Rime of the Ancient Cyclist

Staring out the front window on Wednesday last, I decided it was that time of the  year to move the Roubaix into the house, for as you all know, "Bikes live in the house," despite what my wife says.

I wandered down to the basement, set up the Performance rollers (with the optional stability bar since I am no fool) and dug around for the Training DVD's that will carry me through to next season: two Coach Troy torture tests from Spinervals and the StrenDurance in Hawaii disc from Global Ride. I dug out a fresh, not too moldy, water bottle; found the indoor riding bibs that can only be ridden in the house when the family is away because they are remarkably see through; and, the indoor riding shoes, which are different from the outdoor riding shoes only in age and level of decreptitude.

So, the indoor season begins. Coach Troy begins his march to the sea, and I take the time to honestly appraise the current me, which is different from the earlier this year me only in age and level of decreptitude.

And a few more pounds of extraneous goo.

Well, at least the bike is inside the house.

I came across some classic cycling photos today.

One is of Paul Sherwen covered with mud at Paris Roubaix. The agony in his face is telling of the ordeal.

Another was of sprinter Freddy Maertens, his face in a rictus of agony as he pushed across the line, frantically pursued by a crowd of riders who looked just as miserable as he did.

Another was of British cyclist Tom Simpson struggling up Ventoux on his way to a meeting with tragedy.

Another was Luis Ocana screaming in the mud at the side of the road in the Tour de France after a crash.

Another was Tyler Hamilton racing with a broken collarbone.

Another was of Joseba Beloki and the descent from hell.

And all I could think was ...

we do this for fun.

What is it with guys and their self image?

A woman looks in the mirror and tends to see every physical flaw imaginable, including, any number of flaws that aren't there at all.

A man looks in the mirror and sees -- well -- what he wants to see. It's like wearing a perpetual pair of beer goggles. We're masters at lying to ourselves.

Lookin' okay there, Studly. No problems. A little soft around the middle, maybe, but okay. I can take that off in a day or so. This will work nicely.

Look out, world, I'm on my way.

And, then, we guys toddle off to wherever we're going full of confidence in our appearance and a mental image that is lying to us like Bernie Madoff at a Ponzi Party.

But then, on occasion, we get a wake up call.

Me, I always get that call from the right hand side of my closet.

I can bury a lot of sins and pints and bratwurst in a large pair of jeans and a sweater vest, but slip into a pair of riding bibs and a jersey and I suddenly look like a candidate for lipo with a shop vac. Mr. Potato Head with the Special Stretchy Pants. An olive on toothpicks.

I've gone, over the years, from sleek pro team jerseys, Euro size medium, to Amero-cut XL's with the "comfort waistband" and special Expando-Gussets. Those old jerseys, if worn now, would take Spandex to a place well beyond the OSHA safety standards, a place where one more ounce of expansive torque would shred the fabric into thousands of flying ribbons of death. (Those old jerseys have somehow found their way to my daughters' closets. They wear them well.)

The ones I now wear have more fabric than a yacht sail, woven specifically by the Zeppelin Company of Munich.

When I put them on, and stand in front of the mirror, looking this way and that, full on, side ways right, side ways left, I can still ignore the truth to a degree.

I am a guy, after all.

Suck it in a little bit more there, Moody. Lookin' good, there. Speedy as all can be. 

But then oxygen deprivation takes over, I exhale like an industrial strength Whoopee Cushion and collapse into the vague shape of a sack of wet rice.

Take a look then and the honesty jumps out. 

I need more fabric. 

My bikes aren't even out of the garage in the basement and on the trainers yet and already Le Tour is setting me up for next season. The 2010 route was announced today in Paris, in front of Alberto and Lance, both looking sleek and businesslike, and Andy Schleck, who looked like he had just finished mowing his brother's lawn.

That's not a criticism.

In fact, I actually appreciated his casual, "I'm just a rider," approach. I found it rather refreshing next to the "Hungry Tycoon" look of Andy's two other podium mates.

Anyway, the route.

