Let The Classics begin!

With apologies to Andy Williams,

this is the most wonderful time of the year!

The Classics are back.

Where are you watching?

Bicycling Hall of Fame (Part II)

Ruhroh. I recently posted about Greensboro, N.C.'s quest to be the next home of the Bicycling Hall of Fame. Several cities are still in the running, and Dayton, Ohio has just upped the ante.

From yesterday's Chicago Tribune:

DAYTON, Ohio - Civic leaders in Dayton, Ohio, are offering the Wright brothers' first bicycle store as a possible home to the U.S. Bicycling Hall of Fame.

Full story here.
Ruhroh.

N.C. Randonneurs Jersey

Here's the new jersey designed by riding buddy Branson. He gave me one at the start of Saturday's 300K, and I didn't get a chance to thank him.

From Feb-21-09-300k

Simple. Cool slogan. Nice job.

Harrisburg 300K from a Fixed Perspective

"..And it's back where we started.
Here we go 'round again.
Back where we started.
Come on and do it again,
Do it again!"
- The Kinks

It was late when Ray Davies' song popped in my head. Gary and I were climbing into Locust around midnight, and we were tired. But the finish was closer, and we were going to make it with an hour or so to spare. It was a good feeling to be "back where we started."

For much of the day, I didn't know if I'd even make it back where we started. Instead of riding hard for a low time, I was attempting the 300K on my fixed-gear commuter. The whole idea seemed crazy even to me, but it also felt like an adventure. A new route, a new bike, a new way to ride..

I was scared to death.

Turned out it was one of my favorite brevets ever. It was great getting to know Gary and Jim better, riding the fixed-gear was incredibly fun, and the ever-changing landscapes were amazing. The backroads were smooth and lightly-travelled. The towns, quaint and historic. The scenery, a rural metamorphosis. Hardwoods to pines. Red clay to white sand. Rolling hills to low plains.

Chapeau, Tony! Chapeau.

Frigid Air / Feb 21 300K

Call the HVAC man. The heat ain't working.

There wasn't a bank thermometer within eyesight at the start of yesterday's 300K in Harrisburg, NC. Had there been, we might have loaded the bikes, climbed back in the car, cranked the heat and headed home to a warm bed and a hot breakfast. We knew it was cold, but we couldn't put an exact figure on it. When we passed the first bank, about 10 miles in, the big display showed 17, a fine prime number and a fair blackjack hand, but a frigid biking temperature that burned my face when we picked up speed on the downhills. This was my coldest start ever -- and I've been keeping meticulous tabs since 1936, so I'm fairly certain about this. My toes hurt. My lungs hurt. But I had legs all day, and that's what counts on the bike.

Eight of us rolled out of the parking lot at 6:05 a.m. -- me, Jerry, Branson, Joel, Glenn, James, Gary and newcomer Paul, out for his first 300K. Others had signed up for the start, but they are smarter than us, smart enough to be a no-show. Chuck got Saturday's MENSA award. He showed up for the start but forgot his shoes and could not ride. Pure genius. We'll give him partial credit.

Branson chose to ride fixed gear; he and Gary would ride as a duo, with James not far behind. Jerry, Joel, Glenn, Paul and I rode together for the majority of the trip.

The temperature climbed rapidly in the morning if the banks are to be believed -- but their credibility has been sharply eroded in recent weeks. From the low of 17, we saw, in rapid succession, 25 then 36 then 49. Is the stimulus package already taking hold? But I knew what this really meant. Warm air was pushing in from the south southeast. So guess which direction we were heading? We had headwind or a strong crosswind most of the way out. We all knew once we made the turnaround on this out-and-back course, we could let out the jib sails for the journey home.

