From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XVII

Introduction

This is the seventeenth installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I is here, Volume II is here, Volume III is here, Volume IV is here, Volume V is here, Volume VI is here, Volume VII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume IX is here, Volume X is here, Volume XI is here, Volume XII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume XIV is here, Volume XV is here, and Volume XVI is here. (The different volumes have nothing to do with one another, and can be read in numerical order, reverse order, liturgical order, purchase order, mail order, and/or in good working order.)

July 24, 2007

I’m pretty sure I didn’t have any kids back when we were colleagues, but I have two daughters now, A— (age 5½) and L— (age 3½). Parenting has been both satisfying and exhausting. The girls always want me to “play Cassandra,” where I speak in this booming voice and pretend I’m an evil sea witch while acting out various scenarios they come up with. It’s really tedious, but they love it. Well, the other day I realized that playing Cassandra vaguely reminded me of some other wearying activity I’m routinely involved in, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. Then it hit me: conference calls. The dread I feel as I enter the passcode is identical to the dread I feel when I’m asked to play Cassandra. And yet both activities have to be done.

May 8, 2008

My back is seriously jacked up. For years I have lived in fear of my back suddenly going out: no apparent cause, no diagnosis, no treatment, no prognosis … just a purgatory of suffering that ideally will subside at some point. And now it’s upon me. The hardest thing for me is transitions (e.g., sitting-to-standing), and the hardest transition is from riding my bike to standing up and walking. So literally the most painful part of my morning ride today was carrying my bike up the short flight of steps to the porch. Then I had to maneuver the bike through the living room, around the landing by the stairs and through the kitchen, and then down the short flight to the office. A fresh stab of pain accompanied every change in direction, and one spasm caused me to catastrophically lose my grip on the bike when atop the steps down to the office. My poor bike fell and the top tube hit the arm of a chair, and now I have this huge dent in the top tube of my almost-new bike. It is absolutely heartbreaking.

The dent isn’t so bad that the ride would be affected, I don’t think. It’s just a really bumful blemish, like if Natalie Portman had a permanent whitehead the size of a pencil eraser on her forehead. Since this disaster I’ve twice had the bike up to a pretty good speed in a full tuck without any problem, so I reckon it’s good. It breaks my heart every time I look at it, though. Sometimes when I look down at that dent while riding I get so pissed off I can actually suffer more, so I guess that’s a silver lining. Man. I’ll still be whining about this on my deathbed, I’m sure.

February 9, 2009

Sorry it has taken me so long to reply to your simple inquiry. I’d forgotten all about it until I awoke at like 3 a.m., for no apparent reason, thinking, “pork shoulder recipe!” The recipe is below. E—’s handwriting is a bit hard to read, as she wrote this in a hurry. We were eating at Rivoli (on Solano Ave) and in a perfect storm of E—’s journalistic skill, our waitress’s helpfulness, and the amazing generosity of the chef, soon E— was being told the whole recipe, by the chef herself, right there at the table.

Let me decipher some of that for you. The pork gets half-covered in stock. (“Covered” gave me a lot of trouble in E—’s rendering, even though I know the recipe already.) Not given is how much chopped onion, carrots, and garlic to throw in. It probably doesn’t matter. The garlic should be chopped with a knife or razor blade (like in that movie), not put through a garlic press. (To hear Anthony Bourdain tell it, you should never put garlic through a press: “I don’t know what that junk is that squeezes out the end of those things, but it ain’t garlic.”) Real stock always helps but standard chicken broth is fine (except the Swanson “Unnatural Badness” style … you would want to pay the extra for “Natural Goodness,” which might be the same thing and they just added some margin to cover their substantial marketing costs, but you never know). Use the foil over the top even if you’re using a Dutch oven with a lid. The magic is that the pork just gets tougher and tougher and tougher as it cooks until it reaches some invisible threshold and then it just gives up, the proteins collapse (I might be making shit up here), and the whole thing becomes as tender as can be. I’m hoping that’ll happen to me eventually as well.

April 9, 2009

I agree, it’s pretty sad how many guys are running 27s [i.e., 27-tooth rear cogs on their racing bikes] and don’t even have the decency to be ashamed of it. They speak of this as though it were normal, inevitable even, and like it’s as acceptable as using, say, lightweight inner tubes or cork bar tape. “Oh, I love my 27,” T— has said on several occasions. This is as shocking to me as if he said, “Oh, I find that a feminine pad works so well as a chamois liner.” And don’t even get me started on the guys who advocate compact cranksets (as M— did on my blog post, eliciting what I hope was a sufficiently diplomatic response … my tongue is still bleeding).

Man, a pro racer using a giant rear cog? What’s gotten into these guys? It seems to me that if you have a larger rear cog than your competitors, you will either a) not use it, or b) get dropped in it. I remember before some collegiate race (in my Cuesta days) some guys gave me a hard time for having only a 19 rear cog. I predicted that nobody would be using anything bigger than that on the climb. As it turned out, I was dropped while still turning the 17 over pretty smoothly. These days I ride a 25. Sure, I’d rather have a 23 for aesthetics, and could probably handle this even on Lomas Cantadas in the summer on a good day, but I find I’m sometimes having to weave across the road even with the 25. Weaving of course isn’t the prettiest sight, but I’d rather see a guy weaving with a decent gear range than spinning along ineffectually in some really low gear facilitated by a triple, a compact, or a giant cog, or (worst of all) any combination of these.

April 19, 2009

[This pertains to the news that cyclist Tyler Hamilton had tested positive again after having totally denied doping before, but years before coming clean by writing The Secret Race, which is reviewed here.]

Yep, turn out the lights … the party’s over. Actually, for Tyler, the party should have been over in 2004. Since then he’s been like that one dude at the party who never went to bed and is still drinking the next morning.

