The Jamoke

Theory of the Green Hair.

2009-08-10T12:45:00.003-04:00

Almost exactly a year ago, I read an article in the New York Times about internet trolls. For the unaware, trolls are anonymous malcontents that populate internet forums, getting their jollies out of creating havoc.

A reporter tries 'infiltrated' their ranks. Although I generally find these bottom feeders to be sociopaths... the logic that one troll used to justify his own misdeeds particularly enlightening.

The reporter described one conversation:

“You have green hair,” he told me. “Did you know that?”

“No,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I look in the mirror. I see my hair is black.”

“That’s uh, interesting. I guess you understand that you have green hair about as well as you understand that you’re a terrible reporter.”

“What do you mean? What did I do?”

“That’s a very interesting reaction,” Fortuny said. “Why didn’t you get so defensive when I said you had green hair?” If I were certain that I wasn’t a terrible reporter, he explained, I would have laughed the suggestion off just as easily.

Enlightening.

Monterrey, Big Sur, and Naciemiento Fergusson.

2009-08-03T12:05:00.010-04:00

Yesterday I went to the state championship road race, in Monterrey.

I've been told that Monterrey, is the only place in the country with a 'Meditteranean' climate... which was explained to me as 70 degrees year round.

Of course, when I was there, it was frigid in the morning, threatening to rain. I mean REALLY cold. My teeth were quite literally clattering. BRRRR. Of course being in shorts and a bike jersey didn't really help matters... so I ended up slathering on some embrocation* and hoping for the best.

*em·bro·ca·tion (em-bro-kay-shun) n.
1. Vaseline mixed with Habanero Peppers, which, when applied to the skin, forces the body to believe it's REALLY HOT out.
2. Ouchie.

Fog Rolling in off of the Pacific - Monterrey in the Cold.

Once on course, I felt pretty good. There were 6 laps, 10 miles each, with a short-ish hill in the middle - maybe a two to three minute climb.

Two to three minute climbs are not my forte. I wasn't going to be champion of those hills.

So my strategy had to be a breakaway from the group - hope to create a separation that the group assumes they can close later... when, hopefully, the group argues amongst itself about who should do the work.

The first lap panned out rather slow - everyone knew that the race wasn't going to be won In any case, with about twenty-five miles to go, a few people went off the front of the pack. I was at the back, minding my own business... but I seized the opportunity. I went to the side of the pack, gripped and ripped, and a few seconds later was off the front. Another racer had the same idea, and followed me.

We quickly got a hundred yard lead, and started taking turns out in front, shielding each other from the wind. After a few turns, the road turned downhill, and we started descending... we had been flying, going close to 30 MPH, and now we were going faster. This went on for a few miles... and as I flew around a corner, I glanced behind me, to see the entire pack chasing us.

Oops.

Well, it's next to impossible to get away from a pack that doesn't want to let you go; the effects of drafting are too great. I resigned myself to getting back in the pack. Oh well, says I... a pack finish is good enough for me... which would've been the case, had the pack not sprinted up the next silly little hill, dropping me in the process.

Bottom line: I attacked at the wrong time, and I'm not good enough at two-minute efforts.

Better to have risked everything and lose, right?

So afterwards, hell, I was in Monterrey, and even though the fog was above, I figured I should go around and about, maybe head to Big Sur, maybe go for a bike ride.

I did.

So here's your reward for going through that drivel: PICTURES. Well, they're supposed to be eye-candy, but sorry, some of them are eye-little-grains-of-sand, what with the weather and all. Some of them are a little spooky, though, I still like them.

Ocean-front Cow Pasture.

Only in California.

Climbing into the Fog.

Spooky bridge.

When I got to Big Sur, it was actually clearing up, and at some point, when you get above 1000' of elevation or so, you get out of the fog, anyway.

Here's the last glimpses of fog.

Looking back at the Pacific Fog.

Another Saturday bites the dust.

Diamond Valley, Rock Creek Road, Sonora Pass

2009-08-03T11:35:00.011-04:00

Warning: heavy cycling content ahead...

Well, I raced in the Desert.

My race started at ~11:00 in the morning. It was HOT. HOT. HOT. And it was at altitude. Hydration was going to be a big key, so I kept downing water. LOTS of water.

Feel free to skip the rest of this text and go straight to the pictures. I WILL NEVER KNOW. (Read that as a warning: boring cycling story ahead).

It can be surprising, but racing is very much a team sport; results generally indicate the strength of the entire team. Your teammates might ride in front of you, shielding you from the wind, so that, at some point, you can try to break clear of the pack. When you're off the front, trying to get away, the pack will use it's superior aerodynamics to try to chase you down - and, hopefully, your teammates will attempt to subvert those aerodynamics for you.

One of the many jobs of teammates, both in the race and on the sidelines, is to keep the strongest person hydrated and fed. In my sub-peon-amateur category, this basically means that someone who isn't racing stands on the side of the road and hands up water bottles.

I didn't have a team there, but, luckily, the race *did* have neutral support - which means some volunteer will attempt to hand you a water bottle. Without this neutral support - the water - it wouldn't have been worth starting.

I rolled up to the line - this was going to be a four lap race, 11 miles per lap. We roll out, I stay near the front... Like pretty much everyone, I like to be either at the front (say, in third-tenth place) or at the very back. These locations are calm, relatively energy-efficient places to be.

We went around for a lap, and I was feeling pretty decent. As long as I stay hydrated, I generally do well in the heat; when other people are dying, I can ride away.

But not today.

At the end of the first lap, I had already exhausted one of my water bottles. I grabbed a water bottle from Neutral support to replace it. And I drank.

Blech. Warm Water. In the heat. Suddenly I'm not feeling too well, but I keep within the pack... the pace starts to pick up, and we begin to drop some of the field as we ride over a few rollers.

Next lap, neutral bottle was decidedly HOT. This isn't going well. I drink as much as I can...

A few minutes later my body decides to reject this hot water.

Let me tell you, Gatorade* tastes better on the way down. By now the pace was pretty furious, and, in the field, there were a few big splits. I was in about the third group at that point, just trying to hang on. It's tough after you've just tossed your cookies. But still... going around, up the smallish-hills... all of the sudden I'm in front. I look behind me, and I'm dropping everyone. Without trying, and without wanting to - if I lose them, I lose my aerodynamic advantage. So I slow down.

So do they.

Screw this, I'm going. And I go around, in the desert, by myself, chasing the group ahead of me.

For a ten mile lap.

I fail.

The same group catches me, at the bottom of the same hill.

I drop the wheelsuckers again.

This time I stay away. I catch a few stragglers, but end up placing about 30th out of about 60. Considering the circumstances, I consider it my best result of the year.

So after such a wretched race, what do I do?

Why, go ride the highest mountain road in the state of California, of course! Rock Creek Road, just south of Sonora pass.

I didn't do so well. I'm not sure why, but my lack-of-decision-making always surprises me.

But at least it was pretty.

With all the heat, still snow on the tops...

Looking over Mono Lake at the Sierra Nevada

I'm a sucker for sunsets.

The Moon also rises.

The moon may rise, but the sun is setting on my time in California.

June 13th: Pescadero Road Race

2009-06-16T19:52:00.001-04:00

Didn't do too hot. Got boxed in at the start of the final hill, and wasn't able to go full-bore until halfway up. Tenth overall out of ~75.

June 6th: Ross's Epic Hillclimb.

2009-06-16T19:34:00.004-04:00

Ack. So it's been a while since I was racing, a while since I've been racing in California.

Last weekend, on Saturday, I did a hillclimb in California - the Ross's Epic Hillclimb. There was about 3200 feet of climbing in about 7 miles or so; including about a half-mile of 20% grade at the very top. It was rough, really steep stuff.

So, how much were the payouts?

NOTHING? What is this, some kind of charity? Wait, it IS a charity? Oops.

Oh well, no money for ElJamoquio. But I did get a nice race on a beautiful day in wine country out in California. So when I dropped a chain at the beginning of the climb, and eventually came in second, I wasn't incredibly disappointed.

Spent the rest of the day pedalin' about wine country with Katherine.

1

2008-10-12T12:15:00.001-04:00

Then elpizo tipota. The fovamai tipota. Eimai eleftheros.

NCAA Violations

2008-09-24T13:19:00.001-04:00

Are no longer being pursued.

James K Polk

2008-09-13T12:05:00.001-04:00

Our eleventh president.

Sunshine

2008-09-10T13:43:00.003-04:00

I can never seem to find this link when I'm looking for it, so I'm putting it on my blog.

