Beach Dreams

I dream of relaxation on the beach- boogie boarding, rollerblading and frisbee all come to mind.

Company Is Nice

I've been riding with some of the Rapha and Embrocation gentlemen lately- very classy gents indeed.

Photo courtesy of Mr. Joe Staples.

Funny thing

Ex T-Mobile rider and confessed doper Patrik Sinkewitz poses outside his new Italian team's sponsor's main office.

The Castle Hill logo is looking better and better...

PDX

Wheat fields on Sauvie Island.

Headed up Germantown Road- a nice little climb.

The descent from Skyline down Cornell includes 2 quaint euro tunnels.

What Has Coach Been Up To?

I get this question a lot, and the simple truth is: I have know idea. The little bit I can get out of him on my weekly coaching calls boil down to: stabbing hundreds of fish in the eyes to kill them, contracting Lyme Disease (he recently told me, "it's a traditional New England disease, and I'm proud to have it."), and then a ton of spiritual mumbo jumbo that I can't make any sense of.

Oh well, maybe the video above can give you guys a hint as to what Juan Benedicto "RainbowPath" Wheelarosa has going on these days.

Oh, My?!

2006 Tour de France CHAMPION Floyd Landis racing in Nevada City unattached.

Not sure what look you're going for, but what you're rockin definitely screams, "unemployed and soon to be homeless." Despite this fashion disaster, your recent courage is still endearing, and I want to say to Floyd, "Please, please, please write a tell all book! Let me rephrase that- tell your story to a qualified author and have them write your tell-all book." Hang in there Floyd.

Cold Sore Tradition

I've always admired the Grand Tour contenders who inevitably end up in the third week of the race sporting a stylish cold sore and looking emaciated. I don't know why, but this sort of scene is totally indicative of the madness of the sport, and a key reason I love it. Like tanlines, the cold sore is an indicator of someone operating at the peak of their fitness if not just a tad on the downslope of form.

The PROs, who are so thin they move like insects on spindly legs when off the bike, have immune systems that are so devastated that cold sores and acne breakouts become a regular occurance in week three. It's rare to see a final GC podium of a Grand Tour with someone on it not rocking a cold sore- even LA had a few during his 7 year reign.

You hardly see the classics guys promoting the look, except maybe during Roubaix and only if the weather has been shitty in the two weeks proceeding the Hell of the North.

So I was shocked and a little proud after I raced the last brutal road race of the summer last Sunday in 100 degree heat with declining form and a few days later, low and behold, I woke up with a little present from my efforts all season.

Ft. Davis Redemption

A couple of months ago I raced the second Grand Tour of the Texas road season- the Fayetteville Stage Race, and had a miserable time battling high winds, rain and hail and 2 flat tires on the first stage which all took me out of General Classification contention and brought my spirits down.

On stage 3 in Fayetteville I attacked early and managed to ride most of the 68 mile course solo before being swallowed up by a small group and sprinting for 4th on the day. A result which I was proud of, but a little disappointed by.

When you're away so long by yourself, you begin to believe you might be able to pull off the victory. The sight of other racers finally catching you is tough to overcome, so I guess I should be happy I was able to jump in with them and finish the way I did.

Fast forward to my last stage race opportunity of the season- the Ft. Davis Hammerfest, and my fitness and confidence was beginning to fade. I was tired of having good form and not being able to pull out any solid results all season, and my morale was suffering- as well as the morale of the team in general. It has been at tough season which started with high expectations on everyone's part, but which has been filled with a lot of disappointments from a result standpoint.

So, with a bit of reluctance I sucked it up and headed out with the team for a long weekend in west Texas, determined to focus on having a good time instead of putting a lot of pressure on myself to get a result. The first stage was a short 25 mile road stage which finished on the steep slopes of Mt Locke which is capped off by the McDonald Observatory.

This hill climb stage is incredibly short, but the climb which covers half of the stage is pretty demanding. I was positioned perfectly in the top 8 or so and waiting for the final section of steep pitches for the separation to occur when I heard my rear tire go. What followed was possibly the worst wheel change ever as I lost 8 minutes and any chance of a decent GC finish.
My teammates finished well, and could see the irritation my face as I finally crossed the finish and turned around to head to the bottom of the climb to retrieve my wheel.