May 11, 2009

Thanks for the feedback on my blog … that is a rare treat. Only occasionally do I get feedback and when I do it’s just verbal commentary from my biking buddies, such as on the corn cob post. Nobody actually said he liked it, per se. I think there’s some unspoken rule like “Don’t say anything nice to Dana.” Perhaps this is for fear my ego will get too bloated or something. One guy started off by saying, “You should write for the ‘New Yorker,’” which of course sounded like the highest praise I could imagine, but then he continued, “because your articles are so fricking long nobody could ever finish them.” Well excuuuuuse me! (My longest piece so far, on indoor training, took me half an hour to read aloud to E—; it would take less than that to read it silently to yourself, and I’m sure everybody on the ride watches stupid sitcoms that take that long. But as you said, reading is a chore.) Another guy, who I happen to know does read the “New Yorker,” agreed about the corn cob post … sort of. “Yeah, it was way too long. In fact, I even thought the poem itself was too long. I don’t have time.” I took this as a subtle dig at the first guy, but then that’s just the kind of total egomaniac I am.

July 4, 2009

Thanks for the copious feedback on my Father’s Day email. To answer your main question, perhaps the hardest thing for me to convey about my relationship to my dad is how it actually affects me: which is to say, not really that much. I think you are spot-on with your “arbitrary scale” concept, about a son living up to vs. rejecting his father’s example. My dad’s poor performance stands mainly as a cautionary tale, kind of a reverse how-to guide, rather than anything for me to be really bitter about. Certainly I’m disappointed in him, and when I bother to think about him I can get pretty irked, but I don’t feel I’m struggling to bear the emotional weight of my upbringing as I move through my life.

The ability to learn from a parent’s mistakes, even if you’re the victim of those mistakes, seems utterly obvious and straightforward to me (so long as substance and other abuse aren’t involved, of course). At least, that’s what I have traditionally told myself, but I’m gradually realizing that not everybody believes this. B—, for example, believes that my dad couldn’t have succeeded at being a good husband and father because my dad’s own dad, my paternal grandfather, was such a jerk and that family so dysfunctional. To my retort that as parents ourselves we can improve on the parenting we got, B— said, “These things take time.” He spoke as if this were an evolutionary process, one generation gradually improving on the one before it, to which I reply, bullshit! It’s revolutionary, not evolutionary—we make up our minds to not just repeat the cycle. As a metaphor, let’s say you watch a guy stick his hand in a fire and sizzle all the skin off and howl in pain. You think, “Note to self: do not stick hand in fire. Bad outcome there.” Now let’s say your father, and his father before him, and his father before him, all had this tradition of sticking their hands in fire. You’d think, “Note to self: dad and ancestors all idiots. Do not stick hand in fire.”

July 28, 2009

My kids did their first bike race, a criterium on residential streets in Albany. It was a “fun” race, meaning nobody was paying any attention to who finished where (supposedly). My kids were pretty excited about it. A— got ahold of my Blackberry the other day and started writing about her race. Here’s what she has so far:

I went to a race. It wasn’t just any old race. It was a kids race. I made the decision to inter. Though it looked hard it looked fun and I went with my dad to sign up. I was put in the 6-9 group and I was escorted to the start line. L—’s start line was closer to the finish. It wasn’t indicated where the finish

That’s as far as she got. The race was funny because A—’s group was only supposed to go about a quarter lap, but they just kept going after the finish line and did a whole lap of the crit course after that. I was announcing the race over the PA and got to say, “And ladies and gentlemen, crossing the line now is Albany’s A— Albert of the East Bay Velo Club!” I hope she was listening…

August 7, 2009

Yes, we’re in London! Compared to my previous vacation in France, this is very easy because I can speak the local language, having majored in English in college. There’s still a bit of challenge here (a “spot of bother, “ I guess I should say) regarding certain phrases and concepts. For example, at a pub last night I gave the barkeep a five-pound note and asked him to break it. He was nonplussed. “Break” seemed to mean nothing to him. “You know, give me singles,” I said. His confusion continued. Did he think “singles” was some kind of bar snack that costs under five pounds? Finally he grasped my meaning. Apparently England doesn’t have one-pound notes, which might explain why the term “singles” doesn’t carry any meaning for them. They’re all about the coins over here. It’s weird to think of spare change actually having value. I left a bunch of coins on the dresser last night without realizing they comprised most of my liquid net worth here. Three of the coins alone are worth like seven bucks!

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Errata

Introduction

I read a New York Times article about some gross-sounding cookie and at the bottom was this note:

A correction was made on April 17, 2023: An earlier version of this article misstated the day of the week the reporter visited an Upper West Side Crumbl storefront. It was Saturday, not Sunday.

Intrigued by this passion for confessing their errors, I read the Times policy around corrections, which states, “We recognize an ethical responsibility to correct all factual errors, large and small, promptly and in a prominent space … Even when we catch a mistake mere seconds after publishing, we still acknowledge it with a correction. There is no five-second rule.” 

This got me thinking: I should really account for the many errors on this blog, even if that means providing corrections that are, in some cases, more than fourteen years overdue. The problem is, due to the way Blogger’s platform works, making even a tiny change to the text of an already-published post screws up the formatting when it’s viewed on a mobile device. What’s worse, for really old posts, any revision basically nukes the entire layout. So instead of making corrections to each post, I’m just going to provide them all here, in this post. I may not get to all 677 of my past posts in one shot, so this project may take me a few installments over time. I guess I’ll start with the most egregious goofs.

Errata

In “Everything You Wanted to Know About Getting A Vasectomy - But Were Afraid To Ask,” I wrote, “The nurse arranged towels around my groin until the entire area was reduced to the pink-red scrotum shrouded in white, like a sunburned toad poking out of a field of freshly fallen snow.” Upon reflection I realize that my freshly-shaved scrotum more closely resembled a frog than a toad.

In “New Cycling World Record Set in Berkeley!” I made two errors. The first I already corrected: I originally wrote that for cyclist Craig Cannon to beat the existing bicycling record of 94,452 feet of elevation gain in 48 hours, on the section of South Park Drive he had chosen, he’d need to ride about 160 miles. That did not factor in the descent required on each lap, so the actual mileage needed to be over 320 (and in fact Craig rode 339.52 miles to reach the new world record of 95,623 vertical feet). The other error, which I’ve more recently discovered, is that I said part of why he chose South Park Drive is that “he needed a route that has restrooms.” In fact South Park has only one restroom, unless you count ladies’ and men’s separately.

