, making visibility barely better than if they were switched off.

It's hard to explain how I'm feeling right now.

It's likely thousands of people on bikes have climbed this exact mountain road. There's nothing particularly special about this particular route as far as cycling through mountains goes. However, like a first kiss, this was my first mountain and for that reason alone, I know it will always be memorable.

“I'm kind of proud of myself.”

That's all I say.

“I'm proud of your too, babe.”

I put the car in drive and pull through the parking space. I was really looking forward to the ride down but I'm glad the time I spent on the bike was on the way up.

There's always tomorrow.

Musings on "The Fear" and Writing...

Hunter S. Thompson was a hero of mine. Not for his over-glorified drug use or borderline psychotic antics. No, he was a hero to me because he said “fuck you!” to convention and what people thought he should be doing. He was never scared to write what he wanted, how he wanted. Had he listened to the editors at Sports Illustrated and reworked his Mint 400 piece—or scrapped it altogether—we would (unacceptably) be left without Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

However, he was also a very perceptive writer when it comes to the process. He often wrote about something he called “The Fear” which became nearly its own character in his work on many occasions. Masked as paranoia from substance abuse, “The Fear” seems to be much more than that. It is a crippling condition, for a writer especially. What happens to us when we can’t write? How many of us worry that, no matter how hard we work, we won’t “make it?” This effect is compounded especially by those who believe in us. Failure means we let them down as well.

Writing is hard but writing for writers can be agonizing. Going over sentences countless times to make sure the flow, tense, word choice and readability are all perfect is taxing. It’s a hefty emotional investment. Writing is not the same as making a grocery list. It’s empowering and vulnerable. Ninety percent of what comes out of our brains is scrapped and useless. We only keep a few gems in the piles and piles of rubble we churn out. But these few gems are what make it all worth it.

For me in particular, the most difficult hurdle to overcome in my own writing is getting started. I am the King of Negative Self Talk. What’s the point? It won’t be any good anyway. Shouldn’t I be doing something else? What’s for dinner? Fuck it. Sometimes getting started is painful. Once the pen starts moving—the keys start clicking—I’ll often consider my contemporaries, mentors and predecessors. And it causes me anxiety. Knowing how good work is that other people have done sometimes fills me with a sense of hopelessness before I even finish a single paragraph. Harold Bloom called this phenomenon “The Anxiety of Influence.” We either overcome the shadow of our forbears or become second-rate imitators. But no pressure, right?

I’m calling it “The Fear.” I like that designation. Though perhaps Kierkegaard’s title is more appropriate: Fear and Trembling. Sometimes the anxiety can physically manifest itself. What do you want to be when you grow up? A writer. But what do you want to do for a real job? I want to vomit. Perhaps this is why I’ve tried every path conceivable to prepare for a “real job” to support my guilt-ridden fantasy of writing professionally—full time. What will you do for benefits? What if you fail? What if you never sell a single piece? Sometimes the voice asking these questions is loudest from my own mouth.

I could be a psychologist. No, there’d be no time to write. Where’s the creativity? I could be a journalist. No, the format is too strict. Too many rules. I could be an English teacher. No. Professor? Maybe, but when would you write? Try your hand at grad school? Mmm, okay, that sounds like a good compromise. How about some research? Fuck, I hate that. So Journalism was a bust, how about English? I don’t care much for Rhetoric, besides, when will I write? Try Literature then. Wow, I like to read, but Jesus Christ! Ok, well that’s two programs down, what now? I figured you knew. Fuck if I know! Well that puts us back to Creative Writing. What, like a PhD? Likely can’t get in. MFA? …

And so it begins...

"Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world's first bionic man. Joe Owens will be that man. Better than he was before. Better, stronger, faster."

The race season is over (and I actually couldn't be happier).
It was an abysmal comeback year but I learned a lot. A whole helluva lot. I identified my weaknesses as a rider and as a racer. (Aside from avoiding sickness). It's time to get back to brass tacks.