The second stage which followed a few hours later was a tough 17 mile individual time trial which I soft pedaled in order to save my legs for the final 78 mile road stage which was scheduled for 8 the next morning.

Going into the last stage my teammate and spirit brother Tiki Collinsworth was sitting in the top 10 on GC and only a couple of minutes off the lead. As a team we hoped to move him towards the podium, and at the worst protect his position. He decided he wanted to ride conservatively for most of the day and let the three climbs thin out the field before he made any moves to get in a break to try and take some time back.

He told all of us to ride our own race and try and be there in the end to help out if he missed any splits. Knowing Tiki, I was sure he would'nt need any help at the end of the day- he's a true mountain goat with an engine on the flats- a great all around racer.

The race started with some chilly temperatures and a light rain for the first 10-15 miles. Kinda ugly conditions combined with some strong winds on the flats leading up to the first climb about 35 miles in. These elements coupled with a hard early pace produced a pissed off peloton filled with guys grumbling about how long the race was and how early it was to be riding hard.

At about 25 miles in I noticed a lull in the attacks and decided I would try and initiate a move to get something going before we hit any climbs. I don't know what it was, but I felt strong and confident that something that went early could stick. As I rolled off the front I looked at the lined out peloton hoping someone would come with me, but all I got was blank stares. This usually motivates me, so I pushed on and decided I would give it a go alone for awhile.

I pedaled off the front with a strange effortless feeling and slowly opened up a pretty large gap. All of a sudden the realization of what this solo effort could mean dawned on me and doubt crept in. It was too early, it was too far, and most importantly, mentally I was'nt feeling like riding 50+ miles on my own- a lonely way to spend a bike race.

Quickly I made the decision to ease up and try and recover so I could reintegrate with the group and hopefully have something left over at the end of the day. As I eased up I realized I needed a nature break, so I pulled over and relieved myself for a good 2 minutes all the while looking back for the group.

I could'nt see them, and finally as I remounted the Romancer, I saw them approaching over a hill about 500 meters back. I had'nt realized they were so far back ( I later learned they stopped for a pee break as well). I continued on at a steady, but reasonable pace and reached the bottom of the first climb still off the front. At this moment I told myself to ride my own tempo up the first climb and try to jump in with the lead group when they passed me.

As I neared the top of the climb, I had'nt been passed and I decided to fully commit to the move as I approached the summit. And that was it- I took a bottle at the top and looked back once more and hammered the descent. At the bottom I tucked low and time trialed as hard as I could to get to the next turn and try and remain out of sight from the group.

Unfortunately the roads are long and straight and pretty barren of trees- another words, you can see for a long ways out there. I knew if I could stay out of sight, the race was long enough that the peloton might forget about me with so many riders concerned with a GC outcome. Steadily I built a 3 minute lead, and remained out of sight on the long straight roads leading to the second climb.

Climb number two felt like a little hill. I was super motivated, riding well, and beginning to feel like I might be able to pull it off. I kept picturing how happy my team would be to get a win after all the training we'd put in and all the close calls and mishaps we'd suffered all season.

This whole time I kept a steady pace, motoring along mainly in the drops to hide from the wind, and cutting all the corners as sharply as I could hoping to avoid the eagle eyes lurking behind me in the group. Every now and then I'd venture a look back to find an empty road for as far as I could see. The thing about Ft. Davis is that you're way out there- it is one long 75 mile point to point race, and there are no spectators, no traffic, no one. It's beautiful, but it's very quiet.

Once I hit the third climb, my legs started to get tired. I downed a bottle and devoured a gel, and continued at a steady tempo towards the top. Halfway up, I reached what ended up being the toughest section of the day for me. The climb was'nt too bad, but I was suffering mentally.

I was whupped. I had to drop my cassette into the 39-25 for a while and it felt like I was going nowhere. I kept thinking I was going to get passed any second and so I repeatedly glanced back and fought the bike for a while. Stand up, sit down, stand up, I was on the edge of cracking. I remembered something I'd learned earlier in a breakaway at La Primavera at Lago Vista which is that if you're on the rivet, it can quickly turn around and you can return to feeling great again if you don't push too hard, and you hang in for a bit.