In “Spelling Focus - Is It ‘Kindergartner’ or ‘Kindergartener’?” I pointed out a grammatical error made by the bestselling author Mary Doria Russell but also mentioned that “I envy Russell’s ability to write good fiction.” This implies that I had actually read her fiction, which I hadn’t. (The grammatical error I’d spotted must have been in the forward to her book, which—possibly on the basis of that error—I elected not to read.) I should have written “I envy Russell’s ability to actually get published.”

In “Highbrow vs. Lowbrow” I wrote about attending a 3-D movie in an IMAX theater, and posted a photo of my wife and me wearing 3-D glasses. The obvious implication was that the photo was of the actual 3-D glasses we received at the IMAX theater. In fact the photo was from a 4-D movie we saw in London. (4D?! Yeah, that’s what the British venue called it, because in addition to providing video and audio, they added “stimulating effects like water, wind, scent and strobe lighting.” Clearly America does not have a stranglehold on cheesiness.)

In “What You Didn’t Know About Giraffes!” I made two errors. The first I acknowledged in the post itself: in claiming that giraffes engage in brood parasitism, I had confused them with cuckoo birds. The second error is that I insinuated (and, okay, to be honest, stated outright and carefully explained) that E.E. Cummings invented non-rhyming poetry because he couldn’t figure out how to rhyme anything with “giraffe.” This is not technically true. It’s not even halfway true. It is in fact completely made-up. I did admit this in the post, but not until the very end, which was disingenuous of me since I’m pretty sure nobody has ever made it all the way to the end of one of my posts.

In the introduction to “Runner-Up: A Divorce Tale” I wrote that this was “a 100% fictional story I generated entirely out of my own imagination, with any resemblance of any character to any actual person—living, dead, or undead—being entirely coincidental.” In fact, this story is completely true—that is, I told it as truthfully as memory could allow. I gave the characters fake names and declared it fiction so as not to risk embarrassing my father. (He’s dead now, so I can finally come clean on this.)

The pro bike race report “Biased Blow-By-Blow - 2020 Tour of Sweden Stage 4” contains at least 200 factual errors. This race never happened; my “coverage” was pure fabrication. I suppose I should have confessed to my deception at the end of the post (instead of adding a postscript a week or so later) but I wanted to see how many readers I could fool. I actually received emails about that post from two former professional racers (one of whom is a cycling commentator for Peacock), and neither of them spotted the ruse!

In “Corn Cob” I stated this:

The [rear derailleur of my childhood bike] was a Suntour V-GT Luxe, which my dad installed along with a larger freewheel to give me—you guessed it—lower gearing, which of course was a bit humiliating. Why me? Was I such the runt that I alone needed lower gearing? Oddly enough, the larger freewheel actually made the pie plate look smaller—but just try telling my brothers that.

In reality, the freewheel my dad installed was probably only slightly larger (perhaps a 32- or 34-tooth cog instead of a 28) and the difference in size was most likely not visible, even to the trained eye, due to that giant pie plate. Of course the freewheel looked bigger to me because I was so ashamed to have low gearing. I should have pointed out this delusion because it makes the sad story even sadder.

In “The Case for Dvorak,” concerning the more efficiently designed Dvorak keyboard layout, I mentioned the economists Stan Liebowitz and Stephen E. Margolis, who were outspoken in discrediting the layout. I neglected to mention in that post that they are both total douchebags . I sincerely regret the omission.

In “Trouble with Tire Chains” I wrote that one of my car’s tire chains, which had broken and gotten wrapped around the axle, was “dragging behind us like the Ghost of Christmas Past.” I was referring of course to A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, but was clearly remembering it wrong. It was Marley’s ghost, not the Ghost of Christmas Past, who dragged chains behind him. Interestingly, this was the one correction that the Oakland Tribune made when they ran my story, as you can see here.

 In “The British Faucet Conundrum” I wrote that the Internet was an American invention. An anonymous commenter wrote below the post, “Tim Berners-Lee INVENTED THE INTERNET WORLD WIDE WEB AND HE IS BRITISH NOT AMERICAN... so stick that in your hat and smoke it. In typical fashion of most americans you try to take credit for most when you don't have a creative bone in your bodies..” I neglected to reply “USA #1 let’s roll! These colors don’t run!” I also missed an opportunity to point out that Berners-Lee was educated at Arizona State University (which isn’t true, but would have goaded this anonymous commenter quite effectively). I didn’t need to point out that the Internet and the World Wide Web are not the same thing.

In “The Lotion Sniper” I asserted that holiday season shoppers are easy prey because they’re dazed by the Christmas music playing in the stores, and I provided as example the song “Sleigh Ride” that seemed to have acquired new lyrics such as “Giddy-up giddy-up giddy-up it’s grand/ Just holding your hand.” I should have written “Giddy-up giddy-up giddy-up don’t barf/ Just look at your scarf.” This would have been completely inaccurate, of course, since I totally made it up, but it would have been truer to the spirit of the post.

In this very post, “Errata,” I asserted that I never read Mary Doria Russell’s fiction, and that her grammatical error must have been in the forward. Actually, I did read The Sparrow. I totally forgot that I had done so until just now, when doing some routine (yes, believe it or not, routine) fact-checking. However, given that her book was so clearly forgettable, I stand by my earlier correction: I cannot truly say I envy her ability.

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Observations on the 2022 Tour de France

Introduction

The 2022 Tour de France ended today, and what an exciting Tour it was … easily the best in years. And yet, I only got to do a blow-by-blow report of one stage, since all the exciting ones were on weekdays. Thus, I’m providing a second post concerning what to me were some of the most interesting surprises of this year’s race.

(Note that some of these observations require fairly deep knowledge of the sport, but others could possibly be appreciated by anyone.)

COVID-19 in the peloton

At one point in the coverage, commenting on the hoards of fans lining the Col du Tourmalet, announcer Anthony McCrossan casually made mention of the COVID-19 pandemic being over. The fans certainly seem to think so, but we’re still seeing masked riders, an altered podium ceremony protocol, and—above all else—lots of riders forced to abandon due to COVID. How many? Take a guess.

