The ever shifting baseline

In my profession the whole point of a baseline is to provide a benchmark that remains constant and that all activity can be measured against. My cyclocross racing life has multiple variables; hence setting a baseline for comparison is next to impossible. If you don’t believe me, see below:

IMPOSSIBLE SETTING A BASELINE FOR EVO

As you can see they are right next to each other.

The start of the Cyclocross season is always a crapshoot for me. Some years I have started and expected dramatic improvement, only to find I am finishing with the same jokers as I was last year. Last year my revelation was how stinking fast my category had become. It took me a few weeks to get moving, but I was very pleased with my campaign.

The baseline part of the equation comes as I try to balance one side of the equation (training, etc) with the other (current injuries/ailments/age). If I have better cornering technique, but lower fitness, then what will be the race outcome? If I have more miles, but less intervals, how will I finish? How can I compare this year to last year when so many variables are in play?

This year I start my season with a different kind of fitness than I have ever had in the past. While I think strengthening my back has been successful, I injured it three weeks ago and it isn’t quite a hundred percent yet. I have a solid base of weight workouts, but my plan to add intervals in September was foiled by the back injury. I have a lot of miles this year, but very few super long rides and that may be good or bad, we will find out. In RAMROD I expected to crash and burn and I flew instead. Since cross is an event lasting thirty-five to fifty minutes, my conditioning might actually be well freakishly well suited to the races ahead.

"El hefe" and Treefarm in 2009

On a personal note (and remember this blog is all about me), the events of the summer have left me emotionally worn down and I sure don’t have the fire in my belly. Old men, racing around in the mud wearing spandex, is in fact as absurd as it sounds. I can usually talk myself into taking it seriously enough, but my head isn’t there just yet. The sounds from the real challenges in life are just too loud for me to tune out right now.

Eye of the tiger ?

Spinner John has been preparing for the season like it is D-Day. He hasn’t said the words, but it is absolutely clear that he is gunning for me, me and only me. At this point I think I would almost rather have him beat me than have to listen to his excuses for not doing so. After finishing a place or two behind him in the first two races last year, I went on to destroy him the rest of the season. The result of this success was enduring an endless string of his reasons why he didn’t beat me every week.

So as I enter my seventh Cyclocross season, I might be in the best racing shape of my life. It is more likely that my fitness is on par, or below par as compared to previous years. In stark contrast to this possible high level of fitness, my hunger to compete is almost nonexistent. While my motivation to win may be in question, I sure hate to lose, so stay tuned to this station.

A very special place

Crimes against the elderly are increasing at an alarming rate. Scams abound that prey on old people. There is a very special place in hell for those who get money by taking it from the aged. Some of those people will find hell is very different from Issaquah.

Zen before Sunrise

Sometimes the same thing can be different. Today the alarm went off about the usual time. For the first time in a long time, it was completely dark when the beeping took me from sleep. As I was fumbling getting my stuff together; phone, keys, bagel and cream cheese, Tux strode in and launched into a perfect down dog. He is, after all, a dog. His body language told me he was ready to eat and I obliged. Ten minutes later I was ready to roll and Tux was firmly planted on my side of the bed keeping Hottie warm.

When I hit the streets it was still dark and my killer light & motion light provided all the visibility I needed. My backside was flashing in a most offensive, but highly visible, array of red. The roads were deserted and it was an unusually warm morning. I wore a cycling cap under my helmet and the morning was still and silent. My bike (photos coming soon) didn’t make a sound other than the tires on the road. There were no rattles or clicking or creaking. Traffic, at least for now, was non-existent. My legs were spinning, but I had almost no sense of speed or resistance. I felt like I could go forever. Lucky for me I hit a light just right, and quickly crossed the first busy street I usually encounter. I continued on silent backstreets and enjoyed the start of the day.

The ride was flowing. My light is mounted to my helmet and if a car is approaching from the right or left, I can turn my head and the innocent drivers find themselves wondering if a lighthouse is moving towards them. In my opinion, the ability to point the light supersedes the level of safety provided by any blinking light with any lumen count that is pointed straight ahead.

The first three quarters of my route has so little traffic it feels serendipitous every day. Today was even more so. I could count the cars that passed me on one hand. When I finally got onto the road that eventually leads me to my office, I was able to drift into the bike lane and quietly make my way north.

Today was more challenging than most at work, but at least I was able to start off with some good mojo.

Sometimes you get lucky

SCORE !!

I may have mentioned that I have been commuting on my former single speed cyclocross bike. I picked up that frame for less than eighty bucks. I upgraded it to a two speed configuration by robbing the left hand shifter from my cross race bike and putting a front derailleur (and another chainring) on it. . I was using a derailleur borrowed from another bike to take up the chain tension. A couple weeks ago while surfing Craigslist I spotted a right hand SRAM shifter that the seller had just said, “make an offer.” I made a modest offer and a week or so later he emailed back and said I was the only one who had responded. My commuter bike now has gears. The amazing thing is the chain still fits. The bike that had once been the Bacon-ator, then the Deuce of Spades, now is in need of a new name. It is as black as black can be. If there is a spectrum that has fast and svelte on one end, this bike is on the other end.