Sunshine, by city, per day.

San Jose has 160 Sunny Days per year, give or take. That's more than San Diego. Summers peak out at about 84 on average - but still have cool 60 degree nights - and winters generally have high temps of high 50's or low 60's.

City Sunny Days per Year
YUMA,AZ 242
PHOENIX,AZ 211
LAS VEGAS,NV 210
BISHOP,CA 201 (EDIT: This is where I climb mountains in California)
FRESNO,CA 194
EL PASO,TX 193
TUCSON,AZ 193
BAKERSFIELD,CA 191
SACRAMENTO,CA 188
LOS ANGELES,CA 186
STOCKTON,CA 184
WINSLOW,AZ 177
SANTA MARIA,CA 176
BLUE CANYON,CA 174
REDDING,CA 172
ROSWELL,NM 168
ALBUQUERQUE,NM 167
CLAYTON,NM 162
FLAGSTAFF,AZ 162
LUBBOCK,TX 160
SAN FRAN,CA 160
LONG BEACH,CA 159
RENO,NV 158
AMARILLO,TX 157
SAN ANGELO,TX 154
MILFORD,UT 151
WICHITA,TX 151
ABILENE,TX 149
ALAMOSA,CO 148
SAN DIEGO,CA 146
GOODLAND,KS 143
OK CITY,OK 139
PUEBLO,CO 139
WINNEMUCCA,NV 138
DODGE CITY,KS 137
GRAND JUNCT,CO 136
DALLAS,TX 135
CONCORDIA,KS 131
ELY,NV 131
KAHULUI,HI 131
ELKO,NV 130
WACO,TX 130
WICHITA,KS 128
CO SPRINGS,CO 127
TULSA,OK 127
SEXTON,OR 126
SLC,UT 125
FORT SMITH,AR 123
VALENTINE,NE 123
DEL RIO,TX 121
GREENVILLE,SC 121
WAKE ISLAND,PC 121
BOISE,ID 120
BURNS,OR 120
KANSAS CITY,MO 120
LITTLE ROCK,AR 119
TUPELO,MS 119
MEMPHIS,TN 118
LINCOLN,NE 117
MEDFORD,OR 117
NORFOLK,NE 117
AUSTIN,TX 115
COLUMBIA,SC 115
DENVER,CO 115
SCOTTSBLUFF,NE 115
SPRINGFIELD,MO 115
LANDER,WY 114
SHREVEPORT,LA 114
TOPEKA,KS 114
ATHENS,GA 113
CAIRO,IL 113
AUGUSTA,GA 112
LYNCHBURG,VA 112
MACON,GA 112
JACKSON,MS 111
OMAHA,NE 111
RALEIGH,NC 111
RAPID CITY,SD 111
WILMINGTON,NC 111
ATLANTA,GA 110
COLUMBUS,GA 110
HATTERAS,NC 109
CHARLOTTE,NC 109
GREENSBORO,NC 109
OAK RIDGE,TN 109
YAKIMA,WA 109
MERIDIAN,MS 108
CASPER,WY 107
MONTGOMERY,AL 107
CHEYENNE,WY 106
NORFOLK,VA 106
POCATELLO,ID 106
BALTIMORE,MD 105
DES MOINES,IA 105
PENSACOLA,FL 105
SAN ANTONIO,TX 105
SIOUX FALLS,SD 105
CHATTANOOGA,TN 104
COLUMBIA,MO 104
HURON,SD 104
KEY WEST,FL 104
SAVANNAH,GA 104
SIOUX CITY,IA 104
SPRINGFIELD,IL 104
CHARLESTON,SC 102
CORPUS CHRISTI 102
EVANSVILLE,IN 102
MOBILE,AL 102
NASHVILLE,TN 102
ROANOKE,VA 102
TALLAHASSEE,FL 102
ABERDEEN,SD 101
MOLINE,IL 101
NEW ORLEANS,LA 101
PADUCAH,KY 101
PENDLETON,OR 101
PORTLAND,ME 101
ST.LOUIS,MO 101
TAMPA,FL 101
HUNTSVILLE,AL 100
KOTZEBUE,AK 100
RICHMOND,VA 100
ASHEVILLE,NC 99
BATON ROUGE,LA 99
BIRMINGHAM,AL 99
BRIDGEPORT,CT 99
BLOCK IS.,RI 98
BOSTON,MA 98
FORT MYERS,FL 98
PROVIDENCE,RI 98
DAYTONA,FL 97
KNOXVILLE,TN 97
SAINT CLOUD,MN 97
WILMINGTON,DE 97
BROWNSVILLE,TX 96
NYC (LGA),NY 96
WASHINGTON 96
LA CROSSE,WI 95
MINNEAPOLIS,MN 95
PEORIA,IL 95
PORT ARTHUR,TX 95
SHERIDAN,WY 95
ALLENTOWN,PA 94
ATLANTIC CITY 94
JACKSONVILLE 94
BISMARCK,ND 93
LOUISVILLE,KY 93
NEWARK,NJ 93
PHILADELPHIA 93
ROCKFORD,IL 93
WILLISTON,ND 93
DUBUQUE,IA 92
Dulles,D.C. 92
LEWISTON,ID 91
NOME,AK 91
WATERLOO,IA 91
CONCORD,NH 90
HONOLULU,HI 90
HOUSTON,TX 90
MILWAUKEE,WI 90
WORCESTER,MA 90
BILLINGS,MT 89
LEXINGTON,KY 89
MADISON,WI 89
ORLANDO,FL 89
FARGO,ND 88
INDIANAPOLIS 88
HARRISBURG,PA 87
BETTLES,AK 86
GLASGOW,MT 86
ROCHESTER,MN 86
SPOKANE,WA 86
VICTORIA,TX 86
GREEN BAY,WI 85
HARRISBURG 85
CHICAGO,IL 84
UNALAKLEET,AK 83
HARTFORD,CT 82
HELENA,MT 82
CINCINNATI 81
GREAT FALLS,MT 79
FORT WAYNE,IN 78
DAYTON,OH 77
DULUTH,MN 77
EUREKA,CA. 77
SALEM,OR 77
DETROIT,MI 75EUGENE,OR 75
MISSOULA,MT 75
MUSKEGON,MI 75
PALM BEACH,FL 75
MIAMI,FL 74
JACKSON,KY 73
MANSFIELD,OH 73
SAN JUAN,PR 73
SOUTH BEND,IN 73
TOLEDO,OH 73
COLUMBUS,OH 72
LANSING,MI 71
SEATTLE,WA 71
AVOCA,PA 70
FAIRBANKS,AK 70
KALISPELL,MT 70
ALBANY,NY 69
AKRON,OH 68
PORTLAND,OR 68
ALPENA,MI 67
GULKANA,AK 67
MCGRATH,AK 67
TALKEETNA,AK 67
WILLIAMSPORT,PA 67
BARROW,AK 66
CLEVELAND,OH 66
FLINT,MI 66
CHARLESTON,WV 65
HOMER,AK 65
HOUGHTON,MI 65
GRAND RAPIDS 64
ERIE,PA 63
HUNTINGTON,WV 63
SYRACUSE,NY 63
YOUNGSTOWN,OH 63
BETHEL,AK 62
ANCHORAGE,AK 61
ROCHESTER,NY 61
BECKLEY,WV 60
BIG DELTA,AK 60
CARIBOU,ME 59
KODIAK,AK 59
PITTSBURGH,PA 59
BURLINGTON,VT 58
SEATTLE,WA 58
VALDEZ,AK 58
LIHUE,HI 56
BUFFALO,NY 54
BARTERIS.,AK 53
BINGHAMTON,NY 52
OLYMPIA,WA 52
KING SALMON,AK 51
QUILLAYUTE,WA 51
ASTORIA,OR 50
ELKINS,WV 48
MT.WASHINGTON 45
JUNEAU,AK 44
YAKUTAT,AK 41
ANNETTE,AK 40
HILO,HI 36

Another Status.

2008-09-08T14:13:00.004-04:00

USA Cycling has updated the ultra-sub-peon amateur-level rankings for time trials. My last result, 3rd at the Green Mountain Stage Race Prologue, pushed me up quite a bit. I was running around about 90th out of 1550 or so, now I'm at 14th.

Status

2008-09-04T09:23:00.003-04:00

States I've done.

Light green: There is no road access to the top of the highest mountain. Although technically there's no road access to the top of Maryland's highest peak; I just went off-roading. I may have poor-decision-making-ability, but I'm not going to do that up Mt. McKinley.