It starts in Holland, in the port of Rotterdam (home of a fine old joke which I will not relate here), runs through Holland, Belgium and Northern France on the flats, wanders into the Jura Mountains as well as the Alps, before crossing the South of France to hit the Pyrenees.

There's a lot of wind and 13 km of cobbles early on, no Team Time Trial, only one individual time trial and they'll get to climb the Tourmalet twice, from each side, I think, if I'm reading the map, which is about the size of a postage stamp on my computer, correctly.

There will be nine flat stages, Cavendish says it will be tough to take six stages. (I agree. It doesn't impress me as much of a sprinter's course. Like I should talk. The only time I've successfully sprinted in my life was when a mama moose chased me along a singletrack in Wyoming. Even Thor couldn't have caught me that day. Fear of an imminent hoof stomping, 80% center, does that to you.)

There will be 23 climbs that are 2-1-or-HC. Three are summit finishes.

The total course is 3596 kilometers.

Alberto is already saying that Andy Schleck (and not Lance) is his main competition. Lance is saying that the race is going to be more open this year. He didn't throw down the gauntlet to anyone in particular. Andy Schleck says it looks hard and that Alberto is his main competition. Mark Cavendish is already sweating getting through the Pyrenees to win the Green Jersey in Paris. (Actually, given his overabundance of confidence, I highly doubt that Mark Cavendish sweats about much of anything.)

As for me, I will very likely once more enjoy Le Tour from the comfort of my couch, surrounded by coffee, breakfast and a flatulent Boston Terrier.

Unless you're actually on site, there is no better way to experience Le Tour.

After hearing that the festival had been cancelled, imagine my surprise when I found out that Denver's First Bicycle Film Festival was back on.

"Denver, CO (October 7, 2009) – In just a few weeks, the Bicycle Film Festival (BFF) makes its debut in Denver from October 28th through October 31st,, to present a cultural phenomenon like no other, the BFF originated in New York City and has become a voice for the most powerful and culturally relevant movement of the past decade: the urban bike movement. The BFF brings together many creative communities, including fashion, music and art as well as various bicycling communities – including fixed gear, BMX, and road cycling - over a shared passion for bike riding."

There are no concrete details yet, but RIME will let you know when we've got some. Glad it has survived. I could use a good bicycle movie right about now.

British Sports psychiatrist Steve Peters has this theory about our "inner chimp." The chimp being those impulsive thoughts, emotions and actions that undercut what we are trying to, or meant to, do with our lives.

The "inner chimp" will screech and tear and throw poo at the wall of your brain pan, all in an effort to thwart success.

The "inner chimp" will make up problems and build barriers and create confusion and generate negative thoughts and try bizarre workout programs and swallow outlandish supplements (or worse) and skip workouts and find excuses and foil confidence and light the fuse for squall line bouts of red-faced, high blood pressure anger for which the human being within you will spend the rest of the afternoon apologizing.

And the chimp just laughs in his screechy, obnoxious, kind of way.

The chimp makes you think the screams and applause are for your speedy time trial finish when they are really the crowd yelling for you to get the hell out of the way of the rider with a shot at a decent time. No chance. The chimp makes you believe that the finish lane belongs to you and you alone.

The chimp makes you think that everybody who passes you on a climb is judging your abilities on the bike, if not your life. Like they care. The chimp -- he's the one who cares.

The chimp makes you think that 51-mph on a potholed downhill isn't fast enough and that maybe, just maybe, you could go faster if you weren't such a wuss. The wuss the chimp makes you think you are on a bike.

Everyone has an inner chimp. 

Even Lance.

Some use it to their benefit.

Others ignore it to their detriment.

Others know he's there and he's slinging poo at the wall day in and day out.

And they endure the screeches and battle the noise and ignore the thoughts and muddle through the next pedal stroke on the way to one more completed ride.

And the chimp is loud, because riding and racing and climbing and descending are a solitary, focussed sport, no matter how big your team or how many friends are joining you that day, or how many hours you've spent training to build on your abilities and drive him from your mind.

The chimp is there. He's hardwired into human evolution.

My chimp is there.

His name is Skippy.

And he's one mean little sucker. 