The answer is seventeen. That’s kind of a lot, when you consider how careful riders have traditionally been about germs, etc. (Tyler Hamilton talks a lot about this in his book The Secret Race.) COVID withdrawals likely had a significant impact on this year’s race, with last year’s winner Tadej Pogacar losing two domestiques—Stake Vegard Laengen and George Bennet—to the virus. Three teams—Cofidis with Guillaume Martin, Israel Premier-Tech with Chris Froome, and Movistar with Enric Mas—lost their team leaders to COVID.

Perhaps rumors of the coronavirus’s demise have been exaggerated…

Attacking just after a summit

The turning point in this year’s Tour came on Stage 11, when Jumbo Visma’s Primoz Roglic attacked just after the summit of the Col du Télégraphe, and caught race leader Tadej Pogacar’s UAE Team Emirates teammates napping. This led to the first time in the race that Pogacar was isolated for any considerable period of time, and set up the showdown on the valley floor just before the ascent of the Col du Galibier, where Roglic and his teammate Jonas Vingegaard attacked Pogacar again and again. Responding to these attacks exhausted Pogacar, and on the final climb he lost lots of time to Vingegaard.

Look at the photo above: three Jumbo-Visma riders are in perfect position, while Pogacar (in yellow) radios his team car, presumably to say, “Where the hell is everybody?” (He’s got  one teammate in sight, but too far back … the dude didn’t catch up for many minutes, by which time the damage was done.)

I coach a high school mountain biking team, and I advise them, before any race that features a big climb, to attack right over the top, where other riders instinctively sit up, feeling (if only subconsciously) that they have earned a little break. A couple of riders have reported good results from this tactic, though the fastest kids on the team don’t generally listen to my advice because I’m just some old guy who doesn’t shred much gnar’ on the descents. But now I can just tell them all the story of 2022 Tour de France Stage 11.

(Just kidding. High school mountain bike racers have no use for the Tour, road racing in general, or hearing such stories.)

The benefit of two team leaders

Team Jumbo-Visma came into this Tour with two potential leaders: Roglic and Vingegaard. Both have finished second overall in the Tour, and both were considered favorites this year. Naturally this arrangement has its critics, who look back at infamously problematic rivalries such as LeMond vs. Hinault in 1985, Contador vs. Armstrong in 2009, and Wiggins vs. Froome in 2012. Any time a team positions two riders as leaders, you get news articles about it (such as here regarding Froome and Geraint Thomas, and here regarding Roglic and Vingegaard). Sometimes having two leaders works, and sometimes it doesn’t.

This year, it worked out really well. Fortuitously for Vingegaard, heading into Stage 11 Roglic had crashed pretty hard and was a couple minutes behind him, so their pecking order was pretty well established—but Roglic was still very much a threat to Pogacar. This meant that when the two Jumbo-Visma riders took turns attacking the race leader, he had to respond every time.

This was a pretty unique opportunity for Jumbo Visma and it was brought about by having two GC contenders in their ranks. Sure, other GC hopefuls could also participate in such a one-two-punch scenario, but generally, not being teammates, they aren’t as invested in doing so (as evidenced by Thomas’s willingness to just follow Pogacar during all this mêlée). And if a team has only one leader, only he can attack and accomplish anything. For example, it’s not like Pogacar could have his domestique Brandon McNulty attack Vingegaard and get anywhere with it. Vingegaard would be like, “Hey, fine, send your guy up the road. See if I care.” And he’d let McNulty ride uselessly off into the sunset instead of responding to the attack.

Van Aert’s great class

Coming into Stage 15, Jumbo-Visma’s Wout van Aert had already established himself as a major force in the race, having won two stages and worn the yellow jersey for four days. Stage 15 come down to a thrilling bunch sprint, with van Aert bumping elbows with Mads Pedersen before being narrowly beaten at the line by Jasper Philipsen.

Right after the finish, cameramen milled around looking for the requisite heartwarming footage of riders in tears, hugging their teammates, managers, significant others, etc. They certainly got the desired response with Philpsen, but van Aert didn’t have much reaction at all. Instead, he tended to his little daughter, trying to wash her hands off with a water bottle. Sure, a minute earlier he’d been almost crashing into another rider at 40 mph, but now his fatherly duties took precedence over having some big melodramatic “moment” after all the action. Despite being one of the most prominent riders in the biggest bike race in the world, he evidently hasn’t forgotten that he’s just a guy. A dad.

Simmons: albertnet reader?

In my coverage of Stage 14, I made good natured fun of Quinn Simmons’ beard, declaring that it makes him look a bit like the kind of scary looking spokesman for the Howard Johnson motel chain:

In the same post I also pointed out that it’s a bit irresponsible for pro cyclists to wear beards, given that they make COVID masks less effective and it would suck to get COVID have to drop out of the Tour. Well, lo and behold, Simmons showed up for Stage 16 without his beard! Look how fresh-faced he looks now, especially juxtaposed with Simon Geschke, who a mere two days earlier had practically been his doppelgänger:

What could explain this? Well, it’s possible Simmons read this blog. It wouldn’t be the first time; I actually once got an email from a Tour rider who’d read that day’s blow-by-blow report. (I also got a comment below the post itself, which said, “Dana, I want to have your love child.” The Tour rider’s message was a bit more understated.)

Obviously there are other potential reasons for Simmons to shave off his beard, but I don’t have time to chase that story down. Let’s just go with the theory that he’s an albertnet fan who took my advice to heart.

McNulty’s amazing pull

In Stage 17, when Pogacar was starting to run out of opportunities to take back the lead from Vingegaard, he put his teammate Brandon McNulty on the front toward the end of the penultimate climb, the Col de Val Louron-Azet. McNulty’s pace was so high, he dropped everyone in the race except Pogacar and Vingegaard, and the trio broke the previous record for that climb set many years before by Marco Pantani, Jan Ullrich, and Richard Virenque. Then McNulty set tempo for the entire final climb, the Peyragoudes, at a pace so blistering that his leader was able to take more than two minutes more out of Geraint Thomas, who was third on GC, by the end of the stage.

Unfortunately for Pogacar, he couldn’t shake Vingegaard, and though he outsprinted him for the stage win, he didn’t take any real time (just a few seconds for the time bonus). This was really an opportunity lost.

