Why is it that every week the Sunday paper comes in a bright blue plastic bag, except for this week; with snow piled everywhere it’s in a white bag? Oh sure, the bag says “Happy Holidays” in green script, but I think there are nefarious forces at work here.
So, last night I shoveled, and I shoveled and I shoveled. A few hours later, looking out the window, it was like I had never shoveled at all. I sit up, drinking coffee, and relaxing until I decide to hit the hay around 2-3AM. I sleep the sleep of the dead (shoveling tons of wet heavy snow then taking a muscle relaxer will do that to you). When I awake I’m shocked by the realization that I’ve overslept terribly and it’s almost 7PM! Ahhhhh!
The snow is piled up on my front porch so high that the storm door (which is up a step from the porch) won’t open. We got some sleet so it’s extra-crusty super-hateful snow. First off, I’m annoyed that I didn’t get any mail, and by the terrible condition of the streets (the ones I can see, anyway). I shovel my way out to my car, come in to warm up and get to thinking; “Even with all the snow cover, it’s awfully light for 8 at night.” Rushing to the computer to check SNTP; “God’s own time” I have a revelation.
It’s 8am! And I’m an idiot!
It’s been snowing all day today, sure it’s pretty and all, but there’s already a good 8-10″ on the ground and they’re now saying that by tomorrow evening we may have 15-23″. That’s just too damned much snow! Thank goodness I’m done with my Christmas shopping and don’t have to be anyplace until work Friday night (when they’re calling for overnight lows of -13F… is there no end to the torture?)
So, Sunday night was even colder than the original forecast. The temp as I prepared to leave for work was 2! Two freaking degrees Farhenheit! And still windy! Thus I was reduced to driving the metal box to work, like some common sissy.
I went out to start my car, and was greatly relieved when the door opened right up for me (there’s a long history of the doors freezing shut, the locks freezing, and the entire inner workings of the doors freezing solid… as a consequence of past instances of this and my trying to overcome this phenomenon by brute force, my front passenger’s side door will only open from the outside and my rear passenger’s side door won’t open at all… but anyway, I digress).
I start the car, relieved again that it started rather easily (my car and I both only operate properly at 60 degrees and above). When I go to get out… the door won’t open! After a few moments of cursing I decide to roll the window down and try it from the outside. Bingo! It pops open easily.
The truly awful part is that Winter is only just beginning (technically). Have I mentioned that I hate Winter?
Last night when I rode my bike to work, it was 37(F) and I was riding into a 20-30 mph wind. Not pleasant, but tolerable. This morning riding home it was 14(F) and the wind was still blowing at 25-35mph, but had shifted just enough to now be either in my face or a viscious cross-wind for the entire ride home. Oh, and it snowed overnight too, just for good measure. I will have to admit that I derive a certain twisted pleasure from riding along, puffing great clouds of steam, frost in my mustache, shouting “sissies” (and far worse things) at the “cagers”.
Tonight I think I’ll be reduced to driving (like some kind of sissy), it’s supposed to be even colder, then like 5 or 6 degrees (and windy) in the morning.
I really hate Winter!
This was written by Kent Peterson and submitted to the Fixed Gear mailing list. I’m hoping Kent won’t mind my reproducing it here. It’s long, but if you’re a cyclist (especially one who appreciates a fixed-gear) it’s well worth the time.
=====================================
It’s been years now, but I’ll never forget that Christmas…
The days had grown short, the snow had begun to fall and my friends and I were all gathered around old man Petersen’s bike shop in the center of town. Flick had his eyes on a Raleigh Pro with a full Campy gruppo and my kid brother’s heart was set on Redline BMX bike but I knew there was only one bike for me.
It hung from a pair of hooks above the window, gleaming with elegance and old world sophistication. Hand built by a man who was already an old legend when Coppi first won the Giro, the simple frame would not be cluttered with deraillers or an excessive amount of cable. No, this was a pure bicycle, the holy grail of human powered vehicles — a fixed gear road bike.
Not a track bike, we didn’t have a track in my town, but a champion’s road training bike. One tiny front brake that gleamed like a jewel. A single chain ring and a single cog joined by the absolute minimum amount of chain into a mechanism as precise as a Swiss watch. The bike was the very embodiment of craftsmanship put into the service of speed and athletic excellence. It was a bicycle that had no business being in my small town, but there it was, calling to me.
Each day on the way home from school I stop by that window, longing to see the object of my mania, fearing that someday it would be gone, sold to someone less than worthy to appreciate it for what it was — the perfect bicycle.
