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.

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

Tour of Flanders - Museum

A special thanks to BKW friend TK for these photos.

Handmade Bicycle Show: Image Dump

Collector Matt Gorski, builder Brian Baylis and Cirque du Cyclisme promoter Dale Brown.

Builder Ed Litton.

A Litton with a suicide shifter.

Pegoretti head tube badge.

Very trick Indy Fab logo rework.

Jig builder Don Ferris has a tribute devoted to him at the LiveSTRONG booth in light of his recent cancer diagnosis.



Guess who.

Lance Who?

Back in 1994 I asked the sports editor of Charlottesville Daily Progress if we should cover the Tour DuPont. "World Champion Lance Armstrong is racing" I added, forgetting the sports department had no idea cycling had a world champion. After getting a solid no I took the idea over to the lifestyle section. "Sure, we've got a page to fill. All pictures, need it by Wednesday." And with that I secured what at the time was my dream, a chance to photograph the race from a moto rather than just the standard finish line photo I'd been doing since Tour DeTrump started coming to town.

A few calls later a moto was secured for the Richmond to Lynchburg stage. Gently rolling hills and a sprint finish for sure. At the start line I meet my driver for the day, Bob. I think Bob has always gotten "the new guy" as a passenger, he tells me all the dos and don'ts of being on a moto. Bob was a pro at this, he asked me what kinds of photos I wanted, he studied the map for the right places to go ahead of the group. Being a still photographer is far different than the TV bike. Still shooters get to blast thru the pack three or four times, no hanging out. It's the skill of the driver and how much he's willing to push the commissars determine what images you get.

After an uneventful hour on the road there's crackle on the radio. We're behind the peleton and over Bob's shoulder I see the Motorola car slowing. Lance has a flat. Bob stops an inch off the car's bumper and I get ready to jump, literally at the heels of the mechanic, for the photo. The Rainbow Jersey getting service. As I leap an arm grabs me. It's Bob, I can't hear him but he shakes his head. I don't understand. The photo I saw is gone.

We blast ahead of the bunch at full tilt, so fast not a photo to be had. I'm frustrated. I need images for a page and I’m getting a little nervous about what I’ll end up with for the day. Bob has gotten me nothing. We stop and I ask "Why?" Bob calmly pulls off his helmet and tells me, "It's the World Champion, you can't take a picture of the jersey in trouble. It's a rule." In my world of American journalism it makes no sense, maybe in Europe but not here. Photos of other guys show the chaos but it was the World Champion. Bob can tell I'm not happy. "I'll get you something good. Promise."

What I didn't know was Bob stopped at a place we could rejoin the race and cruise in the group for miles. What you aren't supposed to do. We’re in the middle of a big club ride in the country. And I get this photo. Lance joking around with fellow Texan Chann McRae. I'm not sure what's going on (I'd like to know the story!) but it’s the fun side of bike racing. Something you might do to your clubmates on a long day in the saddle. Grab a snack when they aren’t looking perhaps. It’s far from the greatest cycling photo ever but I like it.

When you see the photos by any of the photographers of our sport, know it takes not only their talent to see the moment but also their driver to get them to the moment. Thanks Bob.

Back in December, BKW was lucky enough to run into Chris next to an espresso counter and over the course of a few heavily Caffeinated beverages the stories began to flow. Lance Who? seemed like a perfect fit for BKW. You can see more of Chris' PRO images and read his random thoughts at Velopix.

Jose Alcala - Neutral Race Support

They say a rolling stone gathers no moss. In this case, a road-hardened, neutral support mechanic is tough to catch at idle.

We have seen Jose at the races, exchanged greetings with him, and even passed his caravan on remote stretches of America's highways, but we've never had the chance to actually sit and have a conversation with him. If Jose wasn't setting up or tearing down at an event, he was bustling to switch a wheel, pulling Gs on a race course in the NRS Volvo, or making last minute tweaks to a competitor's ailing machine. BKW cornered race mechanic Jose Alcala a few weeks ago while he prepared the neutral race support (NRS) machines for the 2008 season. Although his hands never stopped turning wrenches, we managed to talk for a bit with Jose and learn more about what life on the road is like for he and the team at Specialized Event Management, LLC.