Nobody can deny that McNulty was amazingly strong and did a great job setting tempo … but actually, from a tactical perspective, it was a complete bust. The pace was so high, Pogacar ultimately never found a good time to attack, which was perfect for Vingegaard. Let’s put ourselves in the Dane’s shoes for a moment: what would be the perfect situation? It’d be to have one of his Jumbo-Visma teammates, like Sepp Kuss (the other American super-domestique) setting a high enough tempo to keep Pogacar from attacking. And that’s almost exactly what Vingegaard got … it’s just that the domestique happened to be wearing a UAE Team Emirates jersey. Post-race, maybe Vingegaard should have been hugging McNulty.

Riders’ gearing for mountain stages

During the Hautacam stage, the announcers chatted about gearing. McCrossan, the non-cyclist of the commentating duo, asked Roche, a former pro, “What sort of chainrings would they have on today?” (This kind of Q&A comprises about 80% of their entire commentary.) Roche replied, “Most likely some riders would have a 36, some others would have a 39 or a 38, depends on your pedaling stroke. Today, with the advantage of having up to a 32 on the rear cassette, you can manage keeping your 39 if you want.” McCrossan then asked, “Is it easier to attack on a 39 or a 36, or does it not really matter, in terms of getting the gear, the momentum going?”

Now, at this point I fully expected Roche to kind of hold back a giggle or a snort, and—reminding himself that stuff like gearing just isn’t obvious to the non-cyclist—would politely explain that it cannot make any difference. All that matters is the combination of front and rear teeth, which produces the “gear inches” figure—that is, how far the bike will go with one revolution of the pedals. (You can geek out on the details here.) I had thought all serious cyclists completely understood this, but to my surprise, Roche replied, “Well, when it's really steep like 12, 13 percent than a 36 is useful. On a gradient of 7 or 8 percent I think it would be easier with a 39.” Huh? How would a 39 be “easier” for attacking?

Let’s assume for the sake of argument that Pogacar was in a 39x23 at this moment (i.e., the footage I grabbed a shot of above), and he wanted to shift into a higher gear to attack. He might go for, say, the 17-tooth cog, meaning a 62-inch gear [27*39/17]. Well, if he happened to have a 36-tooth inner chainring, he could just go for the 16-tooth cog instead, which would produce an almost identical 61-inch gear. (The rider wouldn’t make this decision based on any concept of numbers, of course; it’d be instinctive.) There is absolutely no difference in how the bicycle would behave given one of these gearing scenarios or the other. There is no “momentum” involved in turning one size chainring or another. If there could be any benefit to a 36 vs. a 39, it’d be that with a 36, you could run a smaller largest cog (i.e., you wouldn’t need the 32-tooth Roche had mentioned earlier), so you could have a tighter gear ratio and thus a better selection of cogs to choose from (i.e., smaller number-of-teeth gaps between them) to dial in the perfect gear. So if anything the 36 would be better on a shallower gradient: the opposite of what Roche asserted.

This is perhaps a flaw in the two-guys-talking style of race announcing: Roche may think he only has to bullshit McCrossan, who’ll believe anything, but of course the home viewer may well know better. I guess the bigger lesson, though, is that I shouldn’t mistake retired pro racers for bike geeks. And given what passes for information on my blog, I can’t exactly get on Roche’s case for totally winging it and making shit up.

Why do riders stash their sunglasses?

Twice during this Tour, McCrossan asked Roche why some riders take their sunglasses off and stash them in their helmet vents. (Perhaps McCrossan forgot he’d asked the first time, or liked the dialogue well enough to repeat it, or wasn’t satisfied with Roche’s original answer … who knows.) Both times, Roche said it was because it was so hot out, the riders just wanted better air flow over their faces.

This may be partly true, but I just don’t think it’s a complete answer. For one thing, cycling sunglasses haven’t always been so stupidly oversized as to suffocate your face. Meanwhile, it seldom gets very hot where I ride, but I stash my shades all the time. It’s not to let my face breathe; it’s because sweat drips down onto the lenses to the point that I can’t see very well. So I’ll take off my sunglasses either because this has already happened, or because I’m on a long climb and I want to prevent it from happening. Obviously Roche is a far better cyclist than I’ve ever been or will be, but sweat is sweat. If you disagree I’d love to hear about it.

Vingegaard waiting on the descent

During Stage 18, Pogacar attacked over the top of the penultimate climb (and yes, I’d like to reiterate my earlier point about how smart this is), and tried to drop Vingegaard on the descent. They dropped the rest of the group and then, as the duo hammered along, balls-to-the-wall, Vingegaard slid on some gravel and almost stacked.

Not thirty seconds later, Pogacar suddenly changed his line in a curve (perhaps seeing some gravel himself), and had to hammer the brakes. As Vingegaard passed him, Pogacar went off the side of the road, lost traction, and crashed.

Pogacar wasn’t seriously hurt and got right back on his bike, and had no trouble catching Vingegaard because the race leader waited for him, coasting and looking over his shoulder. As Pogacar caught up, he even gave Vingo a little handshake of gratitude.

The commentators made a big deal about this, talking about what a great show of sportsmanship this was. Roche commented that Vingegaard would have been within his rights to push on ahead, because after all Pogacar had crashed while trying to outpace him on the descent, taking on the extra risk voluntarily. Presumably, Roche said, if the tables were turned Pogacar wouldn’t have waited for Vingegaard.

While Roche has a point—crashes are part of the sport, after all—I don’t see anything all that magnanimous in Vingegaard’s gesture. It was a long way to the end of the stage, and he wouldn’t have picked up that much time over the descent. Meanwhile, as the defending race leader, with a sizeable time advantage over Pogacar, it was in his best interest to make the descent as safe as possible—and surely Pogacar wouldn’t try to drop Vingegaard again after he’d waited up; that would be a total dick move. Moreover, Vingegaard had teammates behind him, who would surely be of benefit to him if they could catch back on; it had never been Vingegaard’s idea to leave them behind to begin with. Tactically, to wait for Pogacar would benefit Vingegaard in every way. And on top of that, he would get to look like the nice guy. To me, his decision to wait was a complete no-brainer. The only slight misstep Vingegaard made was to point out, in the post-race interview, that he’d waited. That was needless. We get it, dude. We all saw it. The announcers crowed about it. You’re a great guy.

