2008 Man of the Spring

The end of each Spring Classics season is always a bit of a downer. The season of epic conditions and hardmen passes to the natural next step of the season, the Grand Tours. Looking back at the spring. One rider stands out in particular for his wins and the incredible length of his peak form: Fabian Cancellara.

In 2007 Cancellara had a season anyone would kill for: six wins including the Time Trial World Championship plus one stage and the prologue of the Tour de France. Already this year he has had five wins led by Milan-San Remo and Monte Paschi Eroica. What’s most impressive about Cancellara’s season is that he held peak form for two full months. Boonen might have taken Cancellara in the sprint at Roubaix, but Cancellara was winning for the eight weeks before that.

Even when Cancellara didn’t get the win, such as at Flanders, he usually figured as one of the day’s protagonists. We don’t often see that anymore. More often, the pattern is one of a patron we’ve been waiting to give us a show, and waiting. Finally, we get the fireworks as we did with Boonen at Roubaix, but we’re a hungry bunch and we like to see a great rider give their best a little more often. To be fair, Stijn Devolder’s performance at Flanders threw water on Boonen’s ride over the mur; he certainly seemed strong enough to win.

Like I said, we’re a hungry bunch. We want wins from our heros. Winning in February and April is PRO. One big day in three months isn’t how we live our riding lives. Whether you consider it selfish or delusional, when Saturday dawns, we want to ride at full strength and full fitness—that’s the best kind of Saturday there is. Cancellara’s two months of crushing fitness is just the sort of inspiration we need, just the message we want to hear.

Photo courtesy John Pierce, Photosport International

Foolproof

When Coca-Cola elected to roll out New Coke and then backpedaled like a messenger in traffic only to introduce Coke Classic, one of the great crimes of pop culture was committed. How could anyone mess with so simple, so perfect an item as Coca-Cola? If you doubt the severity of the crime, drop by a kosher deli and get an imported Coke with actual sugar in it. The pleasure centers of your brain will be bathed in the soothing kiss of pure sugar. You will smile. You might even hum a jingle.

Coke Classic proves that some things shouldn’t be messed with, either by the producer looking to make a faster buck or by competitors looking for hunk of market share. There’s more to be said for consumer service than gets said, unfortunately.

The inexorable march of progress catches ideas both great and awful in its maw. As it happens the bike industry has been particularly susceptible to the awful idea. From indexed steering systems intended to help you carve the perfect arc to automatic shifting systems guaranteed to keep you at a cadence of 85 rpm, lots of bad products get made for bicycles each year.

It’s hard to imagine that so innocuous an item as a rim strip would give anyone cause to think twice about how to insulate a tube from a rim, but once you’ve experienced more than one faulty rim strip in the same ride, you’ll find yourself out for blood with the vengeance of a clean cyclist accused of doping.

I’ve had rim strips melt in a hot car and cause double flats. I’ve had the new polyester ones slide and expose spoke holes, giving me a succession of flats. I’ve had the butyl ones break and expose nipples, causing shockingly sudden flats.

Each of these incidents could have been avoided had one precaution been taken: Spend the extra money on Velox rim stips. Able to withstand pressures that a would render a blow dryer lethal, the seemingly ineffectual adhesive on the back of the rim strip secures the stip in place sufficiently. I’ve never experienced a rim tape-related flat when using Velox rim strips. And at this point I’m frustrated enough with the others that I’ve thrown them all out.

I’m all for making things better as innovation remakes our world. However, products that don’t offer any noticeable improvement shouldn’t see the store shelf. Any reasonable person might surmise that a superior rim strip could be produced; cut the weight and improve the adhesive’s stickiness and you’d have a home run, right? But in an era of constant innovation, surprisingly, no one has managed it. Stunning when you consider Velox has been around longer than the folding clincher. A lot longer.

If someone actually invents a rim strip that improves on the Velox, I’m all ears, but until then, I’ll pay retail—no team or club discount, no industry bro deal, just straight retail; it matters that much.

Call it my insurance policy.

The Balance

Through cycling, I have come to know more of the world than I encountered through any other endeavor of my life. Cycling has given me an appreciation of both foreign cultures and languages. I’ve gained a greater appreciation of world history, of manufacturing processes, heck, even economics. It’s not an overstatement to say that cycling has given me the world.

One of the more unexpected pleasures cycling presented me is an appreciation of wine. I don’t claim that cycling made me appreciate wine; that would make for a rather idiotic suggestion. Rather, it was in my travels as a cyclist that I had my personal wine epiphany.

I’d had a Margaux and Napa Cabs but it wasn’t until I’d had the tiniest taste of the Vieux Telegraphe Chateauneuf du Pape during a trip to Provence that my brain said, “Hold the phones: We want more of that!”

Through wine I’ve gained a greater appreciation of land, climate and a fresh perspective on the change of seasons. It’s also a new take on real estate, to say nothing of the patience required to wait for the product to mature. Only a Richard Sachs customer has this kind of patience.