Jose has made his living in the bike world for the past 16 years. Beginning his tenure working for Competition Bike and Sport in Larchmont, New York (a shop that no longer exists). It was here that the fire was kindled and, like many of us, Jose was unable to shake the habit. Jose's years as a mechanic range from long hours in a shop to long hours on the road. During the years on the road, Jose has worked with the best of the best: 7 years with Campagnolo/Saeco, 2 with Lampre/Caffita, and 1 year with Saunier/Duval.

Jose's career didn't always center on the mechanical aspects. He was head coach for New York's Century Road Club, and during his years on the East Coast, Jose met fellow NRS mechanics, Hank Williams and Butch Balzano. Jose credits Hank with providing him with an early introduction to the ways of PRO wrenching and Butch with getting him out of the shops and on to the road.

Jose continues to work with Butch as part of Specialized Event Management, LLC, a company hired to provide rider support at races and to groups and industry events. Specialized Event Management relies on key sponsors to bring their resources to over 200 events annually. Sponsorship for 2008 comes in the form of vehicles from Volvo Motor Cars, frames and forks from Orbea, and rubber from the folks at Michelin.

A side note on Butch: Butch has been a neutral support mechanic for 20+ years and, to his credit, 20 of those years were spent delivering reliable service on race day to the competitors at Fitchburg-Longsjo Classic. Butch has really poured himself into these events as a true labor of love. In the early years, resources were thinner than they are today, Butch drove his own car, lent his own wheels and bikes and, got by with a little love from Campy in the form of a discount. Despite the high hurdles, Butch kept at it. The cycling world is truly blessed to have people like Butch who keep the flame lit.

Jose and company spend a lot of time on the road, roughly 290 days per year. Like all professions, work becomes a stream of familiar faces and Jose is careful to also keep in mind that his profession is unique in that he sees his clients when they are highly stressed and many are facing the day for which they have spent months training. With this consideration, Jose is careful to treat his clients with respect, remembering to simply be nice and do his job well. Jose laid it out very succinctly: he says his job is "a marketing job with a small dose of mechanics thrown in." For Jose, his presentations aren't done in a board room but rather in parking lots, expos, and road courses.

BKW: What items make life on the road tolerable, what can you not be without?

Jose: The Volvo, wheel sets, SRAM components, coffee, and good music.

BKW: What gear will be packed into each of the 5 Volvo NRS vehicles for the 2008 season?

Jose: 5 Orbeas built with SRAM components, 25-30 pairs of Zipp wheels, a mix of 404s, 303s, CSCs, and 808s, tools, spares, 3 Silca pumps, 2 Ultimate work stands, an A-Frame Ultimate display rack, a smattering of components, 4 boxes of SRAM parts, 2 Force and Rival, 2 Red, chains, spokes, saddles and Michelin Tires.

BKW: What gear/tools are most critical to your day?

Jose: Yellow Snap-On #2 flathead screwdriver and my Chicago Case Tool Box in limited edition white.



BKW: What is the best part of your job?

Jose: Seeing familiar faces far from home and the ability to continue playing a key role in racing. Without question, I have the best seat in the house!

BKW: And the worst part of your job?

Jose: Sometimes the travel, there is an element of danger we always have to be aware of.

If your summer plans take you out to the races, make sure you drop by and say hello to Jose and his team. And if your plans include pinning a number on your jersey, then it is a must that you drop by and say hello to Jose and Co. Who knows, it may be you who needs the lightning quick wheel change.

