Buying Speed

I had the TT bike out on demo this weekend to see if the theory of the bike fit would translate into reality. Last week on the Retul rig I had replicated the configuration that a full on TT bike would give me. This meant sitting right over the chainset centre point with my elbows pretty well over the steering tube head and my forearms largely ahead of the front wheel axle. What does that mean? It's hard to describe to a non-cyclist, but the easiest way I can get it across is to ask you to think of a mum on an ordinary bike, with a baby chair on the cross bar. We've all seen those, haven't we? Right, think of them switching places. Mum is now on the cross bar, with the baby on the saddle behind. Still don't get it? You must have given your pal a "backer", taking him home on the back of your bike with his feet on the rear wheel nuts while you laboured away on the front. Essentially, your'e riding a bike wrong; you're too far forward. Basically the normal way to ride a bike is to be "with" the bike, balanced, ready to shift about as necessary. You wouldn't normally put yourself into a position where you fundamentally had less control. Up till now, the only time I'd done something so obviously and fundamentally "wrong" in terms of bike setup was when I used to take my sister's bike to do my paper round when I was 9 years old. I'd lied about my age to get a job at Beauchamp's newsagents on Harrowside in my seaside home of Blackpool. The market for bagging jobs (picking up people's luggage and transporting it to the hotels) was getting tight due to a combination of "Fat Jack" and his protection racket and a bunch of upstarts from up Central undercutting us South Shore pioneer entrepreneurs. So I needed regular work. Beauchamp's clearly weren't too fussy about the age laws. Officially I wasn't allowed to work at all until I was 13, but by that ripe old age I'd already been through two careers - bagging and paper delivery - and was in the bakery game. But back at age 9, I was a very skinny kid, and I needed my sister Jenny's bike to actually carry the papers. I balanced the bag on the pedal and walked it round. Once I'd finished I could ride it, but I had to ride with one leg through the frame, as I couldn't sit on the saddle and reach the pedals. My arms went straight up to grab the handlebars, and I don't remember for certain but logic now tells me that I can't possibly have been able to use the brakes. Now clearly, you wouldn't choose to ride a bike like that, it makes no sense. And it's not safe, as I proved one day failing to get round a corner and narrowly missing a car coming the other way. To this day, I have no idea how I didn't go under the front of that car. I can still shut my eyes and remember the incident clearly. So since then I've worked hard on having a bike that is fit for purpose: balanced, with good handling, decent brakes and offering a reasonable amount of comfort. Until now, when I'm chasing speed at the expense of all else. The TT bike gives me that, and the price I pay is to perch myself in this strange, unnatural position which initially felt like I was falling over the front of the bike as I am sitting so far forward. But it's fast. And frankly, that's all that matters. I wanted more speed, and that's what I have unashamedly gone out and bought. I'm still training hard, but I have bought an advantage. Paid for it in hard cash.

I got the demo bike and went out along Chrissie Fields on Saturday, down towards the Golden Gate bridge and - crucially - past The Sports Basement which is the local hangout for all the local cyclists. I got well warmed up and got a little bit used to the twitchiness of the handling. There had to be a fair bit of commitment, as it was clear any mistake, any unseen rut in the road, anyone pulling out and making me swerve, would all end in burnt lycra and gravel rash. But the bike was fast. I went round the roundabout and back past Sports Basement on full gas, down on the tribars, legs pumping and heart pounding. A couple of guys were riding together in front of me, and just acted like the hare as I slipped into full greyhound mode and chased them down. "SWOOOSH!" I didn't just pass them; I absolutely smoked them. I was doing 30MPH on the flat, and loving it. I caught up with a car and he seemed to hold back a bit. Was he timechecking me? I couldn't tell but he kept pace for a while, and then I went past him, too. Before I knew it I was back at Chrissie fields lights where I had to stop. My legs were burning, my heart was pounding, I was full of adrenaline and grinning from ear to ear. I tried to look cool but my heaving chest and stupid grin gave it all away. I don't deny it, this is an expensive bike. I'm not defending buying speed like this. I simply don't care; I just love that bike!

End of an era

Ssshhhh!!!

