Strangest thing...

Last Saturday I did what was without a doubt the smartest thing I've ever done. Ride 70 miles (at a harder intensity than I've done all year) and then go and do a 40-minute power threshold test at Vision Quest. I'm so smart. That was so awesome. My legs felt so good afterward. And during, too. Man, I can't recommend this one enough. Really. I mean, I should have just ridden 100. And harder.

I just went shopping for clothes for the first time in, oh, roughly 10 years. This year is automatically going to be bizarre.

How good is The Usual Suspects?

24, bikes, and pasta

Without Steve here this past weekend, the house was less.... combative? Jokingly gay? Yeah. Just signed up for a power/HR threshold test at Vision Quest for the first weekend in February. Time to see some actual numbers that will tell me how pitiful I really am. Exciting, to be humiliated in front of a bunch of other people. But who knows, maybe I'll churn out numbers that I didn't think were possible for me in February.

OK, I've got to go make some delicious whole wheat pasta with some lightly sauteed green and red peppers, jalapeno sausage, and a mushroom red sauce, and watch 24. Kill them all, Mr. Bauer. Kill them all.

And now I'm 25

Yikes. Another birthday. I feel like this should be the official start of the quarter-life crisis, and yet all I can think about is how this year is going to be so good. Best January shape of my life, best mental shape of my life, and I subscribe to Netflix now. I mean, my life probably couldn't be better. Unless Superdrag released a new record. Oh, right. Happy St. Patrick's Day to me.

And can I just say deciding to commute through the winter on my bike was the greatest decision I've made in a long time? Hardly anything is as fun or as satisfying as riding through a near-blizzard in 10-degree Chicago wind chills along the lake. My favorite thing is when people at work ask, "How can you do that?" and all I want to reply with is that it's easily the best part of my day, but know that it won't make sense to them.

I need to hang out with people who ride bikes more.

Glencoe Grand Prix - My first win/podium/payout

Lined up a couple people back, and after the previous day’s early attack, my plan was to force myself to stay in the middle of the pack, none of this up-near-the-front-and-all-too-eager-to-attack crap I’d done the day before. Really my goal was to stay with the bunch the whole time, even if guys went off the front, so I can actually see how I fare in a sprint, when I’m not knocked down while riding 7^th wheel like I was in Peoria, or, you know, out of gas after a silly two-lap attack like I was the day before in Grayslake. So, I actually tended to stay toward the back for the first 25 minutes or so, employing the non-climber’s strategy to climbing going into the turns (near the middle in the turn, then accelerate at my own pace and drop back, rather than the slow-down, sprint-out of the corners like everyone else was doing). The energy-saving came in handy later, for sure. At one point, actually, I looked down at my HRM and saw 150-something, which is by far the lowest it’s been during a race in the past couple months for me. Don’t think that had anything to do with fitness, it had everything to do with me spending so much time shielded by some fairly sizable winds. So after some uneventful 25 minutes of racing, I tried to move my way up, but told myself I wouldn’t do it all in one straight, to try to conserve as much as I could. Nothing goes according to plan, apparently, in bike races, and I’m pretty sure the peloton hit a headwind section and I just followed somebody’s wheel up to like 10^th place. So I was pleased.

Five to go and I was top ten. I’d solidified in my head the lines I would take if other people weren’t around in each of the corners, as far as “in case I’m stupid and go off the front” sort of thing was concerned. Being closer to the front I wasn’t hindered by the massive accordion effect. I’d actually noticed lots and lots of braking on almost every corner. Even on that first left after the start/finish line, which wasn’t a corner that needed braking at all. I also took note of the relative disorganization in the peloton, what with Ryan, Chris, Nate and Nick — the normal ringleaders — having catted up to 3 in the weeks prior. So it was with all this information in mind that I ultimately decided to go for it, but I needed to wait for my move. We’d kept a high pace for the past couple of laps, so people would hopefully be sufficiently burned when I decided to go.

So I sat behind Leonard from xXx, for whatever reason with four to go he decided to lead it out, fairly slowly, which sucked as far as attacking goes, again I sat at 2^nd wheel. Well, going into the final turn, aka the “Amen Corner,” which was a roughly 120-degree left after a real long straight, I’m following his line out of habit, when halfway through the turn I realize he is taking a bad line through it. About halfway through, he looks and probably thinks, “Shit,” and slams some brakes, skids, and goes down. I had hit my brakes big-time (talking to the Kiwi Lomme after the race, he had been right behind me at this point, we both slowed down a bunch). The sweet lap stats provided to us because we had timing chips on the bike show that that lap was the slowest of the last 10. Surely can be chalked up to this massive slowdown. So I think for a brief minute, Now’s the time. Then I realize 1) no, you don’t attack after a crash you turd, C) too early. So I’m leading the race as we come into the start/finish with three laps to go, and toss myself over to the left side of the road — one of the smarter moves I made — rather than stay out front. A couple people started to pass me on the right, and I jumped back in, I think either third or fourth back. I hear the announcer say the prime for the next lap is some Hannah Banana bread. I mean, that sucks. My plan was to stay with the group, and now you’re saying I can get banana bread if I jump this lap? Well, at least if I go too early I at least walk away with something tasty. So I stayed right there, third or fourth, going around turn one, then maybe a couple people peeled off, because I remember being second wheel to another unattached guy in a green/black kit on the back stretch. I decided, You are mine, Mr. Banana Bread, and went. I hit it as hard as I could so I would have a little room going into that Amen Corner. I took it well enough, and I didn’t look back. Crossed the line and had the banana bread and thought, “Well this is it, do or die. Yesterday you died, try not to suck today.” I actually don’t think that coherent of a thought would have gone through my head at that time. It was probably more like, “Pedal, pedal — you love it, why do you — pedal, pedal — race bikes, you — pedal, pedal — FASTER DAMMIT! — idiot?” And with that, I had two laps to go by myself until I met certain victory. Certainly a couple people would come chase, no?