So, in Virginia, I went until the road ended up Mt. Rogers. I may try again, going off-roading, if I go back. In California, I went to the top of the road up Mt. Whitney. In Vermont, I actually obeyed the sign saying no bicycles allowed (which I realize is shocking, but then again, there was an official-looking-person manning the toll-booth). I'll go back to Vermont one day after the toll-booth is closed.

Massachusetts

2008-09-03T15:50:00.000-04:00

Kingsley Hill Road; the steepest half-mile of road in America.

I just like this picture. I don't know why.

I then went over to ride Mt. Greylock; only about ten miles away - it's the highest point in the state of Massachusetts.

I think we all see where this is heading.

Mt. Whiteface

2008-09-03T15:36:00.003-04:00

The highest road in New York State. There's actually a mountain fifty miles from the nearest road that's like 23 feet higher or something like that.

You know what I have to say to that: let's bulldoze that higher mountain. If you can't meet the standard, lower it.

Anyway, on to the pictures (which is why you read this blog, I know). I had just left Vermont, after racing, and then doing Mt. Mansfield. I decided to do Mt. Whiteface - only after 5:00 PM - because the guidebook says that bicycles are permitted after that time.

They even have a picture of the sign - saying no bicycles are permitted during operating hours.

They changed the sign.

But, without anyone to stop me...

The mountain itself goes from somewhere around 800 feet at the very bottom, where I started, to 4600 feet at the top. So although it doesn't have a huge elevation, the elevation change is still pretty good.

Vermont

2008-09-03T15:31:00.003-04:00

Non-race Pictures of Vermont. I thought I took more; I guess I lied to myself.

Driving there.

2008-09-03T15:29:00.003-04:00

My drive to Vermont; I took the scenic route through the Adirondacks.

These pictures are actually of the St. Lawrence and the 1000 Islands.

Yosemite

2008-08-25T20:41:00.007-04:00

Wait... slow down, or speed up?

One Day, One Hundred Degrees, Three "HC" Climbs

2008-08-25T20:21:00.003-04:00

What does "HC" mean, anyway?

I was actually planning on doing four, but a flat tire halfway up Onion Valley necessitated a trip to the not-so-local bike shop (after a hair-raising flat-tire descent, of course).

This was actually for the best, though, because even though I was drinking as much water as I could stomach, I was still in the desert, in mid-August, and, well, it was hot. I had stopped sweating before starting Onion Valley. It was 100 degrees in the shade... but I don't know where 'the shade' was, I certainly couldn't see any for miles around.

Tomorrow I ride on 5 mile road here in Detroit. Pretty much the same, all told.

Climbing Categories.

2008-08-25T20:07:00.004-04:00

Plagiarized from the interwebz.

* Cat. 4: The Lowest category could be anything from a 2km-long hill with a gentle 5-percent grade, or a half-kilometer-long "wall" with a 12-percent average. (In 1997, there were 15 Cat. 4 climbs on the opening eight flat stages; and only four on the remaining 13 stages.)

ElJamoquio note: a Category 4 climb would be like Thorn Run Road in Pennsylvania, or Boyne "Mountain" in Michigan.

* Cat. 3: This is the first "serious" category, and could mean a 5km climb with 5-percent grade on good roads. (In 1997, there were six Cat. 3 climbs in the Tour; typical was the Cote de Chatillon on the stage to Morzine, which is 6km long with a height difference of 240 meters, 787 feet, on a wide smooth highway.)

* Cat. 2: Most racers in North America would consider this one the toughest climb they would be likely to encounter. The former Tour DuPont's Beech Mountain -- which is about 5km long with an average grade of 8-percent, topping out at 5000 feet about sea level -- would be a Cat. 2 at the Tour, even though it was a Cat. 1 at DuPont. (In the 1997 Tour de France there were 10 Cat. 2 climbs. Typical were the first two of stage 18: the Cote de Gueberschwir is 4.5km long, has a height difference of 400 meters, 1312 feet, and an 8.8-percent grade; the Grand Gallon is 24km long, with a height difference of 1000 meters, 3280 feet, but has a grade of only 4.1 percent.)

* Cat. 1: This is the classic mountain climb of the Tour, such as the Col d'Aubisque in the Pyrenees, with an elevation of about 1600 meters, 5250 feet, a length of about 15km, and a grade of about 6-percent. (In 1997, the Tour had eight Cat. 1 climbs. They varied from stage 9's Val Louron-Azet, which is 11.5km long, with a height difference of 770 meters, 2526 feet, on a narrow, rough back road; to stage 10's Port d'Envalira, which is 30km long, with a height difference of 1680 meters, 5500 feet, on a wide, smooth highway with easy grades.)

* Hors Cat. (or "above category"): These are the most difficult climbs at the Tour. They have a minimum height difference of 1000 meters, 3280 feet, and an average grade of 7-percent or more. (There were five Hors Cat. climbs in the 1997 Tour, including the Col du Tourmalet and L'Alpe d' Huez.)

Mt. Washington: Part Deux

2008-08-11T12:16:00.002-04:00

I frequent a few different internet forums where people can chat about cycling.

On one of them, there's a thread going about Mt. Washington.

Some quotes:

"7.6 miles of uphill on a mixture of paved and dirt road with nearly a vertical mile of elevation gain. Some of the nastiest weather in the world at the summit where they once recorded a wind speed of 231 mph."

"Oh, don't exaggerate, that was just the wind gusts that day. The steady breeze wasn't over 160 mph. "

"I have a buddy who makes this his sole "A" race of the year. Got very serious about it and stripped everything off his bike, went with mountain bike cogs on the back (to a 32 sprocket I believe), the bike came down to 12 lbs, he bought those ultralight carbon Specialized shoes. He had a video of the race that he showed me. I can't believe how harsh it is. No way I'd travel 1/2 way across N. America for that sort of suffering; I could probably simulate that in my backyard by doing VO2 intervals on the trainer, midwinter in a t-shirt while someone strafed me with a fusillade from a salt gun.

Full props to anyone who does it! Madness!"

"Climbing Mt. Washington is THE hardest physical accomplishment I have ever done in my entire life. I’ve completed three marathons and several triathlons and well know the meaning of pain. Once you cross the entrance bridge you coast for about .1 miles until the hill starts.

This is when the reality of gravity just slaps you in the face.

You come upon the initial slope of about 15% where it undulates between 10-15% with micro (10ft) grades of 7%. At about 1.5 miles you are smacked down with a grade of 21% and, knowing you still have a little over 6 miles to go, you start to question you sanity. In between this and the 2.5 mile mark (17%) are grades between 10-15%. You continue on thinking you have lost you mind (and your wind) with grades mostly between 13-18%, with micro gaps of about 7%.

At the 6.25 mile mark you get hit with another 21% grade and you start thinking how far back the broom wagon is.

At this point though you are convinced you can finish by either riding, walking, or crawling. You reach the 7 mile mark knowing you have less than 1 mile to go and you start thinking you can smell the finish. At about 7.4 miles you even hit a slight (-3%) downhill, but unfortunately it only lasts about 30 ft. After that the grade goes back to 10% with kicks up to 19%. You make the final turn and hear everyone cheering you on and you go smack dab into a grade of 22% for the final .1 miles. You wonder what cruel gods could have done this to you as you inch up the final few meters. As you come to the finish the announcer calls out your name for all to hear and you know you are there. As you cross the finish line you know all your suffering, and in my case, drooling, is over. Volunteers catch you from falling as you cross the finish line and place a blanket around you... "

Good times.

Hines Park TT Race Report (unabridged version)

2008-08-10T14:54:00.002-04:00

National Time Trial Championship

2008-08-07T19:33:00.003-04:00

Was held this past weekend.

Average speed of the winner: 27.8 MPH.

ABANDON SHIP!!!!

2008-08-07T10:14:00.001-04:00

Ruby should take lessons.

Those wacky Chinese

2008-08-06T08:22:00.001-04:00

...and their crazy censorship.

Michigan Sunsets

2008-08-02T19:53:00.001-04:00

Are gosh-darn pretty almost every day.

Ominous

2008-07-31T19:09:00.003-04:00

"The most difficult road bike hill climb in the U.S. and perhaps the world, this road is only open to bikes during the annual hill climb race usually held in August. No concession to gradient was made as it starts out steep and never lets up all the way to the top. Begin at a tollbooth where there is a brief shallow section and then the fun begins. A ramp of 12% grade smacks you in the face to let you know what is in store the rest of the way up the mountain. The grade eases slightly after 0.6 mile but then soon kicks up with rolling ramps of 12-15%. The trees soon begin to thin with some great views although it is difficult to appreciate them as you grind higher.

