Over the Glens

Quite a new one for today. I agreed to go with Jamie to Stirling for a road ride. After much debate, we decided to not bother doing a loop around that city and then have to wait for mountain bikers, so we ended up opting to ride from Stirling all the way back to St Andrews. We were both over-confident enough to start our ride with a painfully steep hill all of 2 kilometers into our ride; with a nice average of over 9% our legs were screaming with 110 kilometers left to ride. Some sweeping and rolling hills allowed us to recover for the 3 blocks of serious climbing that lay in front of us. After skirting the A9 we started to head up into the misty glens, passing Gleneagles (the town, not the resort), and the scenery became more and more stunning. It felt as though we had been transported many miles north west, into the heart of the highlands. I always love riding somewhere new, especially when the roads get exceptionally twisty. After a fast descent through the thick cloud we turned and began another long climb deeper into the mists--these roads were incredibly quiet, often experiencing 1-2 cars for every time we turned onto a new road. After pushing relatively easily to the top of the glen we plummeted down a twisty, dirty, white knuckle descent. This continued until a quick coffee break before the spin home.

Winter Almost in the Rearview Mirror

It's been a long, snowy winter. Sorry for not checking in more often, but here are a few pics of the past months. Mud, snow, cold. Nothing too new. Managed to hit Bear Mountain for the first time, a famous training ground for NY based cyclists (including Big George when he was a kid).

Turmoil

The cycling world is in chaos. Rome (the UCI, our lovely empire) is burning. Everything is upside down then thrown in a blender to get thoroughly mixed up. At the same time, the level of work is rising while temperatures and daylight is dropping, quite rapidly. I bundled up against the wind and cold and set off not knowing exactly where I was going; a first, as I have become well-acquainted with the roads of the East Neuk. And yet, that feeling of adventure soon pervaded my psyche: light butterflies in the stomach coupled with an excitement to find hills unclimbed, descents, turns, and just roads unridden. I couldn't wait to see what awaited me; I'd picked roads that looked as squiggly as possible and hoped that they were paved; if not, at least I had 25mm tires on. I was looking to take my bike over whatever lay under my wheels, tackle whatever laid before me. Despite their polarizing nature, I think the only medium that captures this essence of cycling, this adventure anymore is the Rapha Continental. We've all seen the Tour ride up the Tourmalet thousands of times, we've all seen the peloton tackle the Trouée d'Arenberg. These are usually unobtainable for the average cyclist, they lie in far off lands to be ridden only by the best of the best. But the Rapha Continental discovers roads, routes, climbs, that are everywhere, they inspire me (personally) to go look for a new road; because maybe, just maybe, you will crack a grin wider than you could descending the hairpins of Alpe d'Huez.

Mind Games

We all (should, at least) check the weather fastidiously among other things before throwing a leg over. Plot routes, figure out how to keep the cold and wet out as long as possible, last minute tinkering with the bike. Throw the water bottles in their cages and boot up the computer and that's when the mist starts. We've been at this point frequently before: literally steps away from that first revolution before setting off and yet all the plans thrown out the window. I've changed every piece of clothing before in order to make sure I'd stay warm and something resembling dry. I've chopped off 20 miles of roads, turned around, or even just sacked the whole ride. Thankfully today just a mist, lucky I gambled on the wet weather clothing. As I spin towards the sports center, the mist intensifies, becomes heavier, until it's drizzling. Can't let down the other guys now. Get to the sports center and I realize its plenty cold with no sun. Oh well, I'm here now, can't change anything really and after I get the legs pumping and the blood flowing I'll be plenty warm. Now it's raining. Not drizzling, not misting, not damp, not humid. Just rain. And plenty of it. The roads were practically submerged at some points. The legs warmed up just as we hit my favorite little ribbon of road; quiet, rough, wet, and twisty. The perfect road can completely change your mindset: after that, it was all extensions through mud, puddles, hills all the way to a glorious cup of coffee and a warm shower.

Indian Summer Sky

There isn't a cloud in the sky today in Fife--it is something of a rarity, the sun as the needle poking through the haystack of cloud, fog, and rain that pervades the British Isles in the autumn. I've also been told that the weather is really warm. For October I guess it is, but I'm still not ready for anything but truly warm summertime temperatures; however, riding at this time of year is always enjoyable. Taking leftover form from the summer and using it aimlessly: gunning up a climb, hammering over gravé, certainly not at racing speeds, but still strongly enough to have fun with it. The legs don't shine and sparkle as brilliantly as the summer, they don't get as hot, it takes longer to get the engine ticking up to speed; but there is something lingering, a feeling, a good memory. The legs will get colder, weaker as the season trundles along and brings about winter, work, more class, papers--and that is ok. As the Indian summer passes and takes form with it, we can look for new objectives: instead of fine-tuning fitness or targeting races, pursue the mythical souplesse and the timeless class that comes with it.



Saturday:


Sunday:

Schadenfreude

Rule #9

If you are out riding in bad weather, it means you are a badass. Period.

Fair-weather riding is a luxury reserved for Sunday afternoons [not today] and wide boulevards. Those who ride in foul weather – be it cold, wet, or inordinately hot – are members of a special club of riders who, on the morning of a big ride, pull back the curtain to check the weather and, upon seeing rain falling from the skies, allow a wry smile to spread across their face. This is a rider who loves the work.

When you've mentally prepared for a tough, wet, cold, nasty day, there is nothing sweeter than seeing an ominous sky, as described above. Today was one of those days; meeting up before the ride the darker clouds were building on the horizon. The mist and light drizzle came within only a few miles and the heavy rains soon followed. There is a perverse sense of gratification that while you're sitting on the front in driving rain and wind that somehow, behind you, everyone else is more miserable and in more pain. The cycling version of Schadenfreude. Alberto Contador recently said something to that end; essentially: "I know when my legs hurt, everyone else must be hurting more. So I attack then." Let me be clear, I am not trying to be mean or act as a masochist to any rider but I guess feeling tougher is an ego boost to a simple male mind. The rain did stop before the first major hill yet the roads were still soaked through (and would be until the end of the ride) and rising out of the saddle the group quickly shredded to pieces. At the top, some headed straight home while John and I soldiered on, through muddy and twisty roads, ever careful to not lose that minuscule patch of grip that lays between us and ending up in a ravine. Rain brings the limits that much further down, making it that much easier to reach them. But there's nothing better than knifing through narrow turns on narrower roads; trees and shrubs brushing your arms with their branches; letting the physics of cycling work: managing to stay upright despite the absurd angles of lean. This is the most--by far--joyful part of cycling. It's why we seek the descent to a climb and look for ancient back roads instead of characterless motorways. Perhaps a soaked Lombardia highlighted and intensified these feelings. Photos by Sirotti via steephill are here. Another long climb lay in the way of my tiring body and home but the sun was burning off the gray, peeking through the clouds before finally bursting through with the last downhill miles left. I love the work.

Random Cults

A dose of the purple kool-aid (kidding); some pictures from the Cults Road--my favorite stretch out here--and a couple from the nearby area