Isn't It Ironic... Don't You Think?

Who knew the Belgian National Cycle-Touring Champion would arrive outside S.F. with Mickey Rourke flying the Astana colors and Juan Benedicto Wheelarosa in his "under the UCI's radar" kit one beautiful winter afternoon. Californians were indeed treated to a special surprise.

Only VDB

Is one bottle cage PRO?

Ahh, To Be Young...

Mario Cipollini was the essence of PRO in the 90's and early 00's. When I look at this picture it makes me want to go back in time to when the peloton was a lot more daring, traditional, and unafraid of drug tests.
What I notice first when I look at this amazing photo by Graham Watson is, of course, the mane of hair and the goggle-like glasses which only enhance Cipollini's "Lion King" mystique.
I also immediately have to smile at Cipollini's helmetless head while the other Barneys around him are sporting ridiculous looking brain buckets.
Then you have to take into consideration the white shoecovers, the classic wheelset and handlebars and the striking Pinarello clad in Campagnolo between his heavily oiled legs.
While I detest the color yellow- I'm more a fan of any shade of pink, Super Mario makes it look sensual in a way only an Italian and future World Champion could. Cheers Mario, your class and style is missed.

EStigma Criterium 2009

The only dude in shoecovers and a longsleeve skinsuit in 98 degree weather. Image is everything, right?

Manda Madness

In the wake of Hotter Than Hell, I began reevaluating my form and decided it would be fun to support our buddy Andrew Willis of Holland Racing, and register for the road race stage of the Tour of Austin which he put on this weekend.
This race was held on remnants of the Ronde von Manda course which most guys had raced earlier in the season and I had heard it was a pretty straightforward 12.75 mile loop over rough, flat, exposed roads with only a few false flat sections and some tricky crosswind stretches to worry about.
What I hadn't expected was the rain which fell over the first 2 laps of our 4 lap race and made some of the turns pretty treacherous. It was a weird rain because it fell only over about a 1/3rd of the loop while the other 2/3rds remained dry. The rain and overcast skies along with our 8 am start time kept the temperatures down which was the only bonus to the elements.
Kelly "Kookie" Orr, Brian Griswoldo and myself discussed team strategy on the way to the race, and decided to do something unheard of in Team Wooly Mammoth history: sit in for the majority of the race and wait for the last 5k to make any moves.
Well, I should say Kookie and Griswaldo agreed to wisely sit in while I promised to hang out up front and get into any breaks which looked promising. I also agreed that if the bunch was together with 7-8 k to go I would attack the field first to mix things up. If I was to get caught Griz's job was to immediately counter while Kelly waited for the sprint and made sure he was in a good spot for the finale.
A break of four snuck away with around 15 miles to go, and AT&T Brain and Spine had a guy in it and managed to plant three of their riders along with another teammate of a guy up the road across the front of the peloton to"block" so the break could get established.
Since the centerline rule was in effect and guys were getting relegated if they crossed it, this CAT 5 tactic succeeded, as the four riders on the front softpedaled and the gap to the break opened up. Once up the road the breakaway rode well together and the wind discouraged any bridging attempts that tried to follow.
Sticking to our decision to rest and conserve until the end, and with only three of us racing, we figured the teams with five or more riders who did'nt have representation in the break would put their heads together and figure out they'd better go to the front to chase. As we sat near the front taking turns in the wind and pulling when we needed to, it became evident the group was not organized and the break was more than likely going to stick.
So, with around 5 miles to go I watched Casey Crosby riding in his San Jose kit jump up the road, and realized he was who I wanted to get in a break with. I sprinted clear with a young San Jose-er on my wheel and as we got halfway across to Crosby, I pulled aside and made him drag me the rest of the way to him.
Once we made contact it was full speed ahead as we took quick pulls and I realized I was in the red and wondering if I could hang on for what would be a likely seventh place finish. This is when the agony and suffering takes over, and your legs are screaming and you begin to question why you do this to yourself and why you pay for this sort of torture week in and week out. The answer is only realized when that move either succeeds, or when what happened to me next occurs.
At around 1.5 miles I noticed Crosby sit up, and all of a sudden I knew we were caught. The disappointment is enormous, but like clockwork as the peloton came charging by I watched Kookie followed by Griswaldo charge off the front and up the road.
Any irritation and anguish at knowing my race was all but over was replaced by pure adrenaline and excitement for my teammates who were now sitting in good positions with only a few minutes left to race. The rush you get from watching your teammates attack, succeed, and finish well is almost as thrilling as when it's you stepping onto the podium after a good finish.
Coming into the final 500 meters, Griswaldo was still away, and Kookie was sitting near the front and waiting for the opportunity to sprint for some points. Griz was reeled in as the sprint unfolded, and Kookie surged to a third place finish in the field sprint leaving him at seventh on the day. Griz finished in the pack and I cruised in just off the back.
We were all happy with our ride, and although seventh place isn't a great result, we did the best we could under the circumstances and stuck with our plan and delivered a guy to a top ten result.
The answers to the questions you always ask yourself after a race where the break sticks and you don't have a rider in it are hard to live with most of the time, but when you enter a race like we did with only three guys, you can't chase everything that goes up the road. When the parcours are filled with crosswind sections, and it is as exposed as that area is, bridging to a break like that is extremely difficult. If we'd have gone to the front and chased the three of us could have accomplished what none of the three teams in the race with over five team members were able to, and I know we would have caught the break. But what for? We would have been too tired to take part in the chaotic field sprint which would have followed with 60 guys mixing it up.
So, all in all, I think we made the right tactical decisions and came away with a decent result after a tough day in the saddle. You live and you learn I guess.

