Rider Three spent time on Friday making a video which featured a character with an outhouse on his head. That was supposed to be me. I guess it was supposed to be funny. I was working and riding my bike instead. The way men do.
Here is my ride report. We met for a ride on Saturday and went for two hours. Weather was fine. I plan to do it again soon.
Quicksilver
Showing posts with label Quicksilver. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Quicksilver. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Monday, July 20, 2009
Of Bonking
Last post, I wrote about a guy who reached the end of his proverbial rope and kept riding. This is different than bonking. I certainly am not the guy to explain the physiological differences, but here is my layman approach. Reaching the end of your capacity means that you have just ridden all that you can reasonably do on that particular day. Your legs have nothing left; you are out of steam, out of snap, at the bottom of the tank, or whatever.
Bonking, by contrast, is when you run out of fuel for your body. You may have ridden more miles on prior days, or had harder rides. It's not that you were not trained for the distance or challenge, but instead you have used up all the immediately available energy. I have heard it said that you are out of glycogen in your muscles, although I don't know if this is the whole story. In any case, you hit a point where you don't just feel like slowing down, instead you feel like stopping, you feel like getting off the bike, laying down by the road and letting the process of ashes to ashes, dust to dust begin right there.
The French say that you have been visited by "the man with the hammer", which you then hear trans-morphed into a "hunger knock". In either case, when you bonk, you are functionally done.
On my ride to Steptoe Butte, I talked to Steev about bonking and said that it had been years and years since I had seriously bonked. I regaled him with a tale of the pre-cell phone days when I bonked on a ride on the old Palouse Highway. Everytime I ride up that hill I am reminded of the day that I was forced to get off of my bike and sit by the road. I had no food, no more water, no cell phone and I was at least a mile, probably two, to the next house. I was about 10 miles from home. I had been riding on absolute empty for miles and I finally came to the climb that I thought might end up being my final resting spot. I stopped my bike in a tiny bit of shade and sat down in the dirt and gravel off the side of the road. There was nothing on which to sit, no curb or rock, and no person with a choice would have sat down on this hot, dry slope. I was that person who was out of choices. After sitting there for about a half of an hour, I finally gathered enough mental and physical strength to get back on my bike and slowly, every so slowly, rode home.
Because of my size, and hopefully my discretion and planning, it had been a long time since I was that drained. At least a decade, almost two. But I managed to get back there recently.
I was looking forward to the particular ride. It is one of Rider 2's prefered rides - the Troika course. Heading up Thorpe, across the west plains to Medical Lake and then through his boyhood neighborhood back into town. It is about a 60 mile loop from my house and I had done this ride a couple of times already this year. I even blogged about it once. On this day, it was going to be one of the first rides where all of TTW was going to be together for a while, so I was looking forward to seeing the "team." I was feeling fairly good and while I am not the rider that either of my teammates are, I felt good about my ability to take a few pulls and hang in for a good ride.
It was not to be.
On the way up Thorpe I was actually in front of the group and someone complained about my speed up a hill. If you have ever ridden with me, you know how unlikely that is. I didn't go nuts, but I did take a few big pulls with Rider 2 (Hey Rider 2, did you realize you HAVE a small chain ring?). Twenty or thirty miles later, however, I noticed that I was getting tired after we crossed Highway 2. In fact, I found that my legs were leaving me on each uphill. At one point, Rider 1 had a broken spoke and I waited down the road knowing that there was a steep climb and I wanted to use the 1,000 yard advantage to keep up with the group over the crest.
Didn't happen.
Soon after that I realized that I was going to crap. I couldn't keep pace if the road tilted up more than 2 degrees. I caught back up a time or two and then we hit the bottom of Coulee-Hite Road. At that point, for some reason completely unknown and incomprehensible, my team-mates decided to bash in everyone's skull - figuratively speaking. As we hit the flat, slightly downhill run-off, Rider 1 ramped up over 30 mph. I thought to myself that if I could just hang on to the tail of the group for his pull, I would be able keep up when the next person inevitably slowed down.
Wrong.
Rider 2 decided to assert some authoratative leadership and continued with an extended, extended pull at the same or higher pace. Everyone in the group suffered, but I died. At that point, it was time to leave me beside the road to end my suffering in some peace and quiet. In a bit of faux-selflessness, I told the group to go on without me. It was meant as a plea for help. Instead, to my surprise, they said "great", they would go on without me. Left to my own, I did the only thing a self-respecting cyclist could do. I used my cell phone to call my wife for a ride home.
It will be a long time before I get into that spot again. I hope.
Bonking, by contrast, is when you run out of fuel for your body. You may have ridden more miles on prior days, or had harder rides. It's not that you were not trained for the distance or challenge, but instead you have used up all the immediately available energy. I have heard it said that you are out of glycogen in your muscles, although I don't know if this is the whole story. In any case, you hit a point where you don't just feel like slowing down, instead you feel like stopping, you feel like getting off the bike, laying down by the road and letting the process of ashes to ashes, dust to dust begin right there.