The Specialized Event Management L.L.C team

Chad Contreras
Merlyn Townly
Chris Kreidl
Jeff "Jasper" Mattson
Butch Balzano
Jose Alcala


Jose Alcala by the numbers:

Years in industry: 16

Number of songs in iTunes: 4,000

Miles driven annually: 60,000

Total dollar value of bikes handled annually: $1.5 million

Number of events attended by NRS in 2008: 120 (200 when you count stage races)

Teams of Portland

Like the timer in the game Perfection, Portland, OR is set to go off in a few weeks, and the bike scene is about to come face-to-face with just how massive it really is.

Don Walker kicks off his fourth iteration of the Handmade Bicycle Show and it is sure to out-do the three previous shows. Each year, attendance has increased and the exhibitors have worked harder and harder to showcase their very best work.

In typical Portland style, there are pre-events, post-events and events in-between, and most will include great coffee and cheap beer, but all will include a steady dosage of bike culture.

The one event that stands out is the Teams of Portland exhibit, a showcase that spotlights local racing teams, culture squads (thanks CD) and good time clubs that feature the bikes, kits, and hangouts that make our sport (and Portland's scene) so amazing.

Teams of Portland is presented at Wieden + Kennedy; Nike's ad agency and the force behind Road to Paris.

Let it R.I.P.

Back in the day, I had the pleasure of working with an eccentric guy we called Pants. Among other things, Pants has a vocabulary that is second to none. Pants loves bunnies, excellent java and, of course, a great burrito.

But there is another side of Pants that sets him apart from the rest: Pants takes pride in his ability to ghost ride his machine further and faster than anyone else. And we are not talking about just a light roller where the bike comes to rest in some brush just up the trail. We are talking HUGE, hucking style with ample hangtime and the potential for utter devastion upon re-entry. Off a bank into a deep stream? No sweat. Into a thick of trees? Why not? Pants is never afraid of consequences and the allure of going higher and faster always tempts him.

There is eery silence that blankets onlookers when a machine has left the safety of its owner and is rocketing toward fate, alone, solo, as its momentum faces an eventual demise. No matter the conditions, no matter the company, Pants is always up for some wicked ghost riding.

Thanksgiving

The legend, our sun, at center and his planets in rotation.

When I became a serious roadie some two decades ago, part of the attraction to me was the shared adventure. Group rides that lasted 60, 70 miles or more through mountainous terrain defined my sense of fun. However, finding a group of guys whose idea of fun matched mine was a challenge; most of them headed home after that second hour. That is, it was a challenge until around 2000 when a subset of the riders I typically train with decided to focus more time on climbing the mountains nearby.

One of our number, a guy we refer to as a heat source, has served as a catalyst to drive our rides longer, faster and with more climbing. Unafraid to define someone’s masculinity in terms that would be censored from a Quentin Tarantino film, Sterno crystallizes all that the group itself is: from bonding us through our suffering to demonstrating our shortcomings with the stupid acts we undertake in traffic and the things we’re apt to say when the passions fire first, he is each one of us—only moreso.

And the guy is nothing if not stylish. From the Rapha and Capo Forma kits to the immaculately clean bikes, he's more PRO in appearance and riding style than any of us will ever be. And in a way that only an alpha can, he is the first to remind you what's cool and who has it.

So it is that Sterno is moving and leaving the nucleus for another set of mountains, ones more gorgeous and less hospitable. We kid about how long it will take for him to move back; I bet 8 months until his return in the pool we started. It gives us a way to joke about something we are all too sad to face full-on.

Sterno is that most necessary of ingredients. As the center of attention, he reduces each of us to supporting roles in his world, but for that we are enriched, for he can’t be the center of attention without the audience and we, his friends, never want to miss a moment. He keeps the rides together, strings them out and never lets them dull.

We’ve had our moments. I’ve said things to him I wouldn’t repeat to a construction worker. And yet he always wants me on the rides. Those flintier moments give our friendship an enduring spark I wouldn’t trade for gold.

So on this day of thanks, I express my gratitude for someone I simply can’t imagine riding without. We’ll miss you.