Can you hear that? its the sound of the citadels collapsing in the distance. Life will not be the same again. I can remember the Berlin Wall coming down, 25 years ago, and this feels the same. Back then, in 1989, I was tremendously excited by the change. We had live pictures on the TV news of East Germans smashing the walls that had held them back, suppressed them for all those years. And the thing was, they weren't being shot. Nobody was stopping it from happening. West Germans were helping; people were sat on top of the wall, singing. People were in the previously-divided streets, dancing. The enormity of this is difficult to get across now, but then Germany - in fact much of Europe - was divided. East versus West; Communist versus Democracy. Suppression versus Freedom. We were afraid of the Eastern Bloc, as it was known. Our knowledge of it was delivered by our press, our TV, and our politicians, and was clearly not an entirely accurate view but it was all we had. There was no internet, no YouTube, to tell us any different. First hand experience was practically nil, and pretty well limited to seeing a few dodgy-looking female athletes with bigger shoulders than my Uncle Bill, a merchant seaman. And bigger beards too, most of them. We found out later how the athlete's camps were like prison camps, and the athletes were all but guinea pigs for the drugs programmes designed to demonstrate Eastern-Bloc superiority. 

Anyway, simliar earth-shattering events took place last night on The Embarcadero, with the Young Buck finally taking down the Wise One. For weeks I have been able to keep young Chris at bay with my wily old ways making up for any actual lack of speed, but now it's all over. Chris, Chloe and I were doing some above-race-pace 1K efforts. 5 times I led them out with 3:55s, and I was pleased with that (Its a tad over 6:30/mile pace), but there's an unwritten rule between us that the final rep is a race and Chris had clearly been sandbagging. 5 times I watched him puff wearily up to the end of the rep, like a man about to breath his last. 5 times I witnessed him shuffling along reluctantly dragging his poor aching body to the end of the rep. And 5 times I was quietly satisfied with keeping the young Turk at bay once again. "OK, last rep!" Chris chirruped. I should have known. "3-2-1. Go!" I counted down, it being my role as Senior Man, Leader and Fastest to call the rep timings. BANG! Chris was off, his weary appearance transformed into a running machine all of a sudden. Gone was the shuffle, replaced by high knees, an aggressive posture, straight back, and a decent cadence. He pulled away, and it was all I could do to keep him within striking distance. He maintained his pace but wasn't increasing his advantage and I planned to take him down in the last 100 yards. I was working really hard, and I did have a little discussion with myself about whether "winning" a 1K training rep was really important enough to dig this deep. "Indeed it is!" I concluded, and dug some more, pulling within 5 yards and ready for the final push past as we approached The Ferry Building which marks the finish. Or did. On this occasion the Great God Garmin dropped the flag short. I was beaten! Chris was relatively gracious, to be fair to him, demanding only that I reported his victory to the world but otherwise not gloating too much. OK, Chris, you got it. Now, as Senior Man, I offer you this advice: "Go out and be the triathlete you can be. Drop 10 pounds, increase your running cadence, take some swim lessons and get a decent bike. All your runs should be like that last rep. Stop being lazy. Yesterday's achievement is today's baseline. Commit to your sport, and go out there and do it.!

Black Lesbian Aftershave

I make no apologies for the blog title. It's nothing to do with me, honest. After Saturday's bike fit - which took over 5 hours! - I felt a little bit guilty about neglecting my family. To be fair, this had been declared "my weekend" where I was going to do all the things I wanted to do and had not had a chance to do over the last 3 months while I was training for Marin Triathlon.I'm not talking here about a weekend away in St Moritz or dining at Le Manoir aux Quat' Saisons, I'm talking about fairly routine stuff. Buying underwear, for example. So the weekend was officially mine to do with as I pleased, and the bike fit was my bit of luxury, but nonetheless I did feel a need to treat Jo. This was especially so, since she had even fulfilled her side of our agreement regarding tea in bed this morning. The agreement (which I had written into our pre-nup and is legally enforceable should the need arise) states that on "my" weekends she makes the tea. Normally she falls short in this respect. I lie there from about 5:45 AM waiting, giving her the odd sly nudge, but she just snoozes peacefully on. Sometimes till way after 7:00AM. It's ridiculous. What kind of innocence allows that kind of slumber? My own version of sleep has me writhing and turning, wrestling with the duvet and pillows for a few hours before I can get up and get on with the day. It certainly doesn't allow multiple hours of snoozing. Anyway, this morning I think she must have set the alarm or something because there it was - a golden cuppa on my bedside table. Once I'd instructed my lawyer to halt proceedings I lay there and enjoyed it like no other. Bliss! I read "Triathlon 220" magazine on the iPad, and all was well.