This course suited my riding style. I'd call it a flat to rolling course, with smooth pavement on most roads and long stretches that allowed the day's rhythms and themes to develop. When we wound things up a few times, I felt the harmonic vibration of the chain: the song of the machine. I'd put the front Berthoud bag on my Coho and loaded it down with a light rain jacket, a camera, gels, glasses, a toothbrush, tools and tubes. I had not ridden with the front bag for a while, and I fretted that I would feel the extra weight in the hills. In fact, the Coho has never felt better beneath me. It was one more simple joy of a very pleasurable day on the bikes.

Highway 73, which Joel affectionately called our Alpine stage, was an early season test of the legs and lungs, a 12-mile stretch between Mt. Gilead and Ellerbe that crossed a series of ridges. Drop down to a river or a creek or a swamp, then settle in for a short climb. The crest of each hill provided a glimpse of the next ridge. There it was: your goal, in sharp geographic relief. All of life's goals should be so clear on the horizon. On the return trip, Glenn and I rode off the front of our small peloton, turned up the heat, put our machines through the paces in one of those perfect cycling moments of synchronization and sweat. Glenn was on his new Franklin frame, painted very much like the old silver/blue Raleigh Pros. The Franklin had just been built up and still had that new bike smell. "But I about wore it off on that road," he said.

From Feb-21-09-300k

The route took us past the Rockingham Speedway. I suspected an event was going on; a motor home passed us as we neared the track. From the sound of things the 1/4 mile drag strip was being used. That was confirmed when the wind blew the smell of rubber and alcohol fuel across our path. In years past, Saturday's route would have been dicey; NASCAR's second race of the season was typically held here on this weekend, and the roads we were on would have been clogged with thousands of cars and beer-fueled race fans. But NASCAR's premier circuit doesn't come here any more; the races have moved to modern tracks in Florida and Texas, and that's a shame.

Our little crew gave randonneuring a good name, soft pedaling when someone stopped for a nature break, regrouping at each control, all taking a fair share of pulls at the front, although we graciously let Glenn lead the way whenever he felt the urge, which was often. At the turnaround in Laurinburg, we stopped for the breakfast I'd missed that morning. The restaurant: "Breakfast Anytime!" That is, anytime before 3 p.m., when they close.

Here are a few shots I snapped.


Glenn is a natural on a bike, focused and workmanlike, and his machines are always one final polish away from the Handmade Bike Show -- hey, when you're showing up to do battle, a shiny tank works its own shock and awe.


Joel was just back from Sebring, where he'd reeled off 355 miles in 24 hours. He called this 190-mile ride his recovery day. You can count on Joel for entertainment during the ride. He thought he spotted Scarlet Johansson along the route. Actually it proved to be her lesser known cousin, Ruby Johansson.


Paul was on his first 300K, and he occasionally lost contact with us. We encouraged him to stay off the front to save his legs. Apparently that worked. At the end of the day, he took off like a horse feeling the whip, dropping a few of us on the long climb into Locust. His secret fuel: the Java from Breakfast Anytime.


Here's my good riding buddy Jerry, who provided the weekend's music, Mazda and camaraderie. Thank you, sir. A picture taking a picture.

We rolled into the finish right around 9 p.m. Too cold to swap stories, we loaded up, cranked the heat and headed out. Another fun day on the bikes. Thanks to Tony for a great event.

Postscript. Branson captured these pictures of the train coming back from Laurenburg. That's Joel on the front. Notice two of us are running our edeluxs. With no fear of burning out the bulb, we just leave em on all the time. BTW: Branson has designed a fantastic new jersey for the N.C. Rando crew. You need one.







View Larger Map

Nottoway Ramble Permanent: February 15, 2009

It’s all in the presentation of the lure. My riding buddy, friend, and enabler, Bob, knew what he was doing when he dangled the bait in my direction. Said a few local riders were thinking about doing Ron’s 215km Nottoway Ramble Permanent this past Sunday, and did I want in.