Approximately 4 miles into the climb you round a bend and for the first time you see what is ahead of you (and it is not a pretty sight): sustained grades of 12-16% along a spectacular ridgeline. After a very steep turn to the left the grade eases as you climb into a tundra. Rolling, slowly increasing grades lead you past the 6,000 ft elevation mark and at mile 7.4 a parking lot appears on the left. Just beyond the lot the steepest part of the climb (22%) greets you, but the end is in sight.

Mt. Washington is about the same length but considerably steeper than the famous Mortirolo in Italy and Angrilu in Spain, generally considered to be the hardest hill climbs used in European cycling tours. Mt. Washington also has generally tougher weather to deal with compared to other top climbs.

If you ever get the chance to ride this hill, congratulate yourself on completing what may be the most difficult road bike climb on Earth."

--John Summerson, The Complete Guide to Climbing

Road Racing vs. Mtn Bike Racing.

2008-07-31T16:38:00.002-04:00

This past weekend I did my first Mountain Bike Race.

Mountain Bikers have about eighty million classifications. I ended up 2nd in the Beginner classification, 30-39 years old, out of about 30 people. Of course, that result means nothing.

As a time trial, we started at thirty second intervals. What does mean something, to me at least, is that I passed 27 people on the course. I live for passing people.

I ended up with the 75th best time overall, out of 380. I got a silver large silver-looking medal, with the actual race name on it, presented to me on a podium.

For my state time trial championship I was handed a ziploc bag with a tiny, non-descript trinket inside. Of course, being a road race, I got money, too.

Two philosophies.

Perspective

2008-07-30T08:27:00.001-04:00

My doctor said that I'm lucky to be alive and breathing. I told him that my house plants are alive and breathing. I'm only happy when I'm on two wheels and going 60 MPH.

--Dave Cullinan, recovering from open-heart surgery and a heart attack at age 24

Those Crazy Germans.

2008-07-29T07:22:00.003-04:00

Suitcase of Sausage.

Crazy Germans.

Am I employed?

2008-07-27T20:31:00.009-04:00

I apologize for the confusion of last week - several people thought the layoffs were last Thursday. Many of you called me, wondering if I was one of the 104 (or was that 140?... I'm slightly deaf) people in my building that will be let go.

My explanation was sub-par. It was too quick; it needed to be an in-depth analysis. I need 24/7 coverage of what should be a rather mundane event.

So, in the tradition of overhyped snowstorms, gasoline prices, and general pseudo-news everywhere, I give you:

Employment Watch 2008.

Join me, on Monday July 27th, as I post every... well, so often...

Am I employed?

UPDATE: 8:25 AM. Still Employed.

UPDATE: 9:49 AM. Meeting with the Chief Engineer at 10:00 AM.

UPDATE: 11:06 AM. Shook hands with some people for the last time. They're gone. I'm still here.

Someone knocked on my door...

2008-07-26T20:42:00.000-04:00

...and offered to buy my house today.

Meet the Flintstones.

2008-07-26T13:49:00.001-04:00

It works on so many levels.

FYI -

2008-07-25T16:39:00.002-04:00

FYI -

This is my 101st post.

Also FYI -

The day of reckoning for Ford employees in my building was supposed to be next Thursday, not this Thursday. But that rumor's even out of date, because now it's on Monday.

It's a sad state of affairs, because my biggest objection to the entire process is that it's so disrupting to actually get any work done. I'd rather it just be over with, fired or not. I'm really not worried either way; right now I think I'd prefer to go.

Legions of Minions

2008-07-25T13:19:00.002-04:00

Currently I like to describe my followers and supporters as my 'legions of minions'. But I have to confess that, currently, my 'legions of minions' consist entirely of three houseplants; in fact, one of them is mentally deranged and on the verge of herbicide.

So if any of you want to sign up to be a minion, that would be great. Being human - as I assume most of you are - I'm sure you'll quickly rise through the ranks. Eventually you might even have a few aloe plants working for you.

2008-07-25T12:54:00.001-04:00

Don't bring a gun

2008-07-23T21:00:00.001-04:00

to a lobster knife fight.

Surprise!

2008-07-23T11:48:00.003-04:00

Today at work, they're bucking the trend and firing people on a Wednesday. Big-wigs only today; paeons get fired next Thursday. My manager and another close co-worker have already been escorted out.

I'm not worried. Right now a several-month vacation sounds fun.

Ford is now advertising here.

2008-07-19T23:53:00.001-04:00

Unfortunately due to the whole Google ads thing, I can't guarantee that the ad is still up there. If it is, you should click it. If it isn't, refresh your browser until it is.

Then click it.

Hydrogen.

2008-07-14T10:31:00.001-04:00

From wikipedia, where I do all of my 'original' 'research'.

Hydrogen costs...

Natural Gas at Small Scale
Uses steam reformation. Requires 15.9 million cubic feet (450,000 m³) of gas, which, if produced by small 500 kg/day reformers at the point of dispensing (i.e., the filling station), would equate to 777,000 reformers costing $1 trillion dollars and producing 150 million tons of hydrogen gas annually. Obviates the need for distribution infrastructure dedicated to hydrogen. $3.00 per GGE (Gallons of Gasoline Equivalent)

Nuclear
Provides energy for electrolysis of water. Would require 240,000 tons of unenriched uranium — that's 2,000 600-megawatt power plants, which would cost $840 billion, or about $2.50 per GGE.[25]

Solar
Provides energy for electrolysis of water. Would require 2,500 kWh of sun per square meter, 113 million 40-kilowatt systems, which would cost $22 trillion, or about $9.50 per GGE.

Wind
Provides energy for electrolysis of water. At 7 meters per second average wind speed, it would require 1 million 2-MW wind turbines, which would cost $3 trillion dollars, or about $3.00 per GGE.

Biomass
Gasification plants would produce gas with steam reformation. 1.5 billion tons of dry biomass, 3,300 plants which would require 113.4 million acres (460,000 km²) of farm to produce the biomass. $565 billion dollars in cast, or about $1.90 per GGE

Coal
FutureGen plants use coal gasification then steam reformation. Requires 1 billion tons of coal or about 1,000 275-megawatt plants with a cost of about $500 billion, or about $1 per GGE.

Trash. But it's free!

2008-07-14T08:05:00.003-04:00

I rode out to Plymouth-Ann Arbor-Dexter-Plymouth yesterday.

A new, and long, route, so it gave me the opportunity to scan for some roadside treasures.

There was a wretched headwind going out - about 25 or 30 MPH. I could only manage about 13 MPH into it... but headed back, at one point, I was doing 31 MPH without pedaling.

Stung by a bee on a bike ride...

2008-07-12T13:28:00.002-04:00

Look at the picture below, and try to guess where.

Television

2008-07-11T11:40:00.001-04:00

The best thing you'll see on "Television" this year.

X-ray results

2008-07-08T11:19:00.000-04:00

Were negative; no fractures.

A tribute...

2008-07-07T22:00:00.001-04:00

...from Veteran Michigan Cyclist Jamie Smith.

The long and winding road....

2008-07-07T16:30:00.004-04:00

Look at the picture. Scroll down.

What, you don't see the 4-inch speedbump?

Neither did I.

Got an X-ray today. They think the meniscus is OK. I've strained my MCL and LCL. My patella is either bruised or fractured. I think it's just bruised.

State Championships - Time Trial

2008-06-29T19:15:00.010-04:00

The Noise.

Imagine your neighbor turns on his vacuum cleaner. Then turns on his garbage disposal.

Then feeds the vacuum cleaner into the disposal.

It's in *his* house, of course, so it's not the loudest noise in the world. But you can definitely tell that something isn't quite right at the Jones's.

...waahhoowaahhoowaahhoowaahhoowaahhoowaahhoowaahhoowaahhoo...

That's the best analogy I can come up with to describe it, the noise of a deep-rim Zipp wheel coming up behind you. You see, like many other aerodynamic designs - you're probably familiar with golf balls, but many other designs use it - Zipp uses dimples.

Dimples that rip the air apart, inducing turbulence. Like many things in fluid flow, it's quite counter intuitive - you don't want to have smooth flow to minimize drag; smoothly flowing around an object creates a huge hole in the air behind the object. The random flow fluctuations inherent in turbulent flow, on the other hand, closely follow the contours of the object and leave only a tiny wake.

But ripping through the air, rather than gliding through it, has the side effect of a lovely noise signaling your presence to those ahead of you.