My experience has always been that the suffering comes and goes and that generally, if you're on good form, your legs can come around in the end if you stick it out through the brutally hard parts. So just as I was fading I saw a strong rider from the earlier Cat 2 race who was blown up (I later learned he was sick) and pedaling his easiest gear on the flatter parts of the climb.

Passing him revived me a bit and I resumed my previous pace with a renewed fervor because I had'nt been caught yet, and I knew that I was over the last long climb- all that awaited me was some tough but short power climbs and a lot of false flat with headwinds coming into the last hill to the finish line.

After PROtucking the descent of the last climb, I was storming across the flats when I looked back to see a speck in the distance coming to me. My heart sank as I redoubled my efforts to stay away and in the process break this guy's legs off. A few minutes later and he was only about 50 meters back, so I chugged a bottle and jumped on his wheel as he came by.

Immediately the draft was a welcome relief, and I realized what an effort I had put in up until that point. It was a massive undertaking to head into the wind in a solo move with 50 miles to go.

My companion was a youngster from some Ft Worth team and I quickly sized him up and came to the conclusion that he was pretty strong (I learned the next day that he had won the hill climb stage the day before and was in the top 10 of GC).

In between short pulls we both looked back to see a charging peloton only abut 30- 40 seconds back. His high GC position had brought a response from the other contenders and it looked like it would be touch and go for us for the remaining 15 miles or so. I urged him on as they quickly began reeling us in.

As we powered over the last few short climbs, I remembered the long descent which awaited us shortly and knew if we stayed clear until then we would have a distinct advantage as we flew down the mountain.

We were taking pretty ridiculous risks on the breathtaking descent and I feel this is where we opened up enough of a gap again to eventually stay clear. Towards the bottom of the mountain, we reached a series of rolling hills before a long last 3 miles of false flat with a headwind.

I took this chance to test my companion with a few slight accelerations on the uphills to see how he would respond. I slowly upped the pace on the steep short hills and watched as he struggled to keep my wheel. We had said barely anything other than my urging him on when he tried to give up before the last descent, and I took this time to remind him how close we were to the finish.

He was looking back, however, and beginning to have serious doubts about sticking it out. As I drifted back following a pull I could look back and pick out members of the group chasing us down. When I saw the 3k to go marker I finally knew we would do it and I began to get ready to finish off the race.

I sucked down a gel with under 2 k left and then took a final pull before flicking my breakaway mate through for what would be his final pull. I forced him to take a long turn before letting a brief gap open -just enough to start my sprint, and then I jumped past him with just under 1k to go.
I went super early in an attempt to take him by surprise and also because I knew he might get a huge boost on the finishing hill by seeing all the fans yelling for the finish. This was the only part of the course with any spectators, and it was pretty amazing to finally see people going crazy after riding so long with silence.
I opened up the gap I intended to and made it about a third of the way up the final hill before my legs began locking up with cramping and I began blowing apart. I knew if I looked back to see him, my opponent might get a second wind and be able to recover enough to track me down, so I tried to remain seated and look easy despite the pain and heart attack like sensations coming from my chest.

The first thing I saw was my teammate Kemot who had just finished his Cat 2 race going crazy jumping up and down and screaming at me. I remember him saying, "you've got it man, he's dead. you've got it, go, go, go." This statement did'nt register and I looked back a second later and saw a pretty big gap and yet it still did'nt sink in.

Then I saw our ladies team running towards me screaming and cheering and I began to get serious about not getting passed in the last 75 meters or so. I looked back again and realized I had it, I zipped up, and I was too delirious to do anything other than sit up and put my hands up to the sky as I crossed the line.

Thirty seconds later the peloton crossed the line and I motioned to my teammates that I took the win, and I watched them all freak out. This was the best feeling for me. All their work and companionship all season, all the talk and planning, all the long hours of training in the rain and cold, the long drives, lame races, disappointing races, mechanicals, crashes, and mistimed attacks- it was all worth it in that moment.