My coach and I are looking at sprinkling in strength/resistance training and a dash of plyometrics with an increase in base endurance training and an assortment of other training goodies to my workout plan. On paper, this should bode well for me. Plyometrics are essentially exercises focused on increasing explosive power. For the lower body, it includes a lot of jumping. I think that is a good thing since I could dunk a basketball when I was in the 10th grade and only 5'11. (Did I mention that I'm white?)

I'm planning to use the Ames Roller Race in February to gauge my explosiveness and shorter term sustainable power. It's simply 2 miles, all out, as hard as you can go. I'm not only planning on breaking the 6 minute mark; I'm aiming to obliterate it. The closer to 5:30, the better. We'll have to wait and see.

I saw flashes and brief glimpses of form this year. Such as a 1,320 watt sprint and several Functional Threshold Power (the maximum amount of power you can sustain for an hour), or"FTP" tests putting me squarely in the middle of the Cat 4 range. Which is good, since it is no coincidence that is the category in which I race.

My limiters this year greatly impacted my racing. Instead of giving it up altogether, I've recommitted myself to my goals. With the right coaching and copious amounts of determination, I will be better than I was before. Better, stronger, faster.

Sound of Music

Some people who read this blog know that I've produced basement electronic music for the past ten years. I've dabbled off and on with various computer recording software, hardware instruments, drum machines, groove boxes and synthesizers. Ultimately, funding for other hobbies compels me to sell a little equipment here and there until finally, all I've got left is a small keyboard midi controller, a Technics SL1200 turntable and my MacBook Pro running Apple Logic Studio 8.

And I couldn't be happier.

Reviews for the Logic software can be found online, so I'll spare the details. What I will say is that my Mac is now all the recording studio I need and more. There are so many different software instruments (drum machines, synthesizers, etc.), recording tools, loop libraries plus effects and signal processors, that I'll likely never even have a chance to use them all. I'm incredibly impressed!

I can also create nearly any genre of music I want. My buddy Slim likes slower, more rugged hip hop beats while I personally enjoy more trance-oriented soundscapes. Both are equally doable within Logic and neither sound like an afterthought added to the program.

I've also found it a lot easier to get my music online.

Recently, I've set up pages on last.fm and jukeboxalive.com.
Also, sites like TuneCore.com allow you to publish your music to online distribution sites like iTunes and AmazonMP3.com. I'm pretty sure it couldn't be any easier to get yourself out there.

Between racing my bike, starting my MFA and making music again, my calendar is pretty full. But that's the way I like it: better busy than bored. Maybe I can even make some money some day off my creativity... Stay tuned.

Random Cultural Observation for July 1st: Why is it that it seems the people who spend the most on anti-aging creams, plastic surgery and trendy diets are the ones who also spend hours upon hours a week lying in tanning beds, smoking and generally abusing their bodies in the name of "looking good?" Look, if you lived a life that makes you look rode hard and put away wet, just accept the fact that you lived the shit out of life and you've got the scars to prove it. The waxy, mannequin face is not a look that suits anyone, least of all, oven-roasted 49-year-old women with a bob, cigarette in one hand and cell phone in the other, walking into a department store to spend $300 on 2 oz. of wrinkle cream.

I'm just saying.

Thoughts as they come to me

I decided last week that I was tired of being pack fodder and hired a cycling coach.
It was paramount that I work with someone who's as nuts about bikes, cycling, training and all that's related so I enlisted the services of a friend, George Vargas, founder of Epic Training Systems.

George's credentials as an ultra distance cyclist certainly precede him, but for anyone too lazy to click the link, here's the lowdown: he's finished the Furnace Creek 508 (as in 508 miles) three times solo, once on a fixed gear; completed the Race Across America in 2007, finished in the top 10 of the Trans Iowa 320 (when only 15 of the 52 starters even finished the grueling event) and done a number of brevets, centuries and double centuries. This guy knows how to pedal a bike and I'm confident he can show me a thing or two.