What about doping?

You might be surprised I didn’t get into the whole doping issue with this post. To be honest, I just don’t see that there’s anything new or surprising on that topic to report on. About all I can say is that, if doping appears to still be rampant, at least no single team is so good at it as to bring back dull-as-fuck Tours like we suffered through during the Froome years. I’m grateful for that.

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Ride Report - DIY Everest Challenge

Introduction

I just realized 2021 is the first year since 2007 during which I haven’t done a single bike race. That’s a shame. Worst of all, I haven’t done the Everest Challenge since 2014 … but then, it’s no longer being held. The good news is, it’s possible to suffer in those same mountains with none of the competition, and none of the support. A couple of East Bay Velo Club pals and I pioneered this approach four years ago with our “Almost Death Ride” and repeated the trick recently by mounting a “DIY Everest Challenge.”

What follows is my full report, in the traditional three-part format: an Executive Summary for important people; a short version for impatient ones; and a long version perfect for busy people facing important projects and looking for ways to procrastinate. 

(Note: copious photos accompany the long version. They are pretty hi-res so zoom in and, if you really want to see something, right-click and select “Open image in new tab.”)

Executive Summary

The breakaway consisted of Craig, Ian, John, Ken, and me. (There was no peloton; we broke away from our sofas, our jobs, and all our responsibilities.) The first day was brutally hot. We had to alter our routes on the first two days due to road closures. We added a third day just to be mean. We ate extremely well. We broke tradition by drinking beer between stages. We fell short of the desired 29,000 feet of vertical gain, but not by much. Verdict? PASS. To paraphrase Faulkner: middle age may have killed us, but it ain’t whupped us yet.

Short version

• Ride stats: 45.6 miles on Day 1 with 6,575 feet of vertical gain; 88.4 miles on Day 2 with 10,633 feet of gain; 92.1 miles on Day 3 with 7,139 feet of gain. Total: 226.1 miles with 24,347 feet of vertical gain.

• Day 0 pre-ride happy hour: half a pint of Federation Brewing Zero Charisma Hazy IPA (Oakland)
• Day 0 pre-ride dinner: unbelievably large combo platter of chile relleno, beef enchilada, pork tamale, beans, rice, chips, salsa … probably at least 4,000 calories

• Day 1 breakfast: one lozenge of Wheetabix with FAGE Greek yogurt and raspberries, and about an ounce of sunscreen (consumed via dermal absorption)
• During Day 1 ride: two Clif bars, one Gu, two large bottles Gatorade, three large bottles of water
• Day 1 lunch: two large soft-taco-size carnitas burritos, some scrambled eggs
• Day 1 dinner: kid-size Trippel ale, medium-rare hamburger, waffle fries, onion rings, French-fried pizza crust, various dips (I know, I know: you are what you eat)

• Day 2 breakfast: one Clif bar, a glass of water, several large gasps of air
• During Day 2 ride: two or three Clif bars, three large bottles Gatorade, three large bottles of water, a few bugs
• Day 2 lunch (before final descent): hamburger, fries with mayonnaise, two large glasses of water, probably a decent serving of coronavirus aerosol particles
• Day 2 happy hour: New Belgium Voodoo Ranger Juicy Haze IPA
• Day 2 dinner: countless slices from two 20-inch pizzas: meat lovers + custom build (salami, mushrooms, black olives, and onions), a pint of some local IPA (too distracted by pizza to note details)

• Day 3 breakfast: one lozenge Weetabix with either dairy or almond milk (too bleary to notice or shunt which type), crow
• During Day 3 ride: two Clif bars, one 20-oz. American (i.e., corn syrup) Coke, one 12-ounce Mexican (i.e., sugar) Coke, one Häagen-Dazs chocolate/dark chocolate ice cream bar, several large handfuls Kettle chips, four large bottles of water
• Day 3 happy hour: Juicy Haze IPA, slice of leftover pizza
• Day 3 happy hour #2: local hazy IPA, hunks of giant pretzel, chips & guacamole
• Day 3 dinner: pork broth ramen with egg, pork belly, veggies, extra pork belly, and extra noodles; two pork gyoza (gyozas? gyozae?)

To add excitement to the ride, we did much less training than for the real Everest Challenge (in my case, like a third as much). Also of note: this was the first real ride we ever did with John, our newest EBVC member. I’ve been riding with him for about ten years, but only ever to the pub. (It’s not that we’ve never wanted to do proper rides together; it’s just that we really like beer.)

For an hour and fourteen minutes of the first day, it was over 100 degrees F. Peak temperature by my computer was 108; Craig’s registered 111 before panicking and powering off. That day was cut short by a road closure: Inyo National Forest is closed this month to protect against fire, so most roads through it were closed too. We pioneered new routes for Day 2 and managed plenty of climbing and distance. Day 3 had nothing in common with the Everest Challenge routes but was designed to increase our vertical gain, increase our mileage, increase our suffering, and take advantage of our proximity to Tioga Pass. It succeeded on all counts. In fact, the whole three-day adventure was a rousing success: we had a great time, didn’t die of heatstroke, didn’t end up eating one another, and are already looking forward to next year.

Long version

I rode yesterday, a week after the DIY EC, and I just wasn’t myself. My legs were empty. They could turn the cranks, but only in a minimal, zombie-like way, and I thought, “What’s wrong with me, do I have COVID?” But I could smell the rain on the asphalt, and the Gatorade in my bottle, and I don’t have a fever. I’m just comprehensively, fundamentally exhausted … still.

I’ve raced the Everest Challenge six times (in 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, and 2014). I always took the preparation very seriously, training a ton and giving up all alcohol like six weeks beforehand to lose weight and perhaps give my liver an easier job making glycogen. This year I didn’t train nearly as much for some reason (sloth? old age? denial?) which gave a little razor edge of excitement to the run-up.

Fortunately, I made up for the poor preparation by continuing to drink beer (responsibly!) all the way up to, and including, the night before the event. But I was good: I only had half a beer the first night, splitting it with Ken. Here is the official Beck’st:

If that EBVC bottle weren’t so hammered, you could read our club’s slogan: “It’s like you never stop riding.”