But each day I’d hold my breath as I’d round the corner by Petersen’s shop and each day I’d see the bike and let my breath out slowly in something that was half a whistle and half a prayer. I’d carefully calculated the rate of my accumulation of allowance and the cost of the bike and determined that the odds were I would die of old age before I’d ever be riding that bike down the streets of my town.
But Christmas was coming and I’d been good so maybe there was a chance. I’d have to approach it just right, however.
My mother, knowing nothing of the subtlety and timing involved, caught me off guard.
“So Ralphie, what do you want for Christmas?”
I was young, I was impetuous, I was certain. Before I could stop myself I blurted out, “I want an Italian-built, Columbus-tubed fixed gear bike!”
A look of horror crossed my mother’s face, “You’ll blow your knees out!” She said this with a tone of absolute certainty, like she’d just predicted the sun would rise in the morning.
It was the classic mother fixed gear block. No amount of reasoning known to kiddom could counter that, so I beat a hasty retreat. “Oh yeah, heh heh,” I said, “I guess a mountain bike would be fine.”
A mountain bike? Good grief, what was I saying? She’ll never buy it.
But she wasn’t listening, “I don’t want you riding around a fixed gear. They’re dangerous and you’ll blow your knees out.”
My old man looked over the edge of the copy of Velo News he was reading, “Fixed gear, eh?” he grunted, “can’t coast, you know.”
Oh boy, did I know. No shifting, no coasting, no problem! A fixed gear would be the bike that would make me a man, a bike where every climb and descent would be a test of strength and skill. In once instant I would have to be strong and in the next I would have to spin like a caffineated phonograph record and always, always, I would have to be paying attention. It was a bike that would test me and teach me and make me into a cyclist.
Fortunately the conversation drifted onto my kid brother’s desire for the Redline, so I was free to concentrate on new schemes to obtain my dream bike.
——————————————————————————
My next chance came from a most unexpected source, my English teacher Mrs. Brown. “I want you to write a theme,” she proclaimed one day. We groaned. “The subject of this theme is ‘What I want for Christmas’.” Here, I brightened. This was my chance. An eloquently written them on the virtues of fixed gear riding would surely earn me an A. When I proudly showed the A plus theme to my mother, she’d be swayed by my powers of erudite persuasion and have no choice but to buy me the bicycle. Here was a plan that could not fail.
That night, I wrote fervently, like a man possessed. The first sentence came easily and the rest of the words tumbled quickly out of me like blood from a fatal wound. Oh yes, I was constructing a masterpiece!
This is what I wrote:
What I want for Christmas
What I want for Christmas is a fixed gear bicycle with an Italian-built Columbus tube frame. I think a fixed gear bicycle makes a good Christmas present. I don’t think a derailler bike makes a very good gift.
Perfect. When Mrs. Brown reads this she’ll have to give me an A!
———————————————————————————
It didn’t work out quite the way I’d planned. Mrs. Brown hadn’t seemed to realize the importance of my manuscript when I’d handed it to her and now 24 hours later it was judgement day. The papers were passed back and I looked at my grade. There must be some mistake! Here where it should have said A plus, plus, plus there was a big, ugly C. And what’s this? She’d written a comment on the paper.
There in her precise, school teacher printing, were the dreaded words: “You’ll blow your knees out!”
Oh no, this is horrible.
I was running out of time. I needed a new plan and a new ally.
—————————————————————————————-
Santa Clause was my last chance. Sure, I was getting a little old to believe in Santa but when the days dwindle down to a precious few, even the most agnostic of kids realizes that it costs nothing to believe and the upside potential is huge. So, like every year, we trundled down to Lohman’s department store and while mom and the old man wandered about the store, my brother and I waited in line with 400 other bet-hedging beggars to have a minute of pleading with the old guy in the red suit.
We were in the line for hours. The store was just about to close when it was my kid brother’s turn on Santa’s knee. My brother stared at the big man, opened his mouth and began to wail like a new-born fire engine. A surly elf scooped him up and sent him careening down Santa’s bobsled run.
Now it was my turn, my chance. “Well, little boy, what should Santa bring you this year?”
I froze. Here was my chance. I was face to face with the big man and I couldn’t think of a thing. I sat there, dumbstruck. I tried to make my mouth work, but nothing came out. The surly elf began to drag me away and Santa said “How about a nice gel saddle?” I nodded dumbly and the elf tossed me onto the iced slide.