Tom Simpson: The Lion of Yorkshire

John Pierce of Photosport International began shooting the Tour de France 41 years ago--a record even Joop Zoetemelk would admire. His first day on the Tour was the day after Simpson died. John wrote us in response to our post Godspeed.

Everyone has their own “way” about these things. In many ways I agree with your sentiments.

Why did Britain make a hero out of a doper? In this day and age--where doping is in the blood and controlled by doctors (up to nine doctors per team)--it seems a stupid thing for a nation to select a doper as one of their greatest ambassadors.

The perception and probably correct assumption at the time was that Simpson died because he pushed himself too hard. When his body gave up on him, he asked “put me back on my bike.” Harry Hall (who died last week) did just that. Simmy was already “clinically dead,” but the brandy and the amphetamines (a la discoteque) made him think otherwise. He died.

What Simpson had in his system was nothing like what Van Looy, Anquetil, Janssens or Darrigad were alleged to have used, i.e., enough strychnine to kill a horse.

Simpson, first of all, was a “small” person from a poor mining town in Yorkshire--much like many of the French--Pingeon perhaps. Simpson, however, was a gentleman, “from the old school,” and he played on that even before James Bond was on the screens. The French loved him, and they wanted more Brits, still do.

He was BBC Personality of the Year, a presentation awarded to him personally by the Prime Minister--not just some TV guy, like these days.

No “normal” rider has the “heart” that Simpson had. In Flandres they would have called him a "lion". If you mix up the likes of Roger DeVlaeminck, Johaan Museeuw and Felice Gimondi you will have what was Tom Simpson. But unlike those riders, Simpson was of a frail body--his family was very poor in his youth; his father (I think) was a miner.

Life in Britain at that time was far from good--Simpson was born just two years into the second world war ... in 1937. The war ended in 1945, when he was 8 yrs. old; there were still rations during his teens.

Simpson didn't die from the stimulants; he rode himself to death, and he did it because it was his last chance to move up the GC. Drugs cannot do that to a rider; cycling cannot do that to a man of his health, youth and vitality. Simpson pushed and pushed; the stimulants and the "bit of brandy" used in those days to quench the thirst (I used it when I raced) combined with the tremendous heat that day allowed him to ride way beyond his means yet still stay somewhat upright on the bike. (Tom also had a stomach problem having previously had a tape worm.)

From that stage to the finish in Paris the top six on GC did not change, not even for one day for one place. Simpson died on Stage 13.

Simpson’s team manger was a guy called Alec Taylor. I met him at the TdF start in 1997. He asked me if I had photos of Tom—Yes I will send them when I get home from the start (in Rouen). It was strange becuase his room number in the hotel was 13. We spoke about how everything was adding up to 13--the time, his race number, the stage, the date, the year and so on. He said Tom's “lucky number” was 13 because no one else wanted it.

I returned home for five days before going back to the TdF--so I mailed him the pictures. They arrived on the 14th July; his wife called me crying--Alec had died the day before--same time, same date—exactly the same 30 years after.

You work it out--

Britain has another person whose death we shall never get over--Princess Diana--both are held in the same esteem.

In later years, when the peloton passed the memorial, Merckx slowed and took his cap off. Millar did the same; in fact Millar threw his cap to Joanne, Tom’s daughter, as he passed in the Tour one time. Millar and Wiggins looked for each other, so they could pass together this year when they raced up in the Dauphine.

Simpson with protege Eddy Merckx on his wheel.

Of course everyone forgets who taught Eddy Merckx how to ride a bike--everyone except Eddy that is--it was Tom. I have a small piece of lunar-like granite from where Tom fell on the Ventoux . It was given to me by Joanne Simpson.

Jacques Goddet asked to have his picture taken (by me) at the Simpson Memorial standing next to Barry Hoban. Goddet was educated in Britain (Oxford University I think). In 1987, I received the Medaille du Tour de France, but not from the race director, or press chief Claude Sudres - It was presented by Jacques Goddet. That year the race was won by an Irishman I personally, face-to-face fixed up with the ACBB a few years earlier.