The French say that you have been visited by "the man with the hammer", which you then hear trans-morphed into a "hunger knock". In either case, when you bonk, you are functionally done.
On my ride to Steptoe Butte, I talked to Steev about bonking and said that it had been years and years since I had seriously bonked. I regaled him with a tale of the pre-cell phone days when I bonked on a ride on the old Palouse Highway. Everytime I ride up that hill I am reminded of the day that I was forced to get off of my bike and sit by the road. I had no food, no more water, no cell phone and I was at least a mile, probably two, to the next house. I was about 10 miles from home. I had been riding on absolute empty for miles and I finally came to the climb that I thought might end up being my final resting spot. I stopped my bike in a tiny bit of shade and sat down in the dirt and gravel off the side of the road. There was nothing on which to sit, no curb or rock, and no person with a choice would have sat down on this hot, dry slope. I was that person who was out of choices. After sitting there for about a half of an hour, I finally gathered enough mental and physical strength to get back on my bike and slowly, every so slowly, rode home.
Because of my size, and hopefully my discretion and planning, it had been a long time since I was that drained. At least a decade, almost two. But I managed to get back there recently.
I was looking forward to the particular ride. It is one of Rider 2's prefered rides - the Troika course. Heading up Thorpe, across the west plains to Medical Lake and then through his boyhood neighborhood back into town. It is about a 60 mile loop from my house and I had done this ride a couple of times already this year. I even blogged about it once. On this day, it was going to be one of the first rides where all of TTW was going to be together for a while, so I was looking forward to seeing the "team." I was feeling fairly good and while I am not the rider that either of my teammates are, I felt good about my ability to take a few pulls and hang in for a good ride.
It was not to be.
On the way up Thorpe I was actually in front of the group and someone complained about my speed up a hill. If you have ever ridden with me, you know how unlikely that is. I didn't go nuts, but I did take a few big pulls with Rider 2 (Hey Rider 2, did you realize you HAVE a small chain ring?). Twenty or thirty miles later, however, I noticed that I was getting tired after we crossed Highway 2. In fact, I found that my legs were leaving me on each uphill. At one point, Rider 1 had a broken spoke and I waited down the road knowing that there was a steep climb and I wanted to use the 1,000 yard advantage to keep up with the group over the crest.
Didn't happen.
Soon after that I realized that I was going to crap. I couldn't keep pace if the road tilted up more than 2 degrees. I caught back up a time or two and then we hit the bottom of Coulee-Hite Road. At that point, for some reason completely unknown and incomprehensible, my team-mates decided to bash in everyone's skull - figuratively speaking. As we hit the flat, slightly downhill run-off, Rider 1 ramped up over 30 mph. I thought to myself that if I could just hang on to the tail of the group for his pull, I would be able keep up when the next person inevitably slowed down.
Wrong.
Rider 2 decided to assert some authoratative leadership and continued with an extended, extended pull at the same or higher pace. Everyone in the group suffered, but I died. At that point, it was time to leave me beside the road to end my suffering in some peace and quiet. In a bit of faux-selflessness, I told the group to go on without me. It was meant as a plea for help. Instead, to my surprise, they said "great", they would go on without me. Left to my own, I did the only thing a self-respecting cyclist could do. I used my cell phone to call my wife for a ride home.
It will be a long time before I get into that spot again. I hope.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Quicksilver Travels. Day 9
Chatty Cathy, aka Rider 3, insisted that I blog about my trip to Germany. Fine.
Today I flew home from Amsterdam to Seattle and then came home to Spokane. There was no bike riding.
I hope you enjoyed my travel blog.
Quicksilver
Today I flew home from Amsterdam to Seattle and then came home to Spokane. There was no bike riding.
I hope you enjoyed my travel blog.
Quicksilver
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Quicksilver Travels. Day 8
Chatty Cathy, aka Rider 3, insisted that I blog about my trip to Germany. Fine.
Today I traveled to Amsterdam. There were lots of bikes. For me, no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Today I traveled to Amsterdam. There were lots of bikes. For me, no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Monday, April 13, 2009
Quicksilver Travels. Day 7
Chatty Cathy, aka Rider 3, insisted that I blog about my trip to Germany. Fine.
Today was my last day in Nurnberg. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Today was my last day in Nurnberg. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Quicksilver Travels. Day 6
Chatty Cathy, aka Rider 3, insisted that I blog about my trip to Germany. Fine.
Today I traveled to Dresden. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Today I traveled to Dresden. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Quicksilver Travels. Day 5
Chatty Cathy, aka Rider 3, insisted that I blog about my trip to Germany. Fine.