I already mentioned the giant Mexican dinner on Day Zero. I got to a point in eating it when I thought, “I’d enjoy the rest of this more tomorrow,” but then I just kept going. I was the only one to finish, and when I did, Craig turned to me and said, “You are a GOD.” I wish I could inspire somebody to say this about my cycling, but I’ll take praise wherever I can get it.

Day 1

The first day started near Big Pine, which is where Highway 395 meets Highway 168, the road up towards the Bristlecone Pine Forest. We parked halfway up the climb. This is normally the final climb on Day 2 of the EC, but we had to switch things up based on the lack of support and some other factors you wouldn’t care about. The van would be our second refueling stop; the first was at the base of the climb, where we stashed a cooler. So the first ten miles of the ride were downhill and we averaged almost 30. Here we are about to set out toward the first climb after removing a layer of clothing.

Our first climb was to Glacier Lodge; this is normally the first climb on Day 2. The temperature was perfect and of course we were fresh as daisies. Craig dropped us all by accident before waiting up.

Eventually our group broke apart again. Craig and Ian were the fittest, and John and I brought up the rear, keeping an eye out for a chance brewpub.

Here’s John digging in. He’s not rocking the EBVC kit for reasons I don’t understand. It’s possible he missed the ordering window.

Eventually I went solo on the climb due to my gearing, which isn’t so low. To maintain a comfortable cadence I had to set my own pace. As I made my way along I pondered the elegant mathematical shortcuts available when comparing my gearing to John’s. He has a one-to-one gear ratio, meaning the same number of teeth on his front chainwheel as his largest rear cog. Calculating gear inches can be a bit tricky to do in your head (especially when you’re fighting for oxygen); you multiply the chainwheel teeth by the wheel diameter and then divide by the number of rear cog teeth. But with a one-to-one like John’s, the chainwheel and cog cancel each other out, so the gear inch total is simply the wheel diameter, 27. My bike makes it easy, too: it has 27 teeth on the largest rear cog, which cancels out the wheel diameter, so the gear inch total is simply the number of chainring teeth, 34. I calculated the difference in our lowest gears using the guess-and-check method: I surmised it was something like 25%, and since 27 is practically 28 and a quarter of 28 is 7 and 27+7=34, this guess was pretty accurate: that is, at the same cadence I’d go 25% faster. I explained all this to John but he didn’t hear a word of it … he was, perhaps mercifully, no longer within earshot. At least my explanation didn’t put him to sleep like it has you.

WAKE UP!

Eventually we made the summit, or close to it (we’d gone past a Road Closed gate but then had to turn around when we encountered a ranger.) Here’s the only photo I got of the descent, for obvious reasons.

Our return to the base of the second climb was uneventful (other than a couple flat tires). Here’s the side road where we stashed our cooler. I love how aero, almost two-dimensional, my bike looks here.

Now, full disclosure: the actual Everest Challenge route would take us pretty far out on the road you see above, if we took it: a climb about as high as Glacier Lodge. We totally could have ridden this, and done three climbs instead of two, but we simply didn’t want to. The Waucoba Canyon climb is like a sauna; doesn’t feature much scenery; and is just plain hard. If you want to go do a proper EC route with all three climbs (and no support) and then hassle me for not doing the same, well … be my guest.

We fetched fresh bottles from the cooler, took an extra drink or two, and remounted our bikes. It was already broiling hot as we set out on the Bristlecone climb, Craig and Ian setting a sustainable pace.

It got hotter … way hotter.

Craig and I yo-yo’d a bit … at 108 degrees he had to back off the pace to keep from overheating, but at, say, 105 he would roll away from me again. Here you can see him just about to disappear for the final time as the mercury dropped all the way to 102.

I modulated my fluid consumption carefully so I wouldn’t get dehydrated but also wouldn’t run out. I finished my last bottle just as I neared the turnoff to where the van was—but wait a second, the van had moved! It was now pointed down the hill, and Ian and Craig had changed out of their biking costumes for the drive back. This is how I learned the road was closed. Oh well. I won’t lie: as disappointed as I was at the setback, it was a relief to be done for the day. Here’s what we ended up with.

And here’s the map:

Back at the condo in Mammoth, we made burritos (four of them) out of Craig’s leftover carnitas. We also foolishly drank a beer, and researched alternatives to the next day’s two main climbs: Mosquito Flat and South Lake, both of which (we confirmed) were closed, being on Inyo National Forest land. We decided that the non-closed first half of the first climb was enough, and for South Lake we could substitute a ride to Lake Sabrina (most of the original climb but a different final destination). Some official told Craig, “The lake itself is closed but you can drive up there to take a look. But if you take one step out of your car I’ll kill you myself.” (I’m paraphrasing here; he may have actually said, “I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”) Craig discovered a café a couple miles shy of Lake Sabrina, which we could hit on the way back before descending, with our distended aero-bellies, all the way back to the van. Thus our route for Day 2 was settled.

Day 2

We started Day 2 near Bishop, where 395 hits Pine Creek Road. It appeared, as we climbed out of the van, that God had decided never to inflict such heat on us again, and as a symbol of this covenant provided this beautiful rainbow.

We started out nice and slow, just spinning, and my legs felt surprisingly okay, but listen to how hard I’m breathing in this video:

The gorgeous scenery continued, making this ride the next best thing to shelter-in-place:

This first climb went so well, in fact, that I find I have nothing more to report. Here are Craig and Ken beginning the first big descent of the day:

We refueled at the van and began the second climb, Pine Creek Road. After a few miles Ian and Craig rolled away … I was beginning to sense some kind of pattern here.

But were they actually feeling okay? Imagine my shock when I saw that one of them had thrown up what appeared to be either Grape Nuts, pomegranate seeds, or Israeli couscous.

It turned out this was probably just bear-berry-barf.

I didn’t expect to see Craig and Ian again but I did, because Ian flatted. They’re adults with toolkits and know-how so I didn’t stop. They would catch me soon enough.