What was I doing? Somehow I regained the use of my muscles and my voice. I grabbed the edge of the slide, looked up at Santa and declared, “I want an Italian-built, Columbus-tubed fixed gear bike!” I’d done it!
Santa looked down at me with a twinkle in his eye and a chuckle in his throat. As his big, black boot, kicked me down the ice slide I heard him say “A fixed gear? You’ll blow your knees out!”
————————————————————————————–
Finally the big day arrived. Like every year my brother and I had pooled our resources and gotten the old man a big tin of Brooks Proofide. We got mom got riding gloves which said was just what she needed. She says that every year. My brother did OK, with his big gift being the Redline..
I got the usual assortment of chains, water bottles and a particularly hideous gift from my aunt Cora. Aunt Cora suffers from the belief that I am permanently four years old and a girl. This year the gift was pink helmet cover with rabbit ears and a matching pink jersey with a fluffy cotton tail on the middle pocket. My mom proclaimed it adorable and the old man said I looked like a deranged Easter Bunny and I wouldn’t have to wear it.
We’d torn through all the packages and I’d lost all hope when the old man said “Say, what’s that behind the desk?”
The box was big and the tag said “To: Ralphie from Santa.” As I tore into the box with wild abandon my parents didn’t think I could hear them whispering. My mom said, “I thought we’d talked about this…” but the old man waved her concerns aside with a simple “I had one when I was his age.”
Surrounded by the torn wrapping paper it was even more beautiful than it’d been in the window of Petersen’s. I ran my hands lovingly over the leather saddle and looked at the old man, “Can I…,” I began to ask. “Go on,” he replied while my mother looked concerned and said “I still say those things are dangerous.”
I carefully wheeled it out the door and down the driveway. I clipped my right foot in, started it rolling and hopped on. As I tried to drive my left foot into the clip, I stupidly tried to coast. The bike would have none of that, but I didn’t fall over. I just rolled down the street, pedaling one-footed while frantically stabbing at the left pedal with my left foot. Eventually, I got my foot in the left clip.
I turned the corner onto Mountain Park Boulevard and as I did one of the Bumpus’s hounds came out of nowhere and gave chase. Our neighbor’s the Bumpus’s have a hundred and eleventy mean old coon dogs and this was the biggest, meanest hungriest one. He let out a bark and gave chase.
I punched the pedals for all I was worth and flew up the hill. The dog panted, slowed and then gave up. I was doing it, I was winning, I was invincible!
Mountain Park Boulevard gets really steep just before the crest and just as I was reaching the summit, I heard a “pop”. Not my tire, my left knee. Oh no, I’d blown my knee out!
With tears in my eyes, I crested the hill. I had no choice but to pedal for all I was worth, frantically keeping up with the spinning cranks as I descended. My knee was throbbing as I wound through the street leading back to home. As I pulled into the driveway, I could see it had swollen noticeably and I began to cry again.
My mom came rushing out, “Ralphie, what’s wrong?!”
Oh oh, time to think fast. I can’t tell her I blew my knee out.
“I, I hit a patch of ice and crashed on my knee,” I lied. Not bad for fiction on a deadline, I thought.
“Those ice patches have been know to kill people!” Mom clucked in a worried tone, “let me take a look at that knee…”
“I’ll take care of it, Ralphie,” said the old man, stepping in and taking charge. He gave me a look that let me know that while Mom might have bought the story, he was having none of it. We walked, slowly up to the bathroom.
I knew I was in for it now. The old man closed the door and I braced myself for the yelling.
It never came. He took the liniment from the medicine cabinet and said, “your Mom’s right about the ice Ralph, but you also have to be careful not to push too hard, too fast. You’ve got to let the tendons and ligaments develop along with those muscles. That’s the way the pro’s do it.”
And that was it. No yelling, no being grounded from riding. He did mention that since I’d “banged my knee” I should probably take things easy and stick to smaller hills for a while.
And they let me keep the bike in my room. I went to sleep dreaming of riding across the Italian countryside or wearing the yellow jersey in the Tour de France. And when I’d wake, there it was: the greatest Christmas gift I’d ever received or ever would receive.
I’m really trying to be in the Holiday spirit. I’ve experienced flashes of it; perpetrating random acts of kindness and such, but the feeling is short-lived. My overall mood can best be summed up in a quote from Denis Leary:
“Be anti-social, be a miserable prick, give the Pope the finger. It’s fun.”
Not that I have anything (well, aside from some ideological differences) against His Holiness the Pope, it’s a figure of speech.