Hotter Than Heck

I'd always wanted to do Hotter N' Hell, but it seemed like when the time came to race it every year, I was burnt out and tired of racing and looking for a break. There are certain races which I feel like every Texas racer should do at least once, and HnH definitely qualifies. 100 miles with temperatures usually soaring over 100 degrees, along straight, flat roads filled with crosswinds all make for epic conditions for a race.
This year was similar- I found myself in less than stellar condition following a long, hot, summer and a very lengthy season of racing. After the State Team Time Trial I was filled with a lot of pride in our effort and a tiny bit of disappointment in the outcome (5th place). Then my teammate Kookie Orr phoned to tell me he was aiming for the win at HnH and wanted some teammates along to help him out, I thought, " it would be nice to witness an arctic rainbow win in person."
So, last weekend the Wooly Mammoth machine rolled up to Wichita Falls to take on the hundred mile road race known as Hotter Than Hell. Brian Griswaldo, Matteo Mooro and myself joined Kookie Orr on the start line and faced off with a field of 75 guys from all over the Southwest. I saw kits from Kansas, Oklahoma, Arkansas as well as Texas.
We were the only Norwalian team though, and the language barrier became apparent early on as Kookie got into the first major break of the day at mile 15 and disappeared up the road. Other teams began chattering at Griswaldo and myself to help patrol the field and shutdown any bridging attempts from the heavily favored home squad MSU. When we responded to the horribly thick southern accents with our crisp Norwalian, all we received were baffled looks.
None of this banter bothered us, and when Kookie and two of his breakaway companions were reeled back in at mile 75, Griswaldo and myself unleashed a flurry of punishing attacks which whittled the field down and caused more confusion and anger amongst the remaining teams. MSU tried in vain to get people up the road, but the relentless pursuit of Griswaldo nullified all of their attacks setting the stage for me to launch the final move of the day.
With two guys still up the road and the field content to wait and sprint for the last podium spot, I struck out on a solo mission of agony at mile 92 thinking we only had about 5 miles left to race (we had a little more than 8 to go). Two others bridged to me a few miles later and the three of us settled into the brutality that accompanies flogging your legs mercilessly at the end of the longest race of the year.
Coming into the final k my breakaway group fell apart and I found myself off the back and trying to hang onto a 5th place finish, but alas the cycling gods were'nt with me and the charging field swept me up in the last 20 feet of the race. I slid from fifth to 14th in a split second, and crossed the line worn out and cramping. Oh well, there'll be other breakaways.
Kookie and Griswaldo arrived comfortably in the field, and poor Mooro suffered a mechanical early in the day and spent 3 hours chasing the pack. Racing is hard sometimes.

Why Didn't We Think Of This?

Platza Anyone?

After a tough 3/4 of a season of racing followed by a short off-period, I decided to treat myself to a trip to a Russian Bathhouse as a way to reinvigorate myself for the upcoming final months of the race calendar.
I chose the oldest Russian and Turkish bathhouse in New York City, and together with former soigneur and team confidant Thomas Shiefer, set out to spend an afternoon in some serious saunas.
Once we picked up a large bottle of water from a couple of old Russian women near the entrance, Thomas and I headed to the locker room and then downstairs to the sauna area. The bathhouse itself is in an old building near the lower east side of Manhattan, and is comprised of several different types of saunas, an ice bath/pool, rooftop sunning area, and massage rooms.
We immediately jumped in the ice bath which is a 4 ft. deep pool in the center of the bathhouse with water which could'nt have been warmer than 50 degrees, it was possibly the coldest liquid I've ever jumped in.
Then we sampled each of the 5 saunas over the next hour, before Mukhar approached us and gave us the hard sell on a Platza treatment. Mukhar was in a navy blue robe with a tan towel wrapped around his head and a pair of Crocs on his feet. Originally from Uzbekistan, he convinced us we needed to receive Platzas from him before we left.
Thomas and I continued to enjoy the saunas and ice bath for another 30 minutes or so and then found Mukhar for the Platza, which consisted of an intense rubdown with an olive oil based soap, a beating with oak branches, a rough and brief massage, as well as a brutal stretching followed up by more beating. All of this in the Russian sauna room which was the second hottest room in the bathhouse.
When he was finished with the final beating Mukhar ordered me into the ice bath and then placed a dry navy robe on me and sat me down before rubbing his hands through my hair repeatedly. This ritual was repeated on Thomas, and was pretty amazing to both witness and endure.
After another few sauna visits Thomas and I ventured up to the roof to relax and unwind from the Platza. On the roof we saw several old Russian men laying out sunning themselves, and we relaxed on a bench for a little while before heading back in for a final sauna in the Aroma Therapy steam sauna.
A short rinse off followed and we were out on the street feeling like we'd just ridden a century with no water. My legs cramped the rest of the night, as I tried to down enough fluids to return them to normal. Nearly three hours in a sauna will do that to you I guess. Thanks to Thomas for discovering the gym known as the Russian and Turkish Baths and taking me to experience a Platza.