There were five of us in all. Besides Bob and myself, I knew Ron, whom I’d met my first year of randonneuring on the Raleigh 400km in the dark and rain. Special bonds are forged in such times. Plus there was Jim, whom I’d met last year at the VA Tappahannock 200km. Jim’s a real road warrior, having already completed one R-12 and closing in on his second.

The fifth rider I’d not yet met, the affable Ian, whose RUSA number is barely dry. In fact this would be Ian’s first event under the RUSA banner. By all accounts, he’ll be a fine randonneur.

With village names on the route like Windsor, Waverly, and Surry, I’d fully expected to catch a glimpse of the sheriff of Nottingham, Friar Tuck, if not the Queen, herself. However, I’d settle for the opportunity of riding with a band of Merry Men in helmets and colorful garb. I wasn’t disappointed, for my last wish was granted.

Sir Bob—a real knight.

Knaves, Knights, or Knings? Left to right: Ron, Ian, Bob.

The Nottoway Ramble can be described as a rural ride over a section of the Tidewater of southeast VA. Ron has served up tall helpings of cotton, peanuts, rivers, fields, woods, marshes, and a handful of short hills with double-digit inclines. There is little traffic. We were several miles into the ride before we spotted a car on the road.

The 134-mile route is layered with history. Pick your passion. In addition to the strong British influence, alluded to already, is the wide American panorama: native, early colonial, revolutionary, antebellum, civil war. . . As we rode along, Ron would share some of it with us.

We departed the start-control at a late-ish 8:20, but at a good clip under blue skies and temperatures in the mid-30s with a nice tailwind.



Is that flagpole bent? I knew the tailwind wouldn’t last all day as we kept “turning right” in a clockwise fashion.

As we approached Blackwater River at mile 13, Ron noted the river represented a Civil War dividing line between the Union forces and Confederate Virginia. Because the boundary line was unevenly guarded, “contrabands” or slaves occasionally crossed over into freedom. Interestingly, just to the south, the spot at which the Blackwater and Nottoway rivers join—forming the Chowan—officially marks the VA-NC border.

At mile 22, Ron explained that we were in the area of the famous slave rebellion led by Nat Turner in 1831. We rode through the town of Courtland, where Turner was tried and hanged after his capture.



We pulled into the first control at mile 43 in Yale, VA, at the Yale General Store.

The store is closed on Sunday, something Ron anticipated, having already prepared pre-addressed postcards, which we completed and dropped off at the Yale post office directly adjacent to the general store.

Ron passed along an interesting article about contemporary life in this rural area near the village of Yale.

Ian took the sign seriously; I think he’s eating birdseed, which may explain why he can fly.



At mile 59, we reached the first information control. Late arrival Jim already knew the answer to the question, which I think he memorized from the information control on the Tappahannock 200km he'd ridden yesterday.


I was lucky that Jim was prepared. He gave me an extra cue sheet at the next control after mine was stolen by the wind shortly after this stop.

Ian also knows the answer to the control question. He’s fast at everything.

I’m beaming, too, since I remember to apply the “long-distance rule” and put a “K” after the number in my answer.


Captain America? Flash Gordon? Spider Man? No, it’s a new Super Hero—Rando Man!

Passing through Waverly at mile 68, we debated the most important question of the day: where to eat. The constraint of time dictated our decision. Next time Ron and I do the ride we’ve agreed to try Giuseppe’s!

Check out the date on this marker near the control in Claremont at mile 86. Did they get the spelling right on the Indian name?

The route took us within sight of the James River and a few lovely miles through a tranquil, scenic, forested natural preserve. Here we chased up a few, short, steep inclines.

At Surry, we stopped one last time for provisions and turned on our lights for the remaining 34-mile jaunt to the finish. Ron and Bob torched the road with their Edelux-generator lights. If I got ahead of either one of the lights, it was easy to mistake it for a car headlamp. I recall one instance in which I was able to negotiate a series of downhill turns faster with Bob right behind me lighting the way than if I’d been alone.