The Daily Peloton had an interesting story about Mario Cipollini at the 2002 Gent-Wevelgem:
At the start of the Gent-Wevelgem race in Gent’s Citadel Park, there was a small boy in a wheelchair along the barriers and he was trying to get autographs from the riders, but being low to the ground, he was wasn’t having much luck. Cipo rode past him on the way in to the sign-on but he must have noticed him because, as he went to ride out, he pulled over to where the young boy was sitting. Cipo got off his bike, kneeled down next to the boy, put his arm around him and motioned for the boy’s mom to take a picture. She was completely unprepared and he patiently waited while she fumbled with her camera. After the picture, Cipo signed the boy’s autograph book and took his cycling cap out of his jersey pocket and gave it to the boy. The kid’s face was glowing. It was a touching moment. It was a gesture done away from any reporters or TV cameras. I remembered this scene as I later watched the Lion King cross the finish line, arms raised in victory.
This was posted on 03/24/2003 9:52 PM in rec.bicycles.racing by “Laff@me.com” with the subject line of “Cipollini: he is an Goddamm Stud”.
I think it’s one of the funniest thing’s I’ve ever read… I’m sharing it in an attempt to divert my attention from my own winter-time cycling jones. Bear in mind, it’s satire, I mean no offense to any of those (Australians) insulted herein.
======================================================
From:
http://www.cyclingnews.com/news/?id=2003/mar03/mar25news
World Champion Mario Cipollini wasn’t quite as gracious in defeat as his post race comments indicated, being involved in an altercation with FDJeux.com’s Bernhard Eisel (12th) after the finish. Cipollini punched Eisel in the head, believing him to be Australian sprinter Baden Cooke. The reason for the outburst was that Cooke did not let Cipollini take Erik Zabel’s wheel in the final kilometre, after Cipollini’s leadout train had burned out between the Cipressa and the Poggio…
..snip
Imagine the temerity of that ingrate, Cooke. Not giving up his wheel. Who the hell does he think he is? Cipollini, he of the many superlative nicknames: The Lion King, Super Mario, The Fastest and Best Looking Cyclist in The World, is the WORLD CHAMPION.
What is Cooke? Some goddamm Aussie whose ancestors were sent to that continent because they were no better than common criminals. Their descendents are no better than they, not knowing their place, stealing (like the Aussie criminals that they are) the wheel of SUPER MARIO, THE WORLD CHAMPION!
Next time Cipo, I implore you to punch out the lights of Cooke (or any of his teamates, who cares) BEFORE the race starts. That will let them know What is What and Who is Who.
Bravo, Mario!
BRAVO!!!!
A new trend in beer advertising seems to be the brewer telling us that their beer has “more taste” than some other beer. Not better, just more.
Raw sewage has “more taste” than spring water, that doesn’t mean it’s going to be my first choice to slake my thirst.
I guess this goes hand in hand with the American “more is better” philosophy. Bigger cars, bigger burgers, more useless gadgets, soft drinks served in buckets; where does the madness end?
For years I’ve had an urge to give “Calvin’s Challenge” a go. It’s a 12 hour ultra-endurance race which takes place right here in my area.
The problem has always been, it typically falls on the same weekend as the “3 States 3 Mountains Challenge” in Chattanooga, Tennessee which is the ride I end up doing. It takes you 100 miles through Tennessee, Alabama, and Georgia, and over Suck Creek, Sand, and Lookout Mountains. (I really enjoy the challenge of the 3 big climbs, not to mention the thrill of the descents).
This year however, the fates have smiled on me!
Calvin’s Challenge is April 30, and the 3S3M is May 7!
Now I’m super-motivated to train and be ready. 12 hours of racing followed by 100 miles with ~8000 feet of climbing a week later is uncharted territory for me, but I’m really stoked about it. I’m feeling the same giddy excitement I did when I was preparing to do my first century (the 2001 3 States 3 Mountains Challenge).
Sunday night when I rode in to work it was 43(F) and I had a 15-35mph headwind. Not fun, but at least it wasn’t really cold too. By Monday morning, the temp had dropped to 29(F) and it was snowing. Thankfully I had a 20-30mph tailwind. It’s such an odd sensation when the wind closely matches your speed and direction, it’s like riding in a pocket of calm air (which is OK when it’s cold!), although the couple of stretches of the ride where I had to turn and ride across the wind were somewhat less than fun. Jack Frost nipping at your nose indeed!