A vacuum cleaner being eaten by a garbage disposal.

It's not very common to see these rims at my level in Michigan during mass-start races; when there's someone pushing the air out of the way in front of you, it doesn't make that big of a difference. But today wasn't a mass-start race. It was a Time Trial. Time trials are different. Time trials don't allow drafting. Time trials are about aerodynamics, sustained power, and blinding levels of lactic acid.

Time trials are my event.

You see, instead of drafting together synergistically, competitors start individually. Without drafting, being able to sustain high power levels for an hour is critical. I'm no sprinter, I can't produce ultra-high-levels of power. But, genetically speaking, you either have fast twitch muscles - that produce insane levels of power, but are terribly inefficient - or you have slow-twitch muscles, which can endure sustained power for hours on end.

Judging by my sprint speed, I must've won some kind of slow-twitch muscle genetic lottery.

Time trials are my event.

Every rider has a predetermined start time; every minute another rider goes off like a shot. It's important to minimize time at low speed; everyone accelerates away from the gate as fast as possible.

It's an intoxicating feeling, watching them accelerate away from you, waiting for your start time. From previous events, I'm well aware of what to expect: three minutes to go; a rider explodes away. Two minutes to go; another. The adrenaline really starts to build; you can feel it tingling in your neck. A minute, the final rabbit - the first person I need to pass - will take off like a shot.

And then I will hunt him down.

I speak with experience when I say that it is hard to stay focused while being passed in a Time Trial. This, of course, brings us back to the noise.

When you're getting passed by someone with these dimpled rims, you can gradually here them coming up behind you. waahhoowaahoooWAAHOOO... To modify a phrase: being passed like that is like a baseball bat to the stomach. It's not very subtle; and more than slightly demoralizing.

When I first started racing, a little over a year ago, I wasn't very good at criteriums and road races. OK, I'm still not. But even from the beginning I was better than average at Time Trials. I always passed more people than people passed me.

For this event? I'd trained hard; rested easy, waiting for my body to supercompensate. I really couldn't ask for anything more; but I received a gift anyway. The starting order was set alphabetically.

I was last.

I was the hunter.

Perfect.

"I wonder what Jan Ullrich thought when he heard I won the time trial in Portugal, that I'm winning in February, when I'm nowhere near my peak, and I was thinking what I would do if I heard Ullrich had won a time trial in February? I think I'd get straight down and do fifty sit-ups just to say to myself I was doing something... I think a lot about my opponents. I'm no good at bullshitting. I think about Ullrich all the time".

- Lance Armstrong

This is where it would be nice to deny the quote above, to say that I was nonchalant about the race. I was not. Earlier this week, I started my taper... having put in hard work for months upon months, it was time to rest, and let my body supercompensate.

Of course this left me with an 'extra' two hours every day of free time, as well. So now, I not only had the onus of the race to think about my competitors - I also had plenty of means, plenty of time, as well.

I used that time to my disadvantage. I took the results of a time trial from earlier in the year; and I found all the people that beat me. I used the discrepancy between their results and mine to calculate our estimated power differences, and set my own goals. Every day I check the list of registered participants. I spend an entirely inordinate amount of time analyzing the competition in ultra-sub-peon-level-Michigan-amateur-cycling. Nothing kills like overkill, they say.

I figure I need to do average 26 MPH over an hour-long-effort to win. I've never done it before, the best I've done is slightly slower - 25.5 - for half as long.

"I go today to my borders."

-Jan Ullrich

Or, at least, I *would* go to my own, personal, limits, if I could even have gotten to the start line.

Yesterday the course was flooded. I sent the organizer an e-mail, and he replies back that instead of the race planned, a shorter one would be substituted.

I'm not particularly happy with that, but there really isn't anything that could be done. I spent a couple of hours getting my gear together - last minute brake adjustments, airing up tires, putting a disc cover on my rear wheel.

This morning, I'm running late (as always) for my 9:31 start time. I couldn't find everything I needed; after a frantic (and ultimately successful) search, I get into the car, and head over to the course, only five minutes away.

I register, and receive my number. They tell me my start time is 10:25.

Huh?

"We changed the times to minimize the passing bottlenecks with the shorter course."

Oh. OK.

"And, by the way, we're not using the shorter course. The flood has cleared. We're doing the full course."

Oh. OK. No big deal. Plenty of extra time to overthink my race.

Overthink, for instance, the disc cover I had on my rear wheel. In order to minimize costs - a 'real' disc costs upward of $1000 - I have cheap plastic covers attached to mine. And something isn't looking right as I warm up. The plastic is flexing. It looks particularly un-aerodynamic.

At the last second - OK, the last ten minutes - I make the call to take off the disc-equipped wheel, and run the spare wheel I have, just in case. You know, the spare wheel that doesn't have a tire or tube. As the clock is ticking down, I yank the tire and tube off of the disc, slam it on the normal wheel, and pump it up.

Seven minutes. Plenty of time to spare. More warmup.

Three minutes. I hover near the start, watching others race off. The person scheduled to start immediately prior to me is a no-show. This is a bad thing, one less motivator rabbiting off in front of me.

With one minute to go, and no one in front of me, I come to the start line, feeling not quite right. I decide to make a quick circle around the road to settle down.

The officials yell at me. "FIFTY SECONDS". Fifty seconds is an eternity in a race; why are they so pissed off? There's plenty of time for me to come to the line. In fact, yelling at me gets *me* a little pissed off.

A little pissed off.

Perfect.

I line up with thirty seconds to go. One official is beside me, babbling in my ear nonsense about the course that I can't even pretend to absorb. Another is behind me, grabbing my bike, balancing it so that I can remain seated and sprint away from the line from the first instant.

Five seconds.

The official holds out five fingers.

The thumb goes away.

The pinky disappears. Time begins to slow down.

Ring finger. At the Tour de France, they do a weird hand-finger countdown - five is normal, five finger, four is all four fingers - but then two fingers, the ring and pinky, go away at the same time, and they pop the thumb back up.

My official doesn't do this. I'm a little disappointed. And I have plenty of time before the start to contemplate this.

The Middle finger disappears. Perhaps it would be best if I stopped considering the pros and cons of finger counting, and started to focus on the race.

Index. Time to go.

25 miles to go.

The start line is on a slight downhill, I do my best to explode off the line towards my two-minute man. I have no one to pace my initial effort off the line. The biggest danger is that I will go *too* hard, burn all of my proverbial matches in one five-minute long blaze of glory. Take it easy, take it easy.

I come down the hill, towards the volunteers that are pointing me to a coned-off section of road. I raced this last year. I know where to go. They wave frantically anyway. It doesn't matter. Within ten seconds, I'm at 29 MPH. Too fast, I'll never keep it up. The hardest thing is at the start is to go slow.

A quick right turn, up and down a small knoll. Under a bridge, dodge some potholes, stay in the aerodynamic tuck. What was it a veteran TT'er - who was in fact the number one ranked amateur in the country as one point - told me he repeated to himself, what he concentrated on during his races?

"Power. Cadence. Aero. Demoralize."

A sweeping left turn, into the flats. A graceful right to a gentle slope. My heart rate is catching up to my effort level now. Bump-bump. Bump-bump. Bump-bump. Two bumps per heartbeat, over 180 heartbeats per minute. Six 'bumps' every second for an hour.

I'm passing a golf course on my left, go down a slight decline. A sweeping right, and I come to a hill. The slope slows me to 22 MPH. Ahead, I see the first person I'll pass.

Waaahooowaahooo...

I go by, scream down the other side of the hill at over thirty. I need to keep my speed high. One turn, another. More people hear me coming behind them; I scream by. Six miles down, 19 to go. I get to the first real turn. I wait until the last possible moment; brake as hard as I can. I swing around, and sprint back up to speed.

I check my speed thus far: 26.1 MPH. Perfect.

Second person to pass; I decide to turn the power up a notch. He hears me coming, I convince myself. He knows I'm hunting him down, and there's nothing he can do about it. I fly by.

I pass more people, the turns, the wind, the people, the rain... they all blur together. My legs burn. Not badly enough. I push harder, but it's all I can do to maintain my speed.

Down a hill, back up. Another sweeping right and I'm halfway done, I'm at another turn. A teammate is standing there, taking pictures. She screams at me to go faster.

I can't. I'm going as fast as I can. If this doesn't do it, *I* can't do it.