Cycling Coaches

Coach Wheelarosa, crystals in hand, chants and dances at the recent Tour of New Braunfels.

A lot of bike racers have coaches. In my few years of racing I've witnessed countless friends hand over chunks of their paychecks each month to their coach who gives them workouts and basic training instructions.

The topic of coaches is often debated and everyone generally agrees they are beneficial to most racers as long as the racer is disciplined enough to take instruction and trust their coach. Heart rate packages, power packages and customized bike fits, the prices all vary depending on the coach, what you are willing to shell out, and how much interaction with them you want.

A lot of Cat 1 and 2 racers are getting coached by either local PRO's, guys who live in other states, and I've even heard of overseas coaches for a Cat 3 racer I competed against last year.

Most coaches analyze power or heart rate data sent via the interweb to them and tailor a periodization plan to the racer based on what they see from the data as well as the accompanying email describing the racer's sensations.

This season I decided to take my training up a notch, and after looking at the myriad of coaching options out there, I opted for the most high-end coaching available. My coach isn't some badass Italian coach at the Mapei Cycling Institute, but instead someone a little closer to home. Or actually in my home.

Juan Benedicto Wheelarosa began coaching me this off-season while we were on our epic West Coast Bike tour I mentioned in a brief post late last year. When we returned, my coach moved into my house and began sleeping on my couch.

Coach's quarters.

This type of hands on coaching has been incredibly beneficial to my fitness. The reasons:

- I receive daily workouts- not via email, not over the phone, but straight from Coach after he wakes up sometime around 9:30 to 10am every morning.

- I often get a strange concoction of recovery drink after training rides which is handed to me when I get off the bike. Wheelarosa loves an excuse to drink smoothies or eat energy bars even if he hasn't been working out. I usually get the leftovers.

- Because he's not otherwise employed, Wheelarosa has plenty of time to research tinctures and other bizarre fitness wives-tales which I get to try out for him. Sometimes I feel like a guinea pig, but when you're drinking a solution of sodium bicarbonate mixed with agave nectar and laced with peppermint oil, who cares. (Warning, this drink can cause violent diarrhea in some
athletes.)

- Since I'm his only client Wheelarosa is able to spend a lot of time on my training plan, and because we have a long history of competing with one another in all types of activities, he enjoys making me suffer by giving me brutal workouts ("Ride into the 40 mph headwind for 2 hours then go do 3 sets of hill repeats on Lost Creek.")

- Wheelarosa is retired from bike racing, but will still attend many of my races and offer strategy suggestions as well as other vaguely spiritual Native American dances and chants meant to invoke strong attacks from myself and my bewildered teammates while intimidating our hapless opponents.

Coach's cardboard foot locker containing his herbs and the makings of a few precious tinctures.

Although we're only a couple of races into the season, I feel stronger than ever, and I must say- thanks Coach!

TWM Training Camp 2010

Tron Rubixxson's view from the team car on one of the 3 epic training rides TWM embarked upon last weekend.

2010-The Future?!?

The future is here, now that it is 2010. In the future (now) there are cyborg wooly mammoths roaming the luscious hills of Norwalia. The only humans who matter live in Norwalia and are very handsome. Their bodies are finely sculpted pieces of artwork thanks to the hours of volleyball and frisbee they enjoy on the white sand beaches which are surrounded by the luscious hills I spoke of earlier.

These beaches are of white sand with tiny flecks of real gold sprinkled throughout. The reflection coming off this sand is so unbelievably luminous that it bestows all who venture upon it with a deep, rich, erotic tan. In Norwalia there is no GOD, just Gods with oaken legs so stunningly cultivated that they are the envy of all the mortals who continue to inhabit the surrounding lands.

Next to these Gods are Goddesses with equally as stunning legs and equally as enviable physiques. These Gods and Goddesses follow the advice of a few mystical shamans and sexual senseis who they spar with psychologically and in an alluringly physical way.

Above all, everyone is extremely overjoyed to live in the future in Norwalia. I think I hear a cyborg mammoth trumpeting now...

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.

Peaking