Small world. We're proud of Tom. I’m happy you were so moved as to have written your article. I’m attaching two shots of Tom, perhaps you have seen them before?

Cheers for now...

John Pierce (Photographer Cyclisme)
PhotoSport International

A Sean Kelly Drinking Song

It's the off season and you can afford a beer. Not just any beer, a proper Irish beer: a Guinness stout.

Godspeed

In August of 2000, I had the opportunity to climb what is arguably the Tour’s most infamous climb, Mont Ventoux. Rising just shy of 2,000 meters (a little less than 6,000 feet) from the floor of Provence, climbing the Ventoux is as humbling an ascent as a cyclist might undertake. July 13, 1967, Tom Simpson suffered heart failure 1.5k from the summit as a result of amphetamine use.

Readers of BKW already know my position on doping in cycling is uncompromisingly against. When Phil Liggett or some other broadcast journalist would pay some homage to Simpson in Tour coverage, I used to talk back to the TV and shout how Simpson didn’t “give his life,” but was a pinhead for using amphetamines. They weren’t a good idea in rock and roll, and they were a terrible idea in cycling.

When I climbed Mont Ventoux, I passed Simpson’s memorial without stopping. Tour riders don’t get a chance to stop there and recover, so neither did I. While I was in no way a fan of Simpson’s, I couldn’t not stop at a memorial to such a significant event in Tour history. I recovered at the top and then rode back down.

I laid my bike down and gingerly made my way up the rocky slope, Speedplay cleats and all. What I saw stunned me. Literally littering the three steps at the foot of his monument were tiny tributes to a fallen member of cycling’s own. Hats, bottles, old tires and tubes, a flag, the odd bandana, flowers and T-shirts so covered the steps, there was no room to sit down. I made the connection with the ancient practice of leaving food, hunting items, clothes, all the things one might need in the next life. And here, at this modest memorial, cyclists from all over the world were leaving Simpson whatever they had to wish him Godspeed.

Gradually, what hit me was a feeling of loss. Not that I personally had lost anything, but what Simpson’s loss was. Here was a guy, a human being, a cyclist for whom racing and winning meant so much that he had given⎯literally⎯everything; he gave his life. Were his choices wise? Certainly not, but could I really condemn a guy for bad judgment? Who would argue that he really understood the risk he undertook--and the price he ultimately paid--to race on amphetamines? The sadness that realization provoked in me was great enough I was glad for the glasses I had on.

As I looked closer I noticed how everything left seemed worn out and used. I was struck by what an insult that seemed to be. One's burial clothes are the finest available, not a ratty old T-shirt. Seeing the threadbare casings of the old tires only compounded my sadness. After a family climbed back in their car, I, to my own surprise, knelt down and wept. What struck me was how stingy visitors were to leave their castoffs. But what had I to offer? I felt my pockets and remembered my second, unopened Powerbar. I pulled it from my jersey and slipped it under a rock on the top step. Leaving the uneaten bar seemed the only respectful acknowledgement. It was private moment, one that I have not otherwise told anyone about, and only do so now as a way to show how profoundly moved I was by the memorial, and my grasp of his frail humanity.

My views on drug use and cheating will never change, but I can’t condemn Simpson for his tragic death. I am both chastened and inspired by his example. Many of us talk about how we’d love to die doing our favorite thing in the whole world. Simpson did exactly that, even if prematurely. In as much as any of us might wish to meet our maker in the saddle, doing so while racing the Tour de France goes down as going out with true panache. Godspeed to you Tom.

Handlebar and Grill

Let’s be straight about this: Americans have done a lousy job of memorializing their achievements in cycling. Go to Belgium or the Netherlands and bars routinely double as the home base for a great cyclist’s fan club. That ought to be the natural order of the world.