Her husband, another teammate, had given me some motivation earlier in the week. It was lighthearted, a bit of a parody of Johan Bruyneel screaming at Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France. The words echo now: "Fifty seconds". Lance had fifty seconds on Ullrich. Of course, operating without a radio, I have no idea how quickly the others have flew past here; but the actual time gaps, the literal meaning, is irrelevant. The soul of the matter: someone has gone by here, within thirty seconds of my time, I'm sure of it. I must go faster.

The heavy metal music I'd blasted during my warmup starts invading my brain.

I'm a fist of rage
One foot in the grave
I'm a fist of rage
Far from saved
I'm a fist of rage
In a broken state
I'm a razor blade slittin through a wrist of hate
I'm a fist of rage
I'm a fist of rage
I'm a fist of rage

Sweeping turns and people, turns and people. The wheels are ripping the air, I'm constrained in the most aerodynamic tuck I can muster. The road is allegedly closed to traffic, but a truck is meandering on it anyway. I swing out towards the other lane to avoid drafting it, and pass cleanly.

Turns and people. A few have flatted, there's a few cars sweeping those who've had mechanical issue. I'm going into a headwind as I come to the last turnaround, so tired I can't sprint out of it any more. I gradually build up to speed; with the tailwind I'm now flying down the course, averaging about 29 MPH, trying to make up time I've lost on the hills. Fifty seconds, fist of rage, blurry vision. Up and down another hill. I can't remember where the finish line is, until I'm almost at it. I push as hard as I can for the last 200 meters and explode through the end.

There's a clock there, that automatically gives your elapsed time; I figure I need to go sub-58-minutes to win. I'm too dizzy to see it, I'm not really fully cognizant of everything around me. Another rider comes in, and throws his bike to the side of the road in disgust. More people come in; I wait about ten minutes to catch my breath and regain my composure.

I go down to ask the timers about the results.

57:29. 26.4 MPH average. Victory - or, at least, victory in the ultra-sub-peon-Michigan-cycling sense.

The awards ceremony? Pomp and circumstance. Doves were released; the orchestra played "The Star Spangled Banner", followed by "Michigan, My Michigan". I was interviewed by several local television stations.

Oh wait - no - they handed me a medal in a plastic bag. I think they got them on sale at Sam's Club.

Wait - this thing doesn't even say what state!

The biggest surprise? Despite the long length of this article, I'm shocked by how unfulfilling the entire event was. Graham Howard, a pro from Bissell, wasted me, coming in four minutes ahead. Luckily for me, he was in the Pro/1/2 race. I was not.

Sigh... must get faster.

Engine Pulll

2008-06-28T18:42:00.002-04:00

So I started to pull the engine out of the Cobra on Thursday. Don't ask. It's not pretty.

In any case, A co-worker/friend, Adam, comes over, and he brings two of his co-workers along with him to help. So we have plenty of hands, and I have plenty of beer and bad pizza to bribe them with. In any case, Adam introduces them.

Me: Hi, guy #1. What do you do?
Guy #1: Oh, I work in V-Engine with Adam.
Me: Hi, guy #2. What do you do?
Guy #2: Well, I worked in V-Engine with Adam, but then I was fired today.
Me: Awkward pause.

Good times.

Quick Update

2008-06-18T13:54:00.001-04:00

Quick update: Mom's doing well after knee surgery; only required about four days in the hospital.

...and I finished eighth in the Cedar Creek (state championship) Road Race, second in the Allen Park Criterium.

ElJamoquio: Hardly Ableson.

2008-06-03T08:15:00.002-04:00

Got passed by ~200 Harleys yesterday.

I was racing them for a while. Got up to ~35 MPH, and passed a few.

They eventually won.

ElJamoquio: Professional Blogger

2008-06-01T10:51:00.003-04:00

To every thing, turn, turn, turn...

2008-05-28T19:33:00.003-04:00

Ah, the winds of change are blowing. The tide cannot be stopped. The mercury is rising. And my phone is, dare I say it... ready to pass into silicon heaven. That's right, after four years, thousands of conversations, several disassemble/reassemble attempts, and two laundry cycles... my phone is hacking it's way through the final moments of existence.

Time to buy a new phone.

Now, buying a new phone is not something I take lightly. I don't do it very often. In fact, I've only ever had two cell phones in my life. Of course, I believe that using a phone from 2004... is roughly equivalent to having bought your television in the Eisenhower administration.

Sniff. I loved that old RCA.

Now, one of the reasons I selected this phone in 2004 was that it could connect with your computer, backing up data, synchronizing schedules... believe me, this was quite the ticket back in the day. It came in handy, because, I must say, four years and two laundry cycles tends to blank out some memory.

So as I was entering in some phone numbers - into the new phone, mind you - from the computer backup, I got a glimpse into exactly how long I've had the phone.

* Total phone calls: way too many.
* Total text messages sent: wait, this phone can't send text messages
* Total phone calls, speakerphone: they have speakerphones on cell phones?
* My home address: Virginia Beach, VA
* My Mother's work phone number: 412-***-0470.
* Random phone listing: some girl named Jessica

So, the new phone I've bought?

Motorola Razor V9m. Yes, I know Motorola spells it Razr. My blog, my rules; I will not kow-tow to Motorola's marketing department.

Why?

* It's thin. It fits in my pocket without me realizing it's there.
* You can record your own ringtones. What will those wacky telephone designers think of next... being able to use pre-recorded MP3's for ringtones?!
* You can assign a ringtone to certain users. What a concept.

So far, I'm using the second and third for an added benefit - I recorded 'nothing' and assigned it to anyone not in my contact list, and set the phone to vibrate + music.

Bwah ha ha. Try to get in touch with me *now*, people I don't know.

As an aside... both times I bought a phone in the past was immediately prior to me moving. Is this a harbinger of things to come?

Dah da da...

Auctionsniper

2008-05-23T11:20:00.003-04:00

Auctionsniper.

Now, let me tell you all, I am not a shill. I am not being paid by Auctionsniper to endorse it's services. They are not giving items or services for free in order to endorse their products.

Oh wait - crudola - they *are* giving me free stuff. And I'm hoping that this will bring me more ad revenue. But even if my motives weren't completely selfish, and believe me they very well may be, I'd still be endorsing Auctionsniper. So I've come up with an Auctionsniper FAQ.

What is Auctionsniper?

Auctionsniper is a third-party companion site to eBay. It bids on auctions for you, up to a pre-set amount that you input before the auctions end. It bids in the last seconds of the auction.

Why should I bid in the last seconds of the auction? Why not put in a bid *now*, five days before it ends, and see if that's good enough?

Two reasons.
1. Unscrupulous sellers, seeing that you're bidding on an item, will try to exact the maximum amount of money out of you. They will use another bidder - some companies that sell on eBay are almost legendary for these shenanigans - and bid against you, raising the price.

2. Other bidders, if they see a widget, with a starting bid of $10, might put in a max bid of $20. If, on the other hand, you've already bid said widget up to $28, the same person will, generally, bid $35 or so for the same widget, just so they can purchase it.

You might think I'm wrong; but I'm not. And I can prove it to you using only three words: People are idiots.

So now I've convinced you to bid only in the last seconds of an auction.

Why pay to use Auctionsniper? Can't I bid in the last seconds manually?

Sure you can. You like setting your alarm so that you can bid eBay at three in the morning, right? Or perhaps you'd prefer to be glued to the computer, instead of watching the end of the Milan-San Remo, right? (I know you all watch it, don't lie to me).

Of course not. Auctionsniper has *very* reasonable prices - for auctions under $25, you only pay $0.25. I would compare it to the price of a cup of coffee but I'm pretty sure your coffee costs more than my lunch. If the auction goes for more than that; you pay only 1% of the final bid… up to a maximum of $10.

And here's the best part: you only pay if you win.

Why Auctionsniper? Aren't there dozens of similar programs available online?

Well, I'm betting there are. But I haven't tried them - I happened to try Auctionsniper first, and I'm too lazy to try anything else.

If that isn't a ringing endorsement, I don't know what is. I'll say this, though - they're legitimate, haven't tried to steal my eBay account, and, like I said, I tried them first, so they must be the best.

How do I get started?

1. Send me your e-mail address.
2. Ensure your eBay password is unique from all others, ESPECIALLY your paypal password. You should already be doing this, by the way.
3. Put in the Auction ID in Auctionsniper, put in your max bid…
4. Burn the roof of your mouth with the french bread pizza you overcooked in the new-to-you 1972 toaster oven (the rare chartreuse model, no less), knowing that you're getting the best possible price, with a minimum of hassle.

And speaking of hassle, please don't tell me stories about how your toaster oven overcooks french bread pizza.