Next, it looks like my racing calendar is filling up. There are multiple weekends coming up chalk full of criteriums in which I'm considering participating. George and I will likely cherry pick the events that allow me the best opportunity to arrive at the starting line with the freshest possible legs. There's the Omaha Cycling weekend, two weekends of the Tour of Kansas City and the Tour of Lawrence. Sounds like a blast!

This past week was a good week on the bike for me. I set two personal bests which I haven't touched in 2 years. First, I spent 11.5 hrs. on the bike and that includes 2 days off out of 7. Second, I eclipsed the 200 mile mark in a single week for the first time in my life. Huzzah!!

Musings at the Races: the Newbie Cat 4 bike racer sees progress

64 minutes and 54 seconds.
23.37 miles.
21.85 mph.

Had this post been written last summer and titled: "Musings of a Newbie Cat 5 bike racer," I'd be talking about my 4th place finish out of 15 in the Nebraska State Time Trial Championships today.
Alas, I've upgraded and must settle toward the bottom of my own category. Not last. But far from first.

But perhaps we should start from the beginning (of today).

Waking up the day of a race, one's first thought should never be, "Oh shit!"
The clock read 8:45 a.m. and the first riders took off at 9:30.

I quickly gathered what was left to be loaded into the car, devoured a granola bar and downed a half cup of coffee. By ten after 9:00, I was on the road, speeding toward Yutan, Nebraska.

Pulling into the parking area at 9:34, riders had already begun their race against the clock. I spot my teammate, Brandon, near the field house where registration was located.

"You better hurry, it might be too late," he says.

The lady at the table appeared to be just closing everything up as I jogged toward her table. She was very friendly and my tardiness in registering actually proved to be advantageous. I was slotted in dead last; the most coveted spot in time trialing.

You have a distinct psychological advantage going last. First off, you know what the pace is like from early finishers. It gives you a target to aim for. Secondly, there is no one starting after you who might catch you on the road and pass you. Demoralization is a kiss of death in bike racing. Because I was going last, I also had almost 40 minutes to warm up.

Coming in to this morning, I had a goal in mind of riding the 22 mile course in 65 minutes or less. As I'd find out later, not only did I achieve that goal, but the course turned out to be 1.37 miles longer than anticipated. Two birds; one stone.

While I was out on course, the very first thing I noticed was the wind was at my back, which meant I'd be heading directly into it during the 2nd half of the course. Nervous legs and adrenaline gave me a strong launch off the starting line and I knew early I needed to reel the effort in a little. Time trials are all about pacing.

I know that my threshold power is 261 watts, which is (or should be) the maximum amount of watts I can sustain for one solid hour. For just over the first 3 or 4 minutes, I was cruising along at just over 300 watts. This pace would surely fry my legs before the end of the race.

Working at just under threshold, you can maintain a good breathing rhythm without going into oxygen debt. My gearing combination proved to be somewhat finicky. I found myself going back and forth between two and wishing for one in the middle. I made it to the halfway checkpoint in 28 minutes and 41 seconds at 24.5 mph, a fairly blistering place for this newbie's legs.

However, I'd had the wind at my back for the first half and I knew the second half would be much tougher.

Immediately, my speed was scrubbed to just over 20 mph. The effort began to take its toll on my legs. Typically where I'd experience a burning in my lugs from going anaerobic, I was now feeling the lactic acid building up in my quadriceps and hamstrings. After making the 180 degree turn to head back, I spent more than a minute between 275 and 465 watts digging into the pedals to get back up to speed, a little too much above my threshold for my legs.

The burn was on.

For the next 10 minutes, I tried to ride inside my "sweet spot" zone which is 217 to 254 watts to try and ease the burn a little. I averaged 233. Every so often, I'd try to get back power back up to my threshold, but the combination of wind and my fast start was beginning to show in my effort. It began to prove more difficult simply riding in my sweet spot.

The other issue I'd forgotten about was the rollers toward the beginning of the course which were the only things standing between me and the finish. I tried different combinations of jumping out of the saddle to pedal and sitting in and grinding it out.