With day-time highs only in the mid-40s, the temperature quickly plummeted to freezing with nightfall. Ron remarked that his head was turning into a popsicle.

At the final control, while warming ourselves with warm drinks, we signed and turned over our permanent cards to Ron. After securing our bikes, changing clothes, and chatting for a while in a nearby parking lot, we departed in different directions, thankful for another safe and pleasurable adventure.

Thanks to Bob for his continuing role in enabling my “bad behavior” of distance-cycling, to Ron for “hosting” the event, and to Jim and Ian for their camaraderie. It seems that every randonneuring event is special, and this was no exception.

ride through Research Trailer Park

Met up with Jack this afternoon for a ride through Research Trailer Park. Though we live basically around the corner from each other, he showed me some roads I've never ridden in the decade I've been here.

Turns out he bought this Surly Long Haul Trucker just the other day. Look familiar? It faithfully carried Dr. John M through a Super Randonneur series or two.

Jack's an avid bike commuter, and serves on the Durham Bicycle & Pedestrian Advisory Commission. He's mailed off his RUSA membership, and is gunning for Alan's April 200K as his first brevet.

Thanks for the new route, Jack, and welcome.

Not Your Normal Tour Racer

I saw this story on an SIR listserv post and had to pass it along. Check out this quote about a Canadian racer named Svein Tuft.

"[H]e traveled sparingly, towing only his camping gear, a sack of potatoes and his 80-pound dog, Bear."

Enjoy.

Keeping the Faith: Jan. 8 Salisbury 200K

Hell is the rhythm of others.
-- Paul Fornel, Need for the Bike

Randonneurs talk about "riding your own ride," about setting your own pace, cycling within your limits, feeling your own chain, finding the sweet pain in your legs that will carry you through the next 100k.

Fall into a group that is coming over the hills too slowly, or pushing too big of a gear in the flats, or accelerating at unexpected moments, and the game plan quickly goes out the window.

And so it was yesterday, on Tony G's 200K, a spectacular route deep in the Piedmont that took us through a host of towns with biblical names -- Mt. Gilead and Locust, and Faith, a town where JoeRay and Wes would lose their way.

A crew of 25 lined the street outside of a Salisbury bike shop for the 7:30 start and there were lots of familiar faces -- JoeRay, Jimmy, Wes, Jerry, Dean, Brother Rob, Gary, JoAnn, Tom, Mary, Chuck, John, Vance, JD, Lin, Joel, Ron and others I'm forgetting to name. A 27-degree start required cold weather gear, but we all knew we'd be baking in high 60s and sun by the afternoon. That 40-degree swing made it a hard day to dress for.

The group dropped it into social gear for the first 10 miles or so, and for a brief moment I thought we'd all hang together for the full 125 miles. That plan got derailed when Byron missed a shift and broke a chain on the first steep rise of the day. A few of us stopped to offer moral assistance only -- nobody wanted to get their hands oily. A true mechanic, Byron had the chain repaired in five minutes flat.

Rolling again, we chased the lead group to the first control in Oakboro. I left just in front of them for a nature break and had to chase again to latch on as the pace suddenly jumped up a couple clicks. I was expecting big things from this front bunch. Jimmy was there, a superb and stylish rider, and he'd brought along a buddy, Will from Greensboro, who once logged a 5th place finish on the Assault on Mt. Mitchell. Also along was Wes, John, JoeRay, Ron and Joel.

Our group motored down Hwy 731, a rolling stretch of smooth pavement to Mt. Gilead. Four of us -- me, JoeRay, Wes and John -- snuck out of the control first. Perhaps it had dawned on all of us that our only hope was in the pit stops, not on the course.