Why do you keep typing 'Auctionsniper'?

Auctionsniper? You don't like it when I type Auctionsniper? How about 'I love Auctionsniper'? How about you stop complaining, and start clicking on some Google ads? High-value content like this doesn't grow on trees.

In conclusion - Auctionsniper.

(auctionsniper).

Why Tubulars are faster than Clinchers.

2008-05-20T12:25:00.005-04:00

If you don't understand what that title means, stop here.

Circling the web (primarily from biketechreview.com) is some data that, at first glance, might give the impression that Clincher tires are faster than Tubulars.

Of course this interpretation is wrong. Here's why.

OK, this first chart shows the rolling resistance (lower better) of a bunch of tires - around 100 - separated into two groups, clincher and tubular. The tubular tires are shown in blue. The clincher tires are shown in pink. Make no mistake, these colors are not chosen randomly: if you ride clinchers, you're a girl.

"But, ElJamoquio, this chart shows that many clinchers have rolling resistances that are quite low!

Here's where I pick apart your argument.

In this photo, we add the data - given by the same test - of the effect of tire pressure (shown on the x-axis) on rolling resistance. I've fit a linear regression to the data. Note that for every 10 psi that we inflate the tires, the power required to drive the tires to that speed is decreased by 0.34 watts. By inflating an extra 30 psi or so, an extra watt - per wheel - is saved.

Finally (and I know you've been hoping I'd type that word), here I project the effect of increasing tire pressure on all the tubular tire data.

But ElJamoquio, why don't you apply the same theory to the clinchers?

Because those levels of pressure - 200 psi - your expensive shiny rims would be turned into expensive shiny shards. Tubular rims can handle these pressure levels without a problem.

Got it? Good.

Riding through Hail

2008-05-20T06:25:00.001-04:00

108 miles. Hail. Ouchie.

Tour of Kensington Valley

2008-05-17T22:54:00.004-04:00

At least, it used to be a Tour, this year it was just a Road Race.

I felt really strong today. We were on the second lap of a nine-lap affair, and someone got a gap off the front... I bridged up, and we started pacelining. Unfortunately we were caught after about another lap or so.

My shifter cable broke; I was limited to my 36 tooth chainring; and as such couldn't push more than about 30 MPH, which hurt me on the downhills and sprints.

Then, another breakaway started... I was bridging up, and twenty yards or so ahead of me, another team pushed their man up to the break. Of course this is completely illegal; so instead of bridging, I attempted to pull the pack up to the breakaway - for once in my life, I wanted the breakaway to fail. Of course, 'attempted' was the operative word in that sentence, and I failed - but at least it was a very slow failure. Or something like that.

Of course I couldn't sprint well with the 36 tooth chainring, and ended up 'placing' eighteenth out of fifty.

Oh well. Next week: Frankenmuth.

Stats:

Duration: 2:35:01
Work: 2117 kJ
TSS: 239.8 (intensity factor 0.963)
Norm Power: 279
VI: 1.23
Distance: 58.294 mi
Min Max Avg
Power: 0 1002 228 watts
Cadence: 29 141 87 rpm
Speed: 8 44.1 22.6 mph
Pace 1:22 7:33 2:40 min/mi
Hub Torque: 0 376 75 lb-in
Crank Torque: 0 1253 227 lb-in

Don't Blink.

2008-05-14T19:43:00.001-04:00

I'll make you famous.

2008-05-12T10:36:00.003-04:00

Or, Ford will make me famous. Several months ago, a large - fifty plus - camera crew came into my Hydrogen-engine dynamometer cell to film some background footage for Ford's 'Drive One' campaign.

It was a zoo.

But on the plus side, it was catered. And apparently the commercial started airing this past weekend, during the NASCAR race. As I don't really watch TV, you'll have to tell me how I look. You'll know me from the back of my head. Or something like that.

Those of you with TiVo... you know what you need to do.

Pessimism

2008-05-05T21:43:00.004-04:00

Click me.
Don't expect this to last long.

Is it drafty in here?

2008-04-28T09:59:00.000-04:00

In 1974, the Pittsburgh Steelers had the best draft class in history: Four Hall of Famers - Jack Lambert, Lynn Swann, John Stallworth, and Mike Webster. The next best draft in history (the 1969 Steeler draft) only had two.

The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette wrote of the draft:"The Steelers seem to have come out of the first five rounds of the draft appreciably strengthened at wide receiver but nowhere else. They didn’t get a tight end, and the ones remaining are more suspect than prospect. They didn’t get a punter, although none of the nation’s best collegiate punters went in the first five rounds. They didn’t get an offensive tackle that might’ve shored up what could well become a weakness. What they did get was Swann, who seems to be a sure-pop to help; Lambert, who figures to be the No. 5 linebacker if he pans out; and three question marks."

I'm not writing this because I'm thrilled with the draft. Instead, I'm recalling it because I realize the need to temper my comments - that time might make a fool of me, saying that this is a terrible draft class.

I will say this: the Steelers need offensive lineman like the Olsen twins need doughnuts. There were FANTASTIC lineman in the draft, and they didn't get them.

They needed cornerbacks like Eli needs supervision. They got none.

Instead, they followed the lead of 1930's France and put up the Maginot line at running back, wide receiver, and linebacker. Don't worry that the offensive line is as hole-y as Kwame Kilpatrick's alibi. Don't worry that the cornerbacks could make the Naval Academy's offense look like USC.

The Steelers have a long, long history of building through the draft. With the new administration in place, one has to wonder about their ability to see the long-term impact of these players.

I'm cautiously pessimistic.

Engineer jokes are the funniest.

2008-04-27T11:32:00.001-04:00

First (real) race of the season

2008-04-26T22:42:00.002-04:00

Willow Time Trial.

Strong wind, about 55 degrees or so. My legs never felt really bad, but I know I left everything out on the course, because my eyes wouldn't focus for the last few minutes.

Finished fourth, with a 25.5 MPH average. Needed about 27 MPH for the win. Didn't win anything. Time trials are stingy that way.

Beware the Penguins.

2008-04-20T20:57:00.001-04:00

Prank calls...

Engineers

2008-04-16T11:52:00.001-04:00

Sure are weird.

Another boring day in paradise...

2008-04-12T22:58:00.002-04:00

I had a bunch of mundane things to do today.

That should be a hint. As in, "I'm going to share the painstaking details - emphasis on the pain - with you." I'd suggest going elsewhere on the web. Check out ESPN.com. Or yahoo. Do some original research on Wikipedia.

Your time will be better spent.

So anyway, Friday night was a party hosted by one of our sponsors. A good time was had by all; the bar was open, the catered food tasted great, and there was a multitude of entertainment possibilities.

Do I sound like an important-bike-racer-man yet? Good. Then I won't mention the words 'pizza' and 'bowling'.

Mmmm. Pizza.

Anyway, got home about 12:30 last night, got up at 7:00 or so. Ate my first breakfast, some Muesli, and got to work. I ended up doing laundry, dishes, replacing bearings in my 420 wheels with new ones, replacing bearings in my pedals, putting the old 420 bearings in my 350's, taking a nap, gluing on the Vittoria's to my Zipps...

And, of course, made myself second breakfast, first lunch, and second lunch. I don't remember if I ate dinner or not. I think I'll be OK anyway... but I'm a little hungry now.

Epilogue: UPS

2008-04-12T08:54:00.002-04:00

So I had a bunch of comp-time coming, and I needed to take care of some stuff at home anyway, so I took off Friday... and waited for the UPS man to show up.

About 2:00 I heard the doorbell ring. I ran to the door, as I know from experience that I have about five seconds before UPS runs out of patience.

I opened the door. The package was there. No signature was recorded.

I hate UPS.

United Parcel Service

2008-04-10T15:01:00.003-04:00

UPS is the most incompetent company that I have the displeasure to deal with.

The general protocol is as follows:

1. UPS attempts delivery at 1:00 PM in a residential area.
2. UPS leaves note for package. Says to call them.
3. I get pissed because I hate talking on the phone to idiots.
4. I call UPS.
5. Press 0 as many times as possible until I speak to a human.
6. Realize that said human is an idiot.
7. Idio... I mean, employee says they will try to schedule a redelivery that same day; as they recognize the futility of delivering to a residential area in the early afternoon.
8. Hang up the phone, feeling optimistic.
9. Wait 30 minutes.
10. UPS calls me back, saying that they aren't going to try too hard to redeliver. In fact, they aren't going to try at all.
11. I decide that UPS is incompetent, and I do WHAT I PAID THEM TO DO FOR ME - drive to THEM and pick up MY package.