The Handlebar and Grill in Denver helps to right previous wrongs. It’s a sports bar, to be sure, but a sports bar with a twist. Owned and operated by cycling enthusiast Mike Miller, the Handlebar and Grill starts with a basic (American) premise: good food at affordable prices. The menu focuses on burgers and sandwiches, but is broad enough to please anyone thanks to its generous range of salads, steaks and pasta.

What is different about the Handlebar and Grill is its décor. Miller is a charming guy and has met the elite of American cycling. Name a name from cycling’s (American) past and you’ll see what his—or her—signature looks like somewhere within the confines of his establishment.

It’s not enough to have some cool signatures. Taking care of them, matching them with pictures and framing the stuff nicely is what gives the Handlebar and Grill its charm. Funny how a nice frame makes you take something more seriously. Hey, it worked for the Mona Lisa.

From old team pictures to promotional trading cards and race posters, Miller deserves serious pack rat props. He obviously saved this stuff for ages. You’ll recognize the cover of Winning following Andy Hampsten’s Giro win … framed along with a pink jersey signed by Hampsten. There’s a 7-Eleven jersey with pictures of each of the riders. Other jerseys include this nifty white jersey with rainbow stripes on it, a signed Coors Light team jersey and a Team Z jersey with signed photo of Greg LeMond below it. There are bikes and bumper stickers and banners a-plenty. To reveal any more might spoil the fun of discovery as you walk around the place.


If you’re in Denver, it’s worth the trip. Heck, if you’re in Colorado, it’s worth the trip.

Unlocking My Life

A person's keys say a lot about them. When I was in undergraduate school my boss at the local pro music store had a key ring with seemingly 40 keys on it. He told me it was a sign of how much responsibility he had in his life. Actually, I think it was more a sign that the owners of the store had a different lock on each of the eight or nine doors to the store, but his point stuck.

This past spring I moved and with the move came the need to go through my key chain with the various key hand-offs. It occurred to me that I had a host of keys I needed rarely, if ever. Keys to places that were multiple time zones away. I decided to create a secondary key chain with those little-needed unlockers. What was left says something of my passions and my daily needs. There's the inevitable car and house keys, and another for mail. And my car needs the now ubiquitous alarm/remote lock fob for entry and exit. On a daily basis, that's it. So what's left are three accoutrements to cycling and two to alcohol. Hmm.

I first saw a Campy shift lever used as a fob for a keyring when I worked in a shop with this incredible climber named Todd. I saw his and marveled at how it remained shiny, nearly polished as a result of cotton pockets and daily handling. He gave me one and when I remarked I didn't want to copy him, he said, "Go ahead; you gotta share the wealth."

The Casino emblem came from a keyring I snatched from the air as it passed my ear at the 1998 Tour de France. Miraculously, no one got elbowed in the incident, me included.

The Richard Sachs chrome dropout bottle opener was a gift from the legend himself. While this might be a little late, in the interest of full disclosure, I consider him a friend and if you were expecting proper investigative journalism in our interview a la Time Magazine ... well I'm probably not the guy for the job.

The discount card to a wine store and the bottle opener are reminders that there is--on occasion--more to life than the bike. So three keys, three tributes to cycling and two means to attain alcohol, it's an odd collection to be sure.

Lots of people are prone to fiddling with their keys when they are anxious. I'm no different. Here's the thing I wasn't thinking about when I started this little meditation. When I'm walking to or from my car, I'm apt to play with my keys and what my fingers find comfort in are the contours of that Campagnolo shift lever. As my fingers curl around it, there's a pleasant mass to it; it's easy to find amid the jagged serrations of the keys and with its rounded profile, there's nothing surprising in its feel. It is a key of its own. That hunk of aluminum unlocks one of the most important parts of my life and reminds me that beyond my daily responsibilities there is a metaphoric cable at the end of that lever, one that pulls me forever outdoors.