A sporadic listing of what I have discovered to be the Grand High Mystical and Immutable Laws that govern the sport of cycling.

Rule #1: After any number of trouble-free short rides within walking distance of your home, the first 70-miler you undertake in some time will result in your first double flat at the 35 mile mark from the house.

Rule #2: You will have one spare and no patches.

Rule #3: You will be out of cell phone range.

Rule #4: You will be wearing expensive road shoes that aren't worth a tinker's dam when it comes to walking, so you will take them off to save their soles.

Rule #5: You will ruin your socks, your feet and your shins, to say nothing of your attitude.

Rule #6: It will rain.

Rule #7: It will be a cold rain. 

Rule #8: Everyone will ask why you're so cranky, because their weekend was lovely.

Rule #9: At first, you will try to explain.

Rule #10: Finally, you'll simply climb into your Cadel Evans-designed "Captain Cuddles" personality and let them figure it out themselves.

It's a good feeling when somebody who has been taking it on the chin all season long steps up and wins big on what is, essentially, the last day of the season.

Like the Detroit Lions winning after more than a year of futility, Cadel Evans (Australia) stood on the pedals yesterday in Switzerland to win the Men's 2009 World Road Cycling Champiionships.

It breaks the mold of what has been a less than banner year for Evans.

Cadel wound up in 30th place at Le Tour this year, afer a couple of second place finishes in years past. He WAS third at the Vuelta, voicing plenty of complaints that other riders and mechanical problems blocked him from a higher finish. He only had a couple of Crit wins to hang his hat on this season. Plus, thanks to his contentious relationship with the cycling media, he's won a continuation of his "Captain Cuddles" moniker with the press. 

Evans has never been an "easy" interview, but he was particularly difficult this year, continuing a relationship from last season in which he headbutted a camera in '08 and threatened to rip off one reporter's head when said reporter accidentally stepped on his dog during the media scrum at the end of a Tour stage. Cadel also earned the name "Marmalard" from one writer earlier this month, as in "Greg Marmalard," the unctuous, whiney leader of Omega in "Animal House," for his continuing complaints during the Vuelta.

To top it all, Cycle Sport Magazine's  "Broomwagon" section, a snarfy take on cyclists and racing, went so far as to promote a faux bumper sticker: "I Actually Saw Cadel Evans Attack!" (I've got to admit, I wanted one.)

And, yet --

Evans is one of those riders with great talent, but seeminigly little confidence in those abilities, few confidants and almost no mentoring. It gives him a very defensive, in your face, "I'll get back at all of you" attitude on the bike. That can work, when the anger is channeled into the race and everything goes right, but it can also work against you, when things go wrong and it's finally released in front of the cameras.

Evans is a team leader who seemingly wants to do it all himself, without strong riders and even stronger team management around him to carry him to the top of the podium.

He rides fiendishly hard, but without a team to back him up, one false move, one missed break, one mechanical problem, and he's off the pace, struggling to catch back up and then paying the price for being defensive in his explanations about what happened on the road. 

That's why his wins often come, at least, so far, in the single day events where everything has broken his way. 

Like the World Road Cycling Championship in Switzerland.

Everything broke Cadel's way in the World Championship Road Race. He stood on the pedals, attacked (so there, Cycle Sport!) and after 259 kilometers of racing, won the rainbow jersey, the premiere jersey in racing next to the maillot jaune of Le Tour de France.

He cried at the finish, kissed his wedding ring, and gave Australia it's first elite men's road race world title.

Finally.

Here's a guy who has taken a lot of crap from the cycling press all season long. He's deserved some of it, for sure, but he's also he's had to carry a lot he didn't deserve. Through it all, he's ridden hard, he's been a contender and he's kept pedaling through the lousy headlines, cheap nicknames and snarfy comments. 

I suppose it could happen to a nicer guy, but after watching Cadel struggle with his races, his team, his media rapport and the fates all season long, I had to believe it couldn't happen to a more deserving guy. 

I have not eaten a gel-pak or energy bar in 2 1/2 months.

And somehow ...

I'm okay with that.