So clearly I needed to repay this treat, and when I got back from the fitting session we agreed to go out to the local jazz club. This where my pal Louisiana Joe plays, and it's a totally random setup. The bar sells one line of food. Cheese. We've had all 3 meal combinations: melted cheese; not melted cheese; and cheese with a plate of lettuce (that's the balanced one). But it's of little consequence. The bar is just a place where cool dudes meet. We go there, and we aren't cool although we are accepted. During the early part of the evening various people turn up, instruments arrive (with or without the right people) and eventually music starts. The personnel varies, although there are about 3 or 4 regulars. Tonight, a "band leader" clearly emerged. Although he was apparently as cool and relaxed as all the others (you can't really tell who is just there having a drink, and who is in the band), I began to detect some stress in his body language. I was really interested in this, it was people-watching at a new level. You know how it is when you see someone in certain circumstances and they give the appearance of being everything you want to be? And then eventually you realise that they are just like you, have the same fears, concerns and shortcomings. This was one of those. Cool Dude revealed the stresses of trying to get a band of 8 individuals and their instruments together to put on a show. This isn't a money thing, They play for tips and I doubt it goes far between 8. But they are musicians, and they want to play for you. So Cool Dude was having a hard time while I enjoyed every minute of it. Eventually, it turned out that the car with the drum kit and double bass wasn't where it should be, and the bass player and drummer were getting stuck into a glass or two while Cool Dude worried about getting everything together. About an hour passed before all 8, with their instruments, were crammed into their allocated 5 square yards of bar space and started playing a bit of John Coltrane. The set was loose, in all senses of the word. Some of the musicians periodically wandered out either into the audience, or onto the street, to talk to friends or have a smoke, and Cool Dude's stress levels were visibly rising. He couldn't get the band playing tight, and his clarinet playing was a cut above the rest. He stole a couple of unscripted solos and poured his stress out through his clarinet. It was good to watch. He got a bit annoyed with the horn player who seemed to have about a half-second delay built in, but double bass and piano were doing just great, while the tom-tom guy inhabited a happy though slightly displaced world of his own. Then a girl who I hadn't seen before turned up with a sax. She looked like a Marks and Spencer's supervisor, and about as different from Cool Dude as you could get, and it was clear she and Cool Dude  had never met. She took her spot, exchanged a quick glance with Cool Dude, and BOOM! You'd have thought they'd been together for years. They sparkled and grew right in front of my eyes, and you could see the chemistry working. Musical chemistry. When they finished the set they were high-fiving and giving out big grins: they had found soul mates and it was lovely to witness.

By this time, Jo and I were drinking herbal tea as more wine would have rendered Sunday useless. I think it might have been the first time the bar had served tea, it involved a lot of cupboard-opening and searching. Meanwhile an even cooler dude than Cool Dude had come in, and I hoped he would be a saxophonist who would blow us all away. He wore all white, including white socks and shoes, and dreadlocks that might have been white or grey, I couldn't tell. Sadly, he just sat around and looked cool; he might or might not be a sax player, I never found out, but I still loved experiencing the cool aura. The band's set finished, and the boss man thanked the audience. "We are Black Lesbian Aftershave; thank you very much." There was a round of applause and a ripple of laughter. I wasn't sure what the correct response to that might be, so I just kept quiet and tried to look cool. A great evening.

Having a (bike) fit

This is nothing to do with road rage - I'm over that. No - I'm getting a new bike, and I want a full-on TT (Time Trial) bike. In other words, one built for speed, The bike I have now, and have had for about 4 years, is basically a road bike with a TT front end, which means that while I can still get down onto the aero bars and be aerodynamically efficient I still sit back behind the chainset. Imagine a vertical line drawn up from the centre of the pedals. All road bikes have the saddle well back from that line, but TT bikes go closer and closer to it. Closer to the vertical line means you are nearly above the centre line of the pedals and you're pushing straight down. Which means you are more efficient, so if you work as hard as on the road bike you go faster. But, its a radical position as your whole body is tipped forwards, and I wasn't sure if mine would cope with it. I was concerned that either it simply would not bend that far or be too uncomfortable to sustain, or that I would lose power and not gain it. So, before I lashed out the cash I got myself a computerised bike fit.
This involved more technology than is reasonable, and two video cameras, while I was wired up with laser diodes to locate all my joints and pivot points. I then cycled on an infinitely-adjustable rig while the software and the tech guy measured angles, cadence, power and so on. The end result is that I simulated riding on a selection of TT bikes while making sure I could be comfortable and efficient. At first, it felt like I was riding off a cliff, but once I got used to it I felt more natural. The output video looks like I'm running on the bike
The fit took 5.5 hours! It had better work. I can't say how much it cost, but let's put it this way: I could have got an Armani suit and come back with change. That said, I don't think an Armani suit would make me quicker on a bike, and that's all I'm interested in. "Why?" you might ask; well it so happens I've got a bit of a challenge on my mind, and I'm going to need to be in top shape, with top kit. Jo may kill me when she finds out, but I'm sure she already suspects I'm up to something.