Before long I was rounding the last bend and trying to minimize whatever loss I might have accrued by this point as my speeds repeatedly dipped below 20 miles per hour. With the finishing cones in sight, I gave the pedals one last kick, eclipsing 300 watts and rolled across the line.

One hour, four minutes and fifty-four seconds. I'd beat my goal time by six seconds.

Only later when reviewing my power meter file did I realize I'd ridden an extra mile plus, making going inside my goal time even sweeter!

Having only been out of the Cat 5s for 3 races, I was eager to see where I'd place when their times were posted. It turns out I'd have been 4th. Not too bad considering the top 3 places were faster than the majority of the Cat 4 riders whose results would be posted next.

I had to search a little further down the page for my name on the 4s list. Third from the bottom to be exact. I'd beaten one person and tied with another, a teammate so I didn't feel too bad.

This Cat 4 newbie isn't there yet, but after today's effort, I don't think it will be long before he is... or, I am... whatever.

=)

Musings of a newbie Cat 4 bike racer: pt. 3 -- Balancing Act

Sitting at my desk, iPod ear bud in one ear, nothing in the other so that I can hear the phone if it rings. Attempting to set up set up a CPR/First Aid class for next week for new employees and those in need of re-certification. Taking notes for a CPI training meeting at 5:30 pm and wondering how I'm going to make it to the Team Kaos group ride at 6:00. In the back of my mind lingers the presence of the ubiquitous MA thesis as the sand sifts through the hourglass representing the small amount of time remaining on my first semester graduate credits before they expire. Still need to finish the forms the MFA program I'm starting in July.

Life is a balancing act, a lesson I'm learning much too late in life to implement effectively.

The problem is that there are only 24 hours in a day and I'm forced to spend 7 of those asleep. Anything less and I may as well scrap any ambitions of racing my bike at any level remotely resembling competitive. I've also somehow managed to make time to watch the Giro d'Italia (Tour of Italy), much to the chagrin of the bosses. Or rather, it would be if they knew I was using work time.

This post is turning out to be somewhat of a visual reminder for me. I tend to forget things not written down. Back to the point.

It's likely clear that the two biggest priorities in my life (aside from my wife) are riding my bike and education. Regarding the former, it should be interesting to see if I can pull off a miracle to ride on time tonight. Based on last Saturday's ride, my confidence is growing.

We spent more than 3 hours on the road, a group of 30 or more riders. We rode through rain, wind and oppressing humidity and it was still a fantastic ride! Something I've noticed about myself, is that I seem to get stronger as the ride goes on. Riders on the front of the pack would test each other by sprinting for road signs. I watch this go on all day and reacted enough to stay in the mix.

Nearly 2.5 hours into the ride, I took a flyer off the front of the pack, just before a fairly steep (albeit short) climb. I hit the base of the hill with enough momentum to keep the pedals spinning comfortably at 100 (+ or -) rpms. I decided to leave the chain in a large gear and attempt to keep my cadence up to power through the climb. A quick glance over my shoulder revelealed the group reacted too late. As I approached the crest, I heard a teammate from 20 meters or so back yelling, "Go, go, go!" which gave me the one last kick I needed to come over the top of the hill... first.

This might not seem like a big deal, but from those who've ridden with me, they can tell you I am not a natural at going uphill on a bicycle. I slog through it. The effort took a lot out of me. It was the last match in my matchbook I had to burn. The next hill was about twice and long but half as steep. As it was, I only made it half way up with the leading group before I cracked. Rider after rider passed me on the ascent. However, I was strangely OK with it. I could officially say I won a sign sprint and after that, anything is really possible.

That's why I've been so looking forward to tonight's ride, which is faster and more intense than Saturday's. And also why I'm irritated about a 5:30 meeting 30 minutes before the group departs. With any luck, I can still catch them at the half way point. I'll drive a little ways into the route and ride until they pick me up. In theory that's how it will work, anyway.

The phone is ringing and my BlackBerry tells me I've got emails to check. No rest for the wicked or weary. Back to the grind and all that.

OK for now.