Today I was in Nurnberg. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Today I was in Nurnberg. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Friday, April 10, 2009
Quicksilver Travels. Day 4
Chatty Cathy, aka Rider 3, insisted that I blog about my trip to Germany. Fine.
Today I was spent the day in Munchen. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Today I was spent the day in Munchen. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Quicksilver Travels. Day 3
Chatty Cathy, aka Rider 3, insisted that I blog about my trip to Germany. Fine.
Today I was in Nurnberg. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Today I was in Nurnberg. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Quicksilver Travels. Day 2
Chatty Cathy, aka Rider 3, insisted that I blog about my trip to Germany. Fine.
Today I was in Nurnberg. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Today I was in Nurnberg. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Quicksilver Travels. Day 1
Chatty Cathy, aka Rider 3, insisted that I blog about my trip to Germany. Fine. Here is my first entry.
Today I flew from Seattle to Amsterdam and then to Nurnberg. It was long and boring. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Today I flew from Seattle to Amsterdam and then to Nurnberg. It was long and boring. There was no bike riding.
Quicksilver
Friday, March 6, 2009
The True Number 2
This is truly rider 2. Known to some (very few) as "Quicksilver". I am neither quick or silver. I am though the eldest of the Team Two Wheelers. First things first I would like to thank my ghost writer for filling in for me. My lack of effort in posting is due to nothing better than laziness. I have composed many blogs in my head while riding to and from work in the bitter cold and the pissing hand freezing rain. By the time I get home all is lost after feeding the dogs, chatting with the spousal unit before she goes to work, making dinner for the soon nest fleeing son and myself, doing the dishes and showering the days work off my ass. I am sure by now your saying "Boo-hoo for rider 2". I hear ya. There is no room for self pity in the cycling world. Suffering, sacrifice, self motivation, perseverance that is what its all about.
My objective is to capture what I think the true essence of this beloved sport. The sport I have lived and breathed for over half my life. I am going to bore you with a little history of how and why I love cycling so much. When I was 2 years old my parents like most bought me a tricycle. I don't remember much about the early years so I am relying on my parents to embellish... I mean fill in the blanks. Apparently, during Easter of '65 I was more interested in the pedaling action than collecting colored oval shaped objects that smelled of something I have left in my shorts two hours previously. My oldest cousin at the age of 16 noticed my lack of participation in the pagan ritual and ask if he could assist me in achieving the speed that I so desired. I politely shook my head yes with a big ass grin and he placed his adolescent hands on my back. I was preparing for warp speed by tucking low, clinching teeth, and peering my eyes just over my chromed handle bars. On my command he began to push me as fast as his 6 foot frame could go. After what seem to be a mile to a 2 year old he gave his last ditch effort of acceleration and
extended his arm. This felt like what later in my life my father the fighter pilot would describe to me as a after-burner kick in a F-101 fighter. Realizing of course as a submissive child that I was rapidly approaching the border of forbidden territory on a tricycle I made a abrupt left turn. The laws of physics were not establish in my young mind so you can only imagine what happened next. So, after many minutes of sobbing and a few kisses from Mom I was okay. The road rash I had sustained on my face was merely an improvement according to my siblings. As legend has it I was back in the saddle before the tears had dried. My Mother has a picture to document the event with me standing in the front lawn holding an empty Easter basket and sporting my rode rash. And so it began.............
Rider 2
My objective is to capture what I think the true essence of this beloved sport. The sport I have lived and breathed for over half my life. I am going to bore you with a little history of how and why I love cycling so much. When I was 2 years old my parents like most bought me a tricycle. I don't remember much about the early years so I am relying on my parents to embellish... I mean fill in the blanks. Apparently, during Easter of '65 I was more interested in the pedaling action than collecting colored oval shaped objects that smelled of something I have left in my shorts two hours previously. My oldest cousin at the age of 16 noticed my lack of participation in the pagan ritual and ask if he could assist me in achieving the speed that I so desired. I politely shook my head yes with a big ass grin and he placed his adolescent hands on my back. I was preparing for warp speed by tucking low, clinching teeth, and peering my eyes just over my chromed handle bars. On my command he began to push me as fast as his 6 foot frame could go. After what seem to be a mile to a 2 year old he gave his last ditch effort of acceleration and
extended his arm. This felt like what later in my life my father the fighter pilot would describe to me as a after-burner kick in a F-101 fighter. Realizing of course as a submissive child that I was rapidly approaching the border of forbidden territory on a tricycle I made a abrupt left turn. The laws of physics were not establish in my young mind so you can only imagine what happened next. So, after many minutes of sobbing and a few kisses from Mom I was okay. The road rash I had sustained on my face was merely an improvement according to my siblings. As legend has it I was back in the saddle before the tears had dried. My Mother has a picture to document the event with me standing in the front lawn holding an empty Easter basket and sporting my rode rash. And so it began.............
Rider 2
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