It's an odd phenomenon. One minute you have wings, you can fly and you're gliding effortlessly through a crisp landscape. The next you're tugging on the anchor rope, dragging a sunken dinghy up from the river bottom. For me, the transition occurred on Old US 52, a nasty excuse for a paved road. Anytime you see Old in front of a highway name, rest assured that the state has abandoned this stretch of asphalt to the cruel hands of time and weather. We bounced along into a headwind for a mere 1.8 miles -- just enough distance to chisel a few letters into my tombstone. I was cooked, but it would be another five miles before the buzzards started circling. Meantime, buddies JoeRay and Wes, danced up the hills. Glancing back, they could smell the stink of collapse on me; they know me too well.

We made it to the next control just in front of Will and Jimmy and Joel and a few others. I made the pretense of leaving with them, but now it was just a matter of time before my legs folded and gave the finger to every other body part that was counting on them to do forced labor. I was off the back in five miles, left alone with a sting in my lungs. I drifted along, all focus gone. But drifting is still forward motion, and on a brevet, sometimes that's all you need. It's taken years, but I now have faith that I will indeed recover. Just keep moving and wait for the shift, a click of some mental switch and all is right with the world once more, and the legs are back in the ring for Round 2.

It was on this stretch, at Barrier Store Road, that I checked the cue sheet and saw the mileage: 100.6. Another century in the books. That made 86 months in a row. I'd just taken the mantle from Brother Rich, the guy who inspired my streak and coaxed me into randonneuring.

Joel caught me and we rolled into the control at Locust, which had a McDonalds. I had a solitary burger and fries and a Coke, gathered myself together. We were 94 miles in. I could limp along for another 30 miles.

I waited for everyone else to clear the parking lot before striking out, solo, on the 20-mile run to the next control. We had a very favorable wind on this stretch. Pedaling was optional. By the final intermediate control at Mile 115, I felt fully recovered. I finished the day with Joel and Ron and JD. Brother Rich was there to greet us at the finish, and we capped the celebration off at a downtown Salisbury restaurant staffed by one of the world's chattiest waitresses.

On the way home I got a call from Brother Rob that he'd successfully finished. A big congratulations to him on what was a demanding but rewarding course.

There was one spot on the route that really captivated me. There was something magic about it, and I made a feeble effort to capture it on film. No luck.



Another great day on the bikes. Speaking of bikes, John M asked that I take a picture of his new ebay purchase. Iowa, if you're out there, here's the proof that she is being ridden and loved.

From Feb 8 200k

P.S. Dean sent along this picture. That's Brother Rob in the red.

From Feb 8 200k

Bicycles with R-SYS Wheel Rims Recalled by Mavic USA Due to Crash Hazard

WASHINGTON, D.C. - The U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission, in cooperation with the firm named below, today announced a voluntary recall of the following consumer product. Consumers should stop using recalled products immediately unless otherwise instructed.

Name of Product: Bicycles with R-SYS Front Wheel Rims

Units: About 12,000

Importer: Mavic USA, of Haverhill, Mass.

Manufacturer: Salomon SAS, of France

Hazard: The spokes on the bicycle’s front wheel rim can break during use, posing a fall and crash hazard to riders.

Incidents/Injuries: Mavic USA has received one report of an injury involving broken teeth.

Description: This recall includes R-SYS and R-SYS Premium front wheel rims. They were sold as original equipment on various bicycle brands and were also sold separately. R-SYS wheel rims are designed for road bikes. “R-SYS” is printed on the front rim of the wheels. The rims are 22mm in diameter, with 16 tubular, unidirectional carbon spokes.

Sold at: Specialty bicycle retailers from May 2007 through December 2008 for between $700 and $750 for the front wheel of the two-wheel set when sold separately from the bicycle.

Manufactured in: France

Remedy: Consumers should stop using bicycles with the recalled front wheel rims and contact their bicycle retailer for a free replacement front rim.

Consumer Contact: For additional information, contact Mavic USA at (800) 664-9228 between 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. ET Monday through Friday, or visit the firm’s Web site at www.mavic.com

Texas

I snuck away last weekend for a ride in Texas. DanD, a friend I've known for years as a RUSA volunteer, hooked me up with a bike -- a 16 pounder named Marilyn Monroe -- and a place to stay. Both of those things, and a cheap plane ticket, made life easy.