I made the summit and descended solo. On the way down, cruising at about 40, I kept seeing all these lizards darting out of my way. As I pondered their apparent mental superiority to squirrels, deer, and turkeys, who don’t know how to get out of the way of a speeding cyclist, one of these lizards came running right at me from about 10 o’clock. There was no chance to take evasive action (and I’m frankly not sure I’d have risked anything for a lizard anyway). The little bugger went right under my wheel. It felt like running over a pipe cleaner wrapped in felt. Its tiny reptilian soul flew past my head on its way heavenward. Poor little lizard.

We refueled again at the van. Ahead of us was a 13-mile slightly rolling stretch, mostly on Ed Powers Road, to the base of the final climb which headed southwest on Highway 168. We faced a tricky bit of logistics: we had about 27 miles to go to the final summit, 14 miles of it uphill, and would need another fuel stop—but it’s the middle of nowhere. Ken and John volunteered to drive the van across the rolling section and partway up the climb and park it there. Brilliant! Craig dragged Ian and me toward the climb at blazing speed. It was like motorpacing.

The climb, which gains more than 4,000 feet, was really hard, but also beautiful. I could try to describe it but these photos will do a better job.

Have you ever been to the Mystery Spot, or the Exploratorium, or any other venue devoted to educating or entertaining you with optical illusions around spatial perception? The mountains around Bishop are just like that: a road that looks flat can be a 6% grade, and what looks like 6% can be 8 or 9%. The gradient display on my bike computer is probably the main reason I didn’t lose all hope. The final third of this climb was not only 8-9%, but into a fairly stiff headwind.

I passed the tiny town of Aspendell where the café was, and presently perceived a rider behind me. Huh? Here, really? It was Ken. He and John had enjoyed a coffee out on the café porch and took off after us as we rode by. This was the best photo I could get of Ken; the camera stabilization software was no match for my unsteady hands.

The highway dwindled into a smaller road that got narrower and steeper as we approached Lake Sabrina. Not shown: the final grind of about 14%, when photography became impossible.

This selfie would have included John but we weren’t sure how far back he was and it was starting to rain. It’s a pity; we saw him like a minute into our descent but weren’t about to go back up that final pitch for the photo-op. Lake Sabrina is looking pretty sad with the drought and all.

We all met up at the café and were able to get a table on the porch.

The outdoor seating was a good thing because the staff & clientele weren’t hugely devoted to COVID protocols. John and Ken had noted earlier that nobody was wearing masks, and they’d heard snippets of conversation such as, “We don’t have a vaccine problem, we have a Biden problem” and “George couldn’t make it, he came down with the COVID.”

We had some great burgers etc. and the waitress was nice enough to take at least fifty shots of us across two phone cameras. You already saw one of them, at the top of this post.

It was cool up at 9,000 feet but during the glorious 14-mile descent we started to cook. After a good, long day in the saddle we were glad to pile into the van and head back to the condo. Here’s the Day 2 profile:

And here’s the map:

I already mentioned the pizza. The guys were really worried I’d eat more than my fair share. I assured them that if we ran out, we’d just get more. In the end we had a few leftover slices. Back at the condo we watched “American Ninja Warrior” and hurled verbal abuse at the screen … that’s how brain-dead we were.

Day 3

The next morning I had the worst bags under my eyes I’ve ever seen. I snapped a photo that would later cause my kids to shriek with terror and glee. (No, I’m not going to share it here.)

For this final leg we didn’t need the van: we rode right from the condo in Mammoth. Again my legs were oddly non-destroyed. I began to wonder if having a beer might actually help somehow. We started climbing right away, up this Mammoth Scenic Bypass (which as Ken pointed out sounds like what you’d take if you want to avoid the scenery).

Then it was a not-entirely-pleasant blast along Highway 395 for about 20 miles to the turnoff on Highway 120 west that goes over Tioga Pass. (For an entire blog post about cycling Tioga Pass, click here.)

It’s a long climb—12 miles—and gains about 3,000 feet.

Here’s a nice shot looking down the pass (i.e., to the east … I stopped and turned around to snap this).

Everyone went his own pace. Peer into the distance here and you can see Ken. Note the camera glitch involving the double-yellow-line.

There are a couple of pretty lakes up there. I reckon this is Ellery Lake.

Craig made the summit and rolled down the hill to pace me over the final bit, and got this photo.

Here are four of us at the summit, a few minutes before John arrived. (If I had the skills I’d Photoshop him in … or skip the ride and just fabricate the whole photo album, come to think of it.) This is at just under 10,000 feet elevation.

The descent was uneventful and lizard-free.

At the junction with 395 we stopped at that Mobil station with the oddly, famously good restaurant to refuel. Fortunately we don’t run on gasoline because this is the most expensive I’ve ever seen.

Now all that remained was the 39-mile schlep back to the condo. It could have been a 29-mile schlep but we chose to ride around June Lake, to take in the scenery and avoid some of the unnervingly fast traffic on 395. I knew these miles would hurt, as we had a headwind and over 2,000 feet of vertical gain ahead.

Needless to say, all this meant more time holding Craig’s wheel for dear life.

I don’t think Craig drags us along out of pity; rather, he just doesn’t need to draft anybody and surely sees no point slowing down (which would happen if I were to lead). The only time he didn’t pull was when he was snapping photos, like this one. (By the way, it may appear here that I’m smiling, but I assure you, that’s more of a rictus. If you could see my eyes you’d know better.)

After some rigorous climbing we reached a pretty sweet vista. The point of this photo is the gradation of facial hair.

Finally we reached the general store at the end of the loop. We gorged on junk food while Ken peered into an existential abyss. “Deep into that darkness peering, long [he sat] there wondering, fearing,/ Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.”

Highway 395 was a grind … headwind, heat, rubbish road surface. The turnoff to the Mammoth Scenic bit was a relief, except we had to climb. The grade was a mother, generally only 5-6% but four miles long, into the wind, and I was fried. It was the hardest I’d worked all day but finally it was over and we coasted most of the way on to the condo where things suddenly got real, real good:

Here’s the Day 3 profile:

And here’s the map:

Epilogue

Is there anything to be gained from this experience, or from reading about it? Can we glean some lesson from all this effort and strain? Is there some point to it all? Upon much reflection, I can say: no. All the suffering was completely pointless. But then, that’s kind of the point.

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