Road Rage

Had a run-in with a guy on a motorcycle yesterday, first time I've really had any issues with traffic here. I was on my bike, on my way to getting a high-tech bike fit. I was in with the traffic on highway 101, known as "Van Ness Street" at  the  point I was riding. It's a dual carriageway with 3 lanes either side (I suppose that technically makes it a triple carriageway) but it's not as imposing as it sounds, it's just a city street with parked cars and lights and all sorts. It's actually the boundary where they managed to stop the fires in the city after the 1908 quake. It's a really wide street, and the fires were running out of control so they dynamited all the houses running up to it and created a break big enough to stop the fire. As I said, I was "in with the traffic" meaning I was just keeping up with the flow, not getting in anybody's way or vice versa, no issues. But this biker thought I had no right to be there and from the safety of his machine, yelled a load of abuse and told me to "get off the fucking highway". Now we aren't talking high speed freeway here, it's a city street, and I've very right to be on it. It might give you an idea of the average speed if I say that it wasn't a huge effort to put the bike in the big ring and catch the sad little chap up at the next lights. He didn't seem so brave when I pulled across his motorcycle and put my face in his to politely ask what his problem was. I extended his vocabulary somewhat, told him to take the next left or I'd pull his head off at the next lights, and carried on my way. All a bit unnecessary really, but I'm not about to start taking abuse from anyone, least of all someone who thinks they can hurl it and leave the scene. I'm glad it didn't go any further, for two main reasons: firstly, I'm well aware of how a Lycra-clad cyclist in plastic-soled shoes looks in a fight; secondly, because the headline "immigrant attacks San Franciscan citizen" and the subsequent deportation wouldn't look good on my CV.

Marin Triathlon. DNS

Technology and sport

This isn't going to be as boring as the title might suggest. In fact it's bloody hilarious! Chris has moved into the 21st century. Let me wind back a bit.....

I may have had a tiny rant about the amount of technology that is now necessary, it seems, for me and my "fellow Californians" to go out for a run or ride. Receiving a phone call while shooting down a hill, to warn me about the danger of the hill - that was at best ironic, at worst downright dangerous.  Being honest, though, I have brought much of this on myself. I bought the power-metered pedals, and the new high-tech Garmin 920XT. With my new Garmin I can even measure my "SWOLF" score. In case you're interested that's a combination of your stroke count (don't make up your own jokes boys, this is my blog) and your time to swim a length. The lower the better (39, since you ask, but I currently have no idea if that's good, bad or indifferent). Last Saturday I went to Marin to recce the bike and run course in preparation for this weekend's race. The idea was to use my new power meter pedals to record my stats, then use that as a guide for the race. No more guessing how hard I need to work on the bike for me. Now I would be able to let the Great God Garmin tell me how hard to work. However, I had fitted the new pedals, which contain all the tech stuff, but not the right cleats on my shoes. In short, this meant I couldn't clip my cycling shoes into my pedals. A fairly fundamental shortcoming. I had to revert to my old-fashioned, non-power enabled pedals so I couldn't record the data. But if you think that's pretty stupid, coach Dave went way past that - he forgot his Di2 battery. The modern cyclist, once he has connected up all the necessary technology to get out on the road, now uses electronics to change gear. Electronics are fast, efficient, reliable and are absolutely the future. But they need a battery. Without a battery the gears default to the hardest gear ratio you have, which means its unrideable. So we had driven for an hour over to San Rafael in Marin County with some very specific and scientific objectives in mind that would give us an advantage over all those poor suckers who still ride on feel and change gears manually. But I couldn't get my data, and Dave couldn't ride at all! That would be SUCKERS 1; TECHNOLOGISTS 0

I won't even mention the fun-filled 48 hours I had trying to get Garmin / Pedals / Apple / Strava doing what they should. But that's all history now; I am fully empowered, totally enabled, utterly technology-bound. And I have a spare Garmin with very little resale value, as it can only monitor Heart Rate, Speed, Distance, Cadence, Elevation and Location. Which is where Chris comes in. Chris's idea of technological edginess is a high-viz jacket, but he knows a bargain when he sees one, and a free Garmin is a bargain alright. So Chris is going to give it a try once I manage to get a mule to take it across a few borders for me. Chris, as I might have mentioned previously, is the original no-
nonesense "bloke". A proper man's man if you're still allowed to use that phrase in the UK (It was almost certainly banned in California years ago). He doesn't have time for frippery such as Garmin monitors, and I suspect the relationship between him and the 310XT may be a short one. But here's the interesting bit that I promised at the start of this narrative: he got so caught up in the whole technology thing (no doubt a bit delirious with the acquisition of something for nothing) that he took a "selfie". Chris! A "selfie"! He's gone right down in my estimation now.