I take turn one, with two laps to go, and look back after the corner, and I had some room, for sure. From there, smile/grimace on my face, tongue hanging out, I just time-trialed it and didn’t look back until after the next Amen Corner. All I thought about besides pedaling really hard was how I would take that corner, and how I would slow up and catch my breath a little before the last, all-out lap, rather than hit the brakes really hard. Took it, looked back and didn’t even see the group behind me. Awesome. I turned forward and hit the gas again, riding alongside the far right side barriers for wind protection because if the pros do it and gain .3 second, hell, so will I. Apparently the cowbell rang and people probably yelled, indicating there was one lap left. I don’t recall hearing anything except for the pain signals being sent up to my brain from every part of my body. I think actually my legs felt OK, it was the other 1998 parts that were screaming the most outrageous, bloody murder. I knew what I had to do, and that was one more lap solo. The pace carrot was dangling in front of me, beckoning me to ride faster. I took the first turn full gas and it was actually at this point that I thought, My god I’m going to do this. I took the perfect line, took that next one sort of shitty, and kicked it on the back stretch. All I thought was, Faster! Faster! FASTER! I took a glance back on the stretch and didn’t even see the peloton, so I took that last 120-degreer conservatively, took a bigger glance after I rounded the corner just to be sure, and knew it was mine. I got out of the saddle, I think, somehow, because I don’t think I could feel my legs at that point. The smile came back as I approached 300 meters, looked back, saw no one, 200 meters, looked back again because surely someone had to be there, but still no one, 100 meters, arms in the air, couple of fist pumps, and I won. Holy fucking shit. How I didn’t throw myself off my bike during the post-up baffles me, considering once I crossed the finish line I pretty well collapsed on the left side of the road, wheezing like a chain-smoking grampaw. I grabbed a drink of water from a random guy who knew I could use it. Then… victory lap? Whoa. All too surreal. Hell yes.

Then I got back and talked to Henry and Lomme and a bunch of other guys, and apparently a large portion of the peloton didn’t even know I was off the front. So, my assessment of the distracted and disorganized bunch was correct. Sucks for Henry, who thought he'd won after taking the bunch sprint, especially after I heard him before the race tell a Cuttin' Crew guy that he had enough points to upgrade, but wanted to actually win one before moving up.

In the money, on the podium, top spot. Champions’ jersey, panda beanie baby, the aforementioned banana bread, and some cash. Not too shabby considering I was trying to force myself to stay with the group. I weigh 159 pounds, I'm in the best shape of my life, I found the love(s) of my life (a 2007 Trek Madone, 2003 Specialized Allez and a 2006 Novara Randonee tourer), and the weather is ridiculous. Bring on the Oakbrook RR, I say.

Tumbly Rumbly

I woke up at 4:37 a.m. with a large grumbling in my stomach.

Wait, no, that was just an earthquake.

Quitting

I quit. I've probably raced in 20 races and been dropped in about half, but I've always finished, even if it's in dead last place. Finishing for finishing's sake. Not Saturday. I quit. I gave up. There were nine of us, I was obviously the weakest, and I didn't feel like riding another lap by myself, so I quit. Turned around, rode back to my friends' apartment where I was staying.

Then watched Breach, and there's a scene where an FBI agent under much pressure asks himself, "Should I quit?" Got me thinking about giving up. You pour your heart and soul into something, or on the other end of the spectrum, you half-assedly saunter into something and, in both cases, you ultimately decide it isn't worth your while, for whatever reason, to go on. Sometimes it's the logical thing to do, as I feel it was in my bike race. Sometimes it's fear. Maybe the reason I've pretty well given up writing is because I fear failure, so I'd rather just quit and not do it than write something shitty, like a blog called Taco Mail, and have someone tell me my writing sucks. Or you try so desperately hard to obtain something and you continually get shot down, and eventually some "it" (or many "its") takes its toll on you and you crack.

Part of me wishes I just finished the race. In last place. Two minutes behind everybody. But I didn't. A toll is being taken, and I'm slowly giving up. But that's other stuff. And this is bike racing. And it's only March.

What... the... blog

The beauty of the blog. Where modest writer-types can pour their hearts out as if no one's looking, when really all they want is for that friend that they're obviously referring to in the post to read it and somehow react.

So yeah, I done got me a blog.

I'll probably just end up talking about bike races and music on this thing. The two biggies at this point in my life. And I plan on pouring my heart out about girls. Lots of tears, lots of fascinating love-talk from a 24-year-old who feels sorry for himself. Wait, am I joking and being sarcastic or was that an actual attempt to...?

I'll leave you with a "we suck," culled from the clever mind of an Amusement editor emeritus: Scatological to the Miami Student's logical.