I got down there Saturday afternoon, grabbed a quick Mexican lunch, then found Dan's house and let myself in. No surprise, he was out on a bike ride. I thumbed through an issue of the UMCA magazine as I waited, noting lots of familiar names in the Year Rounder list, including Dan and his friend Pam.

Dan arrived, all enthusiasm and smiles. And why not? He's got the best hair and moustache on the planet. A RUSA RBA, he is the motor and the motivator behind the Lone Star Randonneurs, a club that has earned a nationwide reputation for high mileage achievements. The celebrated K-Hounds manage 10,000 K of sanctioned events or more in a year. The math on that? About a 200K every week. Dan is the guy stoking that fire.

But back to the living room. The swap of a few pleasantries, lots of bike talk, and a bit of work on Marilyn, then Dan and I were off to the Dallas Fort Worth Stock Show, where Pam works. The guy at the parking lot gate knew Dan and chatted him up, proudly showed off a picture he'd taken -- the Space Shuttle riding piggyback on a jumbo jet. He gave Dan a copy.



We found Pam in the office, dressed in a stunning outfit, Texas all the way down to the cowboy boots. We walked through a sea of cowboy hats and cowboy shirts, through two long pavilions and emerged at the rodeo rink just in time to see the miniature horse and costume competition. This stagecoach won.



Walking back through the exhibits, here's a chair I would have purchased had I not been happily married.



And a tractor.



Off to another Mexican dinner with Dan's masters swim team, where I ate three baskets of chips and watched the coach hand out awards to the folks who swam 300, 400, 500 miles in 2008. Maybe it's not just bikers who get obsessive. I tipped the waitress generously. The meal made me happy.

We hit it to bed early Saturday night and got up early Sunday morning for an hour drive over to the start of the Populaire in Richardson. It began in front of the country's biggest bike shop, Richardson Bike Mart. The store is about two city blocks long. I think it has a stoplight in the middle aisle.



Lance used to ride for a team associated with the shop, and there is lots of Lance on the walls -- photos, jerseys, stuffed lions, Wheaties boxes.



I bought a Bento box with the Lone Star flag on the side to replace the one a squirrel ate.

About 30 riders milled about in the parking lot waiting for the start, including two who were there for their first brevet. Dan told me he uses the Populaire as a recruiting tool for new members. Show the newbies how much fun the crew is, and pretty soon they're in the club, racking up the miles with the best of them. Dan lives for those transformations.

But this day was not just for the new riders. Pam was supposed to be working another 12-hour day at the Stock Show, but here she was, dressed to the nines, complete with white gloves. She was carrying a big box. Now Dan was suspicious. Something was up.

Indeed. Pam gathered the crew around, did a slight diversion with small talk, then dived into a touching speech about Dan, describing him as the heart and soul of the local randonneuring effort. She talked about the hours he devoted to the sport, and his untiring efforts as a mentor, a coach, a booster. This was not an ordinary speech, and Dan was on edge.

Pam reached into the box she'd brought, took out the trophy. The American Randonneur Award, RUSA's highest honor, given each year to one individual "who has made a significant and outstanding contributions to randonneuring in the United States." This year, it was Dan's time. There was a hail of congratulations, several posed photos of Dan and Pam, a few group shots, and the inevitable joke that nobody had ever seen Dan speechless before. It was a beautiful moment.







Me and Marilyn rode in the back with Dan and several other riders for most of the day. We had a fine time out in the wind and the sun, doing what we love to do. Riding our bikes with friends.

When a guy in the parking lot shows off a shuttle picture, you know you're in Rocket Country. That was confirmed as we finished up, turning off of Apollo and on to Star Trek Road. Yes, Mission Accomplished.

Dreaming..