Interbike 2007

I have attended bicycle trades shows since I was a wee-lad. Some families have memories of road trips to the Grand Canyon or the annual trek to visit the Smithsonians. For me, it was bicycle trade shows. Year after year, I would file up and down the aisles, trudging through the endless maze of indoor/outdoor carpets, all while breathing in the noxious fumes of the countless rubber tires. As a kid, I loathed "the show," as a teen I embraced it, and as an adult I worked them.

Five years into my hiatus from the industry, I continue to feel its pull. So, with bindles packed, the staff at BKW is taking this show on the road and heading out into the arid vastness of Nevada to take on yet another year of Interbike. September is the time of year when the North American bicycle industry squeezes itself under one roof for three days to sell, buy, catch up, and burn out. BKW has managed to bamboozle some unassuming industry folk into providing us with legitimate credentials for the three-day, bike extravaganza. We plan to go deep into the thick of it to scout out the coolest gear for the coming season; hopefully, there will be more than just carbon fiber stuff. Along the way, we'll get the chance to hang with some PROs and leading figures of the industry.

Stay tuned... 'cause "when the soup is good, all is good."

Bob Cat Crit

In January 1994, I moved to Southern California in pursuit of the endless summer. I was searching specifically for the trails and roads I had seen featured in the countless cycling magazines I read. Little did I know, I was four years and 3,000 miles off. In 1998, I moved to Boston and blindly stumbled into a cycling hotbed.

I had been working in Boston for a little over a year when on a hot and humid summer day I came face-to-face with one of the few pinnacle events of my years in the bike industry. There have been a number of experiences that stood out from crazy customers, cool products, and epic schwag to monumental rides. But today was different, it was natural, not forced, I had just met head-on my first impromptu race.

In each micro-cycling community, there are different names for similar events. In the messenger community, it is called an alley cat, in the cyclocross world, it is known as bandit cross. But all are based on the same principal: Friends and co-riders show up at a designated point, line up behind a drawn line and wait for someone to yell "Go!". The magic of this event is that there is a genuine love for the sport. There are no points awarded, no prizes, no team obligations. Just a desire to ride with your friends and kick each others' asses.

This race was called the Bob Cat Crit, (BCC) named after a local cyclist. The word went out in the afternoon on this particular Saturday, and it spread like wildfire. The BCC was on...

The Bob Cat was a mountain bike course, but people arrived on everything from road bikes to cruisers. The race has a true "Run what you brung" attitude. After all, it was as much about the social aspect and drinking beer as it was about winning. The entire concept is similar to when professional skateboarders get together to session a ramp or park. The experience is more about encouraging your mates, enjoying the relaxed atmosphere, and being around a close group of fellow cyclists.

The race itself proved to be as exciting as any I have ever been to. There were battles for positions, crashes, and a podium that included the "dark horse" as well as the "sure thing". But the magic of the BCC was not the race or the winners, it was about the passion and love that everyone felt for the sport. We stood in a dusty, overgrown lot adjacent to the train tracks, sweating, swatting mosquitoes, drinking beer, and talking about all things bikes. There was a mix of women and men, road and mountain. There were no categories, no points, and no pressure. It was truly an epic experience.

Pocket Change

In the opening sequence of The Bones Brigade Video Show, Lance Mountain, rolls out of his house in the AM then rolls back home just before midnight; spending the entire day skating and relying only on his skateboard for transportation.

My buddy Matt and I always talk about how simple things used to be and how our bikes and riding were all that mattered. Despite growing up worlds apart, we have the same childhood memories. Our daily summer schedule was the same - wake up, eat breakfast, ride bike, eat lunch, ride bike more, then head home for dinner. All of this was always possible with mere pocket change. We both remember our bikes took us to places near and far. In those days, it was a BMX bike and there were no gears, rarely a flat tire, and the biggest mechanical problem was a loose headset that was easily repaired with the human vise grip, namely, your hand.