With the morning sun appearing later and later, I took the opportunity this past weekend to slather the bike with DOT approved reflective tape (thank you eBay). I have reflective tape on the fenders, the chainstays, the seat stays, the fork, my rear rack, and my helmet. I have blinking lights on my rack and the back of my helmet and I will be adding my blinking light in motion weapon shortly.

This morning was the maiden voyage of my new geared commuter. I confess I expect I will be safer on the geared bike as I am more inclined to slow at intersections as my loss of momentum can be more easily remedied. Hills don’t require the usual single speed running start, and can be taken quite leisurely if I so choose. The fat Ruffy Tuffy tires smooth out the rough road and somewhat make up for the harsh aluminum frame.

One of the simple pleasures I find in life is the evolution and optimization of the ancillary aspects of repetitive activities. When you are on a backpacking trip after a few days you find that having specific items packed in certain ways makes life better. The activities around my bike commuting have achieved such a state. The method of transporting my work clothes, the packing and selection of my shower supplies, the placement of my stuff (phones, glasses, wallet, keys, etc.) when I ride has become optimized over time. The other benefit of this pattern is it saves time and those, “what am I forgetting,” moments.

Since Costco has tried to make shopping manly by selling everything in gigantic Dodge Ram type quantities, I picked up fifty single serving cream cheese packets. I brought one of the packets with a sliced bagel today and enjoyed breakfast nirvana. A toasty bagel with soft (from the journey) cream cheese was just the ticket to start my work day.

This morning was cool and dry and the eastern sky was pinkish orange. The commute was uneventful and I arrived invigorated and positive. The evening commute home was sunny and warm. I know the dark damp days are coming. The shorter days signal an end to another pathetic Mariner season, but they also herald the start of Cyclocross!

All compartments are full !

Some people have the ability to compartmentalize various aspects of their lives. I can do that pretty well during my waking hours. When it is time for me to be horizontal, my ability to set aside the items that trouble me goes way down.

Work is going great, but I have a load of personal situations that are causing me grief. I visited my son in Kodiak Alaska and that was an absolute explosion of emotions both good and bad. My mother in law has some things complicating her life that trouble Hottie and I deeply. My sweet mother had been helping a neighbor who was struggling following an accident. The neighbor got a bad report from her doctor on Wednesday and shot herself that evening. My mom found her the next day. Not that I can top that, but my time in Kodiak put a unique strain on my back and I’ve been sidelined all week and Cyclocross season gets underway in two weeks. I have put off several projects around the house and my neglect has caused them to go from the back burner to flashing red lights.

Yeah, we’ll make it through, but there is a lot of hard stuff between now and then. As I look down the intimidating road ahead I am so grateful for Hottie in my life and her patience with me. When Hottie agreed to marry me, I knew I was getting the sweet end of that deal.

30-06 for 2011

The famous 30-06 cartridge has little to do with today's post. The point is I passed three thousand training miles last night on the commute home.

By the way, I caught up on my posting today.

Change, as seen through orange colored glasses

I had a repeat trip to southern California recently. The weird part of these trips is they visit the area where I spent the bulk of my childhood. The streets I drove are the same ones I pedaled on my bike riding to school thirty-five years ago. The hills that were tan with tall, dead grass eleven months of the year, are now covered with tile roofed houses and shopping malls.

After my business was completed I called the airline and could not secure an earlier flight, so I spent the afternoon driving down memory lane. My initial reaction was that so much had changed. Then I realized that a portion of the change was attributable to my having a different perspective than I did thirty years ago.

Yes there were houses and malls where there had been dirt fields. But the distance from my old house to my elementary school was unchanged, though it now seemed so much shorter. My old house also looked small. The yard where I played catch with my dad seemed tiny compared to my memory.

I awoke early enough to squeeze a in a run from the hotel prior to my morning meetings. The air was dry and the smell of the dirt evoked long dormant memories. Though the hour was early, the sun cut through the haze and I took the opportunity to take off my shirt (revealing my troglodyte-esque vitamin D deficient form). The warm air and sun on my body, the fine dust of the dirt trail and the absence of eye contact with others all told me I was back in SoCal.

My brother was born in California but now lives in North Carolina. When I told him I was headed down he confessed his longing for a Tommy burger. At Tommy’s they put chili on everything they make particularly the burgers and fries (along with cheese). It was in his honor that I stopped and partook at Tommy’s right across from the Busch brewery.

One sensation I did not expect was that when driving a particular street that featured a long gradual downhill I recalled running it often, and running it fast. Without a thought the car I was driving began going faster and I was once again a rail thin lad with long bouncing hair. I was tan and fast, pushing myself with images of glory in my head. I imagined myself striding longer and faster.

One of the people I interfaced with down there confided they had spent several years working two jobs so they could stay in the area. I moved away and have never looked back. I wondered if their sacrifice was worth it. I am convinced it was not. They may feel different and I wish them peace. While it is true happiness can’t buy you money, money can’t buy back time. The investment of hours spent just to keep up with the neighbors seems to me a fool’s errand.

How much of the perceived changes were in my head and how much was tangible? It is not the place it once was. I’m not the person I was either.