"Racing is easy. *Training* is hard." -Frankie Andreau (Boring stories)

Boring stories, sans humor, and with no real conclusion...



I raced today.


They call me the yellow-armed bandit.


OK, I raced yesterday at Waterford Hills (a car-road-race course), too, but the results were rather poor - the person in front of me let a gap open up. Of course, this is a major faux pas, as getting out of the draft in road biking is roughly equivalent to 'getting hung out to dry' in Nascar - but without being able to catch back on at the end.

Now, by the end of last year, these gaps were the kind of thing that I could close. No problem, no anxiety, thirty seconds of time-trialing caught me back on.

Not so much yesterday. I don't know if it was the cold weather, general malaise, or (heaven forfend) just a lack of fitness, but I couldn't close the gap. Despite a half-hour of trying.


So I was a little anxious about my performance coming into "the" race today. I put "the" in quotation marks, because, as luck would have it, I could race three times today. I decided to try all three.



Race Level: C (26 riders)

The first race was really something I would've avoided, had I not had a bunch of teammates in it. It's really for beginners, and although the definition of 'beginner' is somewhat vague, I probably should not qualify. Still, the only person on our team who'd raced this event before recommended it, and I figured, that, at a minimum, I could chase some breaks down and lead-out my teammates for the final sprint.

We did well. I chased down several breaks, although I probably went to hard; at the end, I wasn't able to lead out my teammate well. He ended up coming around me much earlier than he should've had to in order to compensate, but he still sprinted up the final hill for the win. Another teammate sprinted past me for second. Although I was content to just coast to the line, the other competitors seemed to be dying, while I was soft-pedaling... so I put in a few good kicks, no real effort, and managed third.

So we got 1-2-3. And I think I'm kicked out of that race.





Race Level: B (~20 riders?)


This is where I really should've been racing. Same theory - chase down breaks, lead out teammate. Drastically different results, as I was on the nose of the peloton for much of the race, attempting to chase down a strong four-man break. I failed. Then, in the last lap, I was looking for my teammates to get them on my wheel - they were on the right side of the peloton; I was on the left. I went past the front, and slowed down the right side, looking to let them grab my wheel; but no luck. I ended up 11th in the 'ton, with, I believe, 3 men still in the break, so ~14th overall.

One of the benefits of keeping my nose in the wind for most of the race: I accidentally won a preme.

To the victors... wait a minute... To the preme winners...


Race Level: A (~40 riders)


I was hoping to race this just for experience and training. I was impressed with the pack - usually, in C's, people keep their handlebars two or three feet apart. B's, might be one or two. A's were more like six inches, and, more importantly, no one was panicking.

While I was marvelling at this, someone put in a big acceleration. A teammate said that someone in front of me let another gap open up. All I (vaguely) recall is chasing... and chasing... and failing.



So, today I worked as hard as I could. I failed. But tomorrow... I'll be stronger.











(Actually tomorrow I'm taking a rest day, but I thought that was a good quote).

Russell Younkins

Over Easter, I learned two stories about my Grandfather that I'd never heard before.

Prologue:

After World War I, the British, French, and Russians secretly agreed to partition the former Ottoman Empire - basically the entire middle-east. Out of this agreement, Britain gained control of the territory that was to eventually become Iraq; they theoretically relinquished most control in 1932, but after a coup in 1941 they re-instituted their own regime.

Which provides a background as to where our story begins. During World War II, my grandfather was in the middle of circumnavigating the globe, stopping off at various pseudo-British (Australia, Iraq, etc) ports-of-call to support the War effort. Iraq, then as now, was in political and economic upheaval, and when he disembarked, he was met by legions of malnourished beggars.

Of course, there was actually food to be had in Iraq. So he, along with two of his compatriots, went into the local Bakery.

And bought everything they had. Then gave it away.

Or, at least, he tried to give it away. The beggars were overcome by "irrational exuberance" (to steal an Alan Greenspan term); so irrational, in fact, that it gradually evolved into somewhat-massive rioting.

The authorities were not amused; and Mr. Younkins was declared "persona-non-grata", which was intriguing, because you would've expected them to say "he's not welcome" in Arabic, not Spanish.

Try to do something nice, right?





Which brings us to our second anecdote of the day (the "Try to do something nice" was the segue, in case you weren't paying attention).


My father's - and grandfather's, (ad-almost-infinitum) family live to the Northeast of Pittsburgh, in a fairly sparsely populated area. Although my father claims otherwise, I secretly believe that every family within a ten-mile radius is related to me in some manner or another (which also conveniently explains why he went to Ligonier to find a girlfriend).

In any case, in about 1939 or 1940 or so, one of these not-incredibly-close-on-the-family-tree relations of mine was stricken by Polio. He was ten years old at the time. Of course, in those years, your primary means of entertainment were playing with the other kids outside - so imagine being sick, inside, ten years old, no television, no video games, no internet, no yo-yo (o.k., I'm making up the part about no yo-yo, but the point is, it'd be boring for a thirty year old, so it had to be terrible for a ten year old).

My grandfather was eighteen at the time. He was going to the movies with a local girl; but he had another thought at the same time. He went to pick up the Polio-stricken child, to take him to the movie as well.

And of course, when I say 'pick-up', I mean it quite literally. He carried the ten-year-old into the theatre and sat him down, so he could enjoy being out of the house for once.







Growing up, when I was visiting my grandparents, there was a certain quote, framed above the refrigerator. I remember as a child, barely being able to see it; I could make out some of the scripted-letters, but not all. Time passed, and I could make out all of the letters, but didn't understand all the words - the word 'Serenity', in particular, was beyond my limited vocabulary.

Eventually I understood what the entire quote said. And then, a while later, I understood what it meant.




God grant me the
Serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can; and
Wisdom to know the difference.

Most of my favorite quotes are of a completely different style - they're quotes that embrace constant action; constant attack; constant achievements. This prayer, this quote, acknowledges imperfection, but inspires a person to counter that imperfection; to challenge yourself to consider what the best course of action every time a problem is encountered.

Since I could read and understand those words, it's been one of my favorites, and in my mind, it will forever be linked to my Grandparents' house. Believe it or not, that prayer reminds me of them more than anything else in the world, and I've shared it with several others during tumultuous times in their lives.







Last Saturday, I was cycling up a steep road, less than a half a mile from my parents house. I spotted a trinket on the side of the road, and dismissed investigating it further - this spot on the road is particularly steep, I was going uphill, and losing my momentum would mean I'd have a difficult time resuming going uphill.

Ten seconds or so afterwards, I changed my mind, and turned around, riding the brakes going the wrong way down the street. I stopped, and picked up this:



After 85 years on this Earth, my Grandfather relinquished his grasp this past Friday. He left behind a loving wife of 60 years, four children, all married, ten grandchildren, and nine great-grandchildren. May he leave a lasting legacy.


Russell C. Younkins
July 20, 1922 - March 21, 2008

How many did you count?

I counted correctly.

Weather

Hallelujah


Wow. There's a high pressure zone coming; and thankfully it's going to be above 40 degrees pretty much every day this week. I'm not saying that I'm sick of winter weather, but I'd rather watch daytime television than spend another day in the cold.

Could this be the end of winter? Tune in next week to find out!