What I’ve noticed is that most of the places I like to ride, with the exception of the most mountainous terrain, also happen to be great for growing wine. Riding by the ordered rows of vineyards is peaceful and relaxing.

The intersection point between wine and cycling is, naturally, problematic. The monastic life of the competitive cyclist doesn’t mesh well with alcohol and wine drinking doesn’t tend to lead to spontaneous episodes of exercise. Balancing the two means I must watch how much I drink so that I can continue to ride well while wine reminds me I need to live a little.

It occurred to me one evening after a particularly difficult ride as I was enjoying a glass of a big fruit bomb that my taste in riding terrain and in wine bears something in common. I like roads and wines that are unpredictable, straightforward in their appeal, off the beaten path, on the flashy side and rather thrilling as they go down. In cycling, that means mountain roads with dramatic vistas and thrilling descents, and in wine I define it as big, fruit-driven wines, particularly Zinfandels.

I’m slower for drinking wine, there’s no doubt. I’m also poorer for it. Nonetheless, my life has been enriched by it as much as it has been enriched by cycling. It has taught me to take my time with meals, the value of slow food, and in a world being inexorably homogenized by big box retailers, bringing home a bottle of wine from my travels can be a way to bring home a real reminder of a place, an actual taste of the place itself. Long after my memory of the roads begin to fade, I can open that bottle to bring out the sun of a perfect day.

The Bike Room

Every cyclist needs a place where they can both retreat and hang their equipment, a place where old tubulars go to die and plastic bins divide up small parts and little things that one day will prove their usefulness again. A place where chain lubes and embrocations stand side-by-side, ready to serve both rider and machine. This space maintains a degree of organization that differs as greatly as cyclists do, yet it allows every rider the ability to be prepared to roll out the door in a matter of minutes. It's as much physical space as it is mental space. Whether it's a closet, a corner of the garage, or a full-blown room, the area that houses your gear is called the bike room.

Over the years, my bike room has ranged from a messenger bag to the trunk of my car to a full-on basement complete with a roller cabinet filled with tools and a floor covered in anti-fatigue mats. My brain sees things in retail terms, a result of my years in the bike industry. Hooks for wheels and machines, a cabinet for tools, which is organized by things that open and close (pliers, cable cutters) to screw drivers and allen keys to frame tools. Everything has a place and aids in the efficient flow of bike building, simple repairs and, of course, coffee at dawn. During the coldest winter months, it's a training studio complete with DVD player and rollers: a place to recharge the soul when the roads are unrideable and to tinker on old machines in a sort of "on-going, non-going" project.

The bike room is a vacation, a spa, a bunker, a spin class, a tool shed, and an all around hide-out. The bike room allows me to completely immerse myself in my passion and escape from the outside world.

The Bike Room was originally posted on 7-23-07

Baking

In my years, I’ve known a number of women who liked to bake. Nay, loved to bake. They did it as a way to pass time, to dote on loved ones, to find peace. While I could never deny the magic that came of the result, what I saw in the process was a mess that required extraordinary amounts of cleanup. As a one-pan sort of cook, the array of mixing bowls and cooking tins one session could dirty always made me question the effort required in the endeavor.

Recently, I saw the movie “Waitress”—twice actually—and I realized that I’m a baker of sorts as well. In the movie we hear the main character, Jenna, played by Keri Russell, discuss her love of pie making in an interior dialog. Some of the points the movie’s writer and director (the tragically deceased Adrienne Shelly) touched on—the peaceful meditative state she reaches, the solitude, the love of the process—are all things I love about working on bicycles.

I’ve loved the bicycle as a machine since the days of the Tourney derailleur. I couldn’t resist the urge to work on my first bicycle even before I knew how it functioned. Fortunately, I didn’t kill the headset when my chopper bars got twisted and I used channel locks on the adjustable cup to make an adjustment.

I’ve learned a thing or two about working on bikes since, thank heaven. I haven’t relied on my ability to work on bikes to bring the cash in for nearly 15 years, but I still do all my own bike work. The work takes longer now, as I suppose baking a cake does for the home baker as opposed to the PRO. My slower pace has done nothing to lessen my love of working on a bike.

My preferred time to do it is Saturday afternoon following a shower and lunch. Unlike Radio Freddy’s precision-timed bike wash routine, when I get to the garage, I treat the excursion as a process of discovery. I’m always aware of a few items to complete, but I take my time about my work and don’t mind taking some extra time for an inspection to see what else turns up.

Working on my significant other’s bicycle is a win-win to me. I get to work on a bike (fun) and then be thanked for doing something sweet (even better). Imagine having your SO tell you to go play video games. Could it really get better? As a guy with all the charming romance of an oil change, bike work is a way for me to distinguish my greater efforts from a day’s mundane tasks.