Over the years, although my bikes became more and more sophisticated (and expensive), I make it a point to return to the simple days. Now I do it on a 1968 Schwinn complete with fenders and steel rims. I run my errands on it, ride it in sandals and shorts (often no-handed), and I rarely lock it up. The freedom of this simple machine can be intoxicating, I even find myself blowing off my errands just to keep riding.

Hurray for the simple machine and the pleasure it brings!
Hurray for the car-free, hassle-free leisure of a bicycle!
Now, if I could just get by on my pocket change.

Photo courtesy rappensuncle.

Mid-Week Classic

The Mid-Week Classic (MWC) gets its name because it's held every Wednesday. Both the route and intensity are much akin to a one-day Classic. It starts early in the Spring, which often means temps are cold and conditions vary from sunny and warm to instantaneous downpours and the race has little time for pleasantries. The MWC is a bare-knuckle, fisticuffs event complete a "no-rules" policy, which basically states that it's "game-on" at exactly 5:30 p.m. The course is 40 miles out and back and the terrain varies from rolling hills and false flats to a nasty criterium section complete with multiple chicanes and a rutted series of back roads punctuated with potholes, off-camber turns and some spontaneous gravel in sections.

The MWC makes no apologies and takes no prisoners, which is why it's a favorite for the local Category ones and twos. I incorporated the MWC into my weekly schedule two seasons ago and feel that it has drastically improved my fitness. I guess if I'm not going to pay a coach to train me, the next best thing is to make sure I show up on the important training rides.

The MWC is an epic event, but one ride in particular was so over the top, that I'll never forget it.

Last July we experienced a two-week period where the temps were relentless and hovered in the 32°-34°C range. The wicked humidity so common with July helped to create a recipe for a complete and utter cracker! At 5:15 p.m. the ride began taking shape; the usuals showed along with some new faces. At 5:30 p.m. the group was complete (25 of us in all) and we rolled in the familiar fashion up and out of town. Just as we passed the last of the tall buildings, the unofficial gun sounded and it was "game-on". The attacks began and they were relentless, one followed another and pretty soon, the group was strung out into a single file line, forced into a thin ribbon by the intense pace and strong head wind. Despite the 37°C degree temps the ride was like so many before it: fast, serious, and requiring the A-game.

As we rounded the halfway point and turned to the benefit of the wind, the skies began to cloud over and turn an eerie, greenish black, appearing bruised and angry. As the wind began to increase, so did the dust and debris, unleashed by 14 days of scorching temps and a relentless sun. As the darkest portion of the sky took hold of the MWC's route, the wind began gusting and the sky began to unleash its fury on the group. First the rain drops were few but large, when they hit your face or legs they stung and they were cold. Very cold. Then came the full brunt of the storm, the sky opened and released all the emotions it had been holding back for two weeks, the rain was so heavy that glasses were a hindrance. The rider in front of you was only a faint silhouette and the cars passing just feet from our shoulders were reduced to a series of red streaks.

The rain quickly overpowered the storm sewers, collecting on the tarmac and puddling in the low spots. The rain absorbed the heat from the pavement and, in turn, felt like tepid bath water as it soaked your clothes and filled your shoes. It remains one of the most visceral sensations I have ever felt while riding bike. The cold front that carried the rain quickly rolled in behind bringing with it an incredible drop in temperature and creating zones of temps varying enough to be felt by your skin. Despite the rain, wind, cold, and zero visibility we continued in a style typical of Wagner, maintaining the aggression and speed of a normal MWC but it was elevated to epic by the rains and the chaos they brought. As quickly was the rain came it receded, pulling with it the heat and humidity, laying waste to weeks of dust and debris and leaving all of us, wet and cold and and even more motivated to keep the pace high and the action strong. As we positioned ourselves for the final sprint of the ride, the sun began to reappear and temps had plummeted to a chilly 21°C, we all knew that we were part of a ride that was truly epic, a day where a line was drawn among the local cyclists. A line that delineated those who were there, and those who were not.

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