With my iPod playing a collection of B-sides, I can tune out the rest of the world, feel the heft of the wrench in my hand, watch the swing of the derailleurs, and rewrap the bar as many times as I want until each the tape follows each contour and turn. With each turn of the wrench I’m paying respect to the sport, to my safety, to my sanity: We all need time to feel at peace without the burden of a timetable.

Image courtesy Fox Searchlight Pictures.

Torelli Gavia and Lugano Tires

I’m fussy about a lot of things. From how I make my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to which glass I drink wine from, I tend to make selections with some forethought. Likewise, I’m picky about tires. While I do believe there are a great many perfectly serviceable tires out there, when I buy a tire, I want something that offers sensitivity, excellent grip and low rolling resistance. I don’t need a casing that can withstand 60,000 psi and can only be cut by a diamond. That’s like insuring a migrant farm worker in a Pinto for seven figures. Part of the fun of cycling is, well, the fun, and if the tire rolls like something from the Flintstones, there’s not much point.

I’ve put more than 4000 miles on the Torelli Gavia open tubular. It uses a 320 tpi polyester casing, enjoys a hand-vulcanized tread and barely tips the scale at 200g. Polyester has nearly the same suppleness as cotton at the same thread count, but doesn’t cut quite so readily. I mentioned these last fall during our Interbike coverage. There's a reason I'm mentioning them again.

It's true that running these tires, I do get flats. So what. The ride quality of the Gavia is as good as I’ve had the pleasure to experience in using any manner of clincher. I simply do not run any other tire any more.


Recently, I had the opportunity to ride a set of tubular wheels you’ll see reviewed in the near future. I decided to try the more erudite brother to the Gavia, the Lugano. Made from the same casing and tread, it opts for a puncture-resistant latex tube and weighs in at 280g.

As impressed as I am with the Gavia’s performance, I can still note an improvement in ride quality that only comes with tubulars. What a gas! I had the opportunity to ride the Luganos at 105 psi over some pretty rough roads recently and actually smiled as I noticed how they smoothed the road for me. A good tire should do that; it should make cycling fun and increase your sense of the road surface, making you a more confident rider. In the vernacular, this tire is the opposite of Kryptonite.

These tires beg the question: Why don't we make a bigger deal about handmade tires? You can spend more for a tire, but when $69.99 (for the tubular, $59.99 for the clincher) does the job, there’s just no point.

www.torelli.com

Pantani Vs. Tonkov

The Guilty Pleasure

I indulge myself in rich refusals.
—Donald Justice

As cyclists, we define endure. From the way we suffer during our efforts to the way we consistently go out to train day after day, year after year and even the way we deprive ourselves of dietary items that seem for all the world utterly innocuous, we could teach a thing or two to Sisyphus.

For all our discipline, all our deprivations, the dedication to a life in which we find meaning, we can—and should—occasionally have a holiday. A respite in which we reacquaint ourselves with life’s simpler pleasures has the ability to maintain our motivation but perhaps more importantly, it has the ability to keep our dedication from becoming a prison.

Whether it’s a glass of Cabernet, a chocolate bar or a nap, we find renewal in places both familiar and surprising. And what we need to keep us going changes just as our needs for speed work or endurance miles vary from day to day.

We know how the exception does prove the rule: the genetic freak who can drop us on any climb after being off the bike for the last two weeks, or the day so devoid of traffic that we know to be grateful (and mindful) on the spin home. So it is that the guilty pleasure is the exception in our lives, an event so incongruous to our daily habits as to cause friends and family to utter the universal exclamation of amazement: "Whoa!"

Espresso

Like the sound of classic jazz or the brilliant minutes of a sunset, espresso is meant to be savored. On Saturday and Sunday mornings, I join a local group ride for some colorful miles filled with great conversation. As a pre-ride ritual, I stop (en route) to sign in for a shot of the high pressure bean. Some days, a single shot will do it. On other days, the body requires a double. I am not partial to the coffee house, but there's always one rule I honor when sipping espresso: No paper cups. Plain and simple. I am willing to miss sign in and chase for the first two miles if it means my shot of espresso is enjoyed from the heft of the tiny ceramic cup.
No sugar. No cream. Never paper.

Photo courtesy Shane Stokes, www.cyclingnews.com

The Memorial Ride

In surf culture, when a waterman turns out of his life’s wave his fellow surfers host what is called a “paddle-out.” When they arrive at the local wave’s line-up, they form a circle in tribute to their lost brother. They pay their respects as much in words as in silence. I’ve seen paddle-outs composed of ring after ring of surfers, perhaps fifty or more boards in concentric ‘O’s to pay their respects. I never fail to get chills when I see it.

As cyclists, we have our own tradition for the fallen, the memorial ride. With no unusual formation to signify our grief, it can be easy for the non-cyclist to mistake the memorial ride as nothing more than another group ride. If they could look with our eyes, they would see something dramatic: a peloton larger than any race, a pace leisurely enough to tell stories of our friend, the family member uncomfortable on a bike shepherded as newcomers never are.

Godspeed to our lost friends.