Words cannot express how much I hate UPS.

Since I'm expecting a package, I tried to avoid this calamity. So I called BEFORE they attempted delivery.

'We're sorry. We refuse to work on that now. Please try again after we attempt delivery at 1:00 PM'.

Random Day in the life

2008-04-05T15:15:00.002-04:00

You know, there are many, many subscribers to this blog. I can't quantify exactly how many, but I'm almost certain you couldn't count them on one hand.

Almost.

Two of you - (this quite possibly represents a 'majority' of my readers) have talked to me about my 'cycling' blog.

Cycling?

That really wasn't the intent when I started. But, the majority of my time these days is spent at work... and we're under dodectuple-secret-clearance for all of that information. So I really can't share that top-secret confidential information on my blog; no one would read it here. So what's the point?

Once again, I digress. But the point is - not much, eventful-wise, goes on in my day-to-day life.

And I'm going to prove it, by forcing you, at gunpoint, to read what happened to me this week. You might, very astutely, point out that you aren't "at gunpoint". That's where you're wrong. I'm in your house right now (unless you're at work). In fact, I'm in the closet right beside you with the barrel pointed at you. If you try to open the door, or - even worse - close the web browser, I'll let loose.

You've been warned.

Monday, March 31st.

At work, I've been trying to get a lot of things done. We have about two or three days to complete some tests; and we're struggling to fit everything in. Of course, things are being complicated by a myriad of other problems. Fighting them one at a time...

Finally about 4:30 or so, I leave the Erik, the afternoon-shift tech, with a gameplan, and head out....

...because I had an appointment, you see. My hair was so long, people were confusing me with a hippie (that must be the reason; I completely dismiss the claims of others who say things like 'try some deodorant' or 'you smell really, really bad').

Anyway, realizing that Mondays aren't really days that barbers usually work, and yet also recognizing that Monday evening was really my free evening for the week, I called D-Barber around lunchtime. Sure, he says, I'll be here until 5:15 or so. Odd time, I think, but set off on my way at about 4:45 or so.

I get there, and, as per the norm, there's a sign saying - "At Howell's Bar Next Door - Please come get me". I've been through this saga before; I go in, and I find out why he's over there - it's opening day for the Detroit Tigers, and, in fact, it was the bottom of the 11th with the Tigers down one run.

Anyway, he asks if we can wait until the end of the inning; I figure it's no big deal (it isn't) and watch the end of the game. Suffice it to say the Tigers lost.

And I go get my hair cut. Highlight of the day; exciting, I know.

Korea

2008-04-05T11:17:00.007-04:00

So, as many of you know, my Father is stationed in Korea for a year; he's about halfway through now. My Mother has been there for the past week and a half, visiting.

If you click on the picture, you can see a larger version.

A park. I believe this is where they bury the Kimchi.

A Folk Village?

Mom and Dad. Smiles indicate that no Kimchi had been consumed yet that day.

Ceremonial Garb. No Kimchi relation.

I believe this is the DMZ.

Mom and Dad indicate that the DMZ was very odd... North Korean guards are 8 meters (about 25 feet, or across the room) from you, staring back.

Mom at a folk village.

Seoul Tower. It's like the Space Needle, but at the restaurant at the top, they serve Kimchi.

Museum.

Palace. It's like the Forbidden City, except they serve Kimchi at the top.

Ceremonial Kimchi Urn.

A temple in Korea...

A statue. Korea is blessedly pigeon free, apparently.

My Parents interacting with the Indigineous Peoples. Apparently they didn't make any smart-ass Kimchi remarks.

Virgle.

2008-04-02T21:12:00.000-04:00

Mission to Mars questionnaire.

Congratulations -- you are ideally suited to be a Virgle Pioneer; so ideally so, in fact, that one wonders why you aren't already living on a remote South Pacific island, serving as a biosphere test subject, washing dishes at a North Pole research station during the depths of winter or writing a highly intelligent, articulate political blog. At any rate, we want you for one of our upcoming Virgle launches. You'll love it -- the pay is great, the view from the spaceport should be spectacular, and we're told that algae and spirulina actually start to taste good after the hundredth consecutive day. Anyway, if you want to give Virgle a try, you can submit your video here.

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

2008-03-30T17:05:00.006-04:00

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

2008-03-29T16:44:00.010-04:00

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?

2008-03-14T20:40:00.001-04:00

I counted correctly.

Weather

2008-03-10T15:36:00.002-04:00

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!

Day 7. General Grant.

2008-02-24T22:30:00.006-05:00

The next morning at the hotel, the theme of the day was: I'm going at whatever pace I damn well feel like, thank you very much. I turn on the television, lay around a bit, do some e-mail, and leave, maybe 8:30 or so. Maybe 9:00 - I'm not paying much attention to what I'm doing.

Even after the seven tacos the night before, I'm still hungry. My rate of calorie expenditure is exceeding the rate I can eat. So I stop when I pass the only store in town, a drugstore. I figure I'll grab some protein bars or something. I get five.

As I'm finishing the first protein bar, I vaguely recall something.

I've already eaten, at the hotel.

Hmm. In fact, less than an hour prior, I had eaten four danishes, three muffins, two bagels, two bananas, two glasses of orange juice, a hard boiled egg, and a partridge in a pear tree (OK, I'm making that last part up, the feathers got stuck in my teeth and I never finished it).

I reluctantly decide that perhaps I should only eat one more protein bar.

Since today was a sightseeing day, I drove up to about 7,000 feet to take some pictures of a tree called 'General Grant'; the second largest tree in the world. I take my time, take some pictures.

I saw a bigger tree yesterday.
Tiny? Miniscule? I would be embarassed to call this tree 'big'.

And then I decide to go on a bike ride.

Already being at 7,000 feet, I abandon my car, set up my bike, and start down the hill. Since I haven't been sweating, it's much, much less frigid. I'm almost comfortable. After an hour or so of descending the mountain, I stop at 1500 feet.

Right beside this tree, next to a farm.

The theme of the day: go at my own pace. Right now the pace is slow. I take off all of my ultra-winter gear that I've used for the descent, and pack it into my pockets. My jacket sleeves unzip, my extra wool jersey comes off. I take off my hat and roll it into a cylinder. I have a Clif bar, drink some Cytomax, and begin to head up the mountain.

At my own pace.

Which is now as hard as I can ride.

2000.

After a week of riding, I may not be physically 100%, but mentally, I'm fully recovered. I don't stop to take pictures - all the ones you see here (save the General Grant) are from the saddle, grinding up the mountainside.

3000.

For my last ride, I'm going out with a bang. My previous days were about five hours each, slow, endurance rides. This one's going to be a hair less than three - and I'm going to get my three hour's worth, if it's the last thing I do (on my trip to California, that is).

Whew, almost didn't have the camera ready in time.

When I push past 4000 feet, I look over my shoulder. I'm a sucker for the road-snaking-up-the-mountain picture.

5000. Some snow.
6000. Quite a bit of snow.

I make it to the top, I take a few more pictures. I load the bike into the car for the last time, and call Gary.

That night we went out for Pizza. He ordered a slice. I ordered a pizza. He ate his slice and one of mine. I ate the rest.

And left hungry.

Day 6, Part 3. Why am I in this basket?

2008-02-24T22:21:00.004-05:00

One of the nice things about the trip was that my rental car was equipped with Hertz Neverlost, a GPS system. I could ask it where the closest hotels and/or restaurants were.

And I was hungry. In the middle of nowhere.

I was basically in the middle of pretty rural farms, that just happened to be abutting majestic mountains. This wasn't tourism USA. I liked it that way.

But still, I was hungry. And exhausted. And I needed a shower. Badly. So I asked the GPS where the closest hotels and restaurants were. I just needed to get into a town.

But this was all I see.

No can do, the GPS replied. You're 60 miles from anywhere. $#%%^$. OK, I'm going to be on the road for a bit first.

Perhaps it's pick your own dinner?

Orange groves and grape vines dominate the landscape. Every mile or so I see a building. It's late, dark, and I'm sick of driving. I finally pull into 'town'. And pull up to the town restaurant.

Hmmm.

Now, normally, what language other people speak is a political question I'm pretty liberal about. I figure I have no business telling others what language they should speak, just like they have no business telling me to do anything.

Now all I want is some food. I've spent over 30 hours in the saddle so far this week, I'm hungry, my everything hurts, and I'm grumpy.

I go into the local restaurant, and after a few minutes. Manage to order some tacos (if by 'some' you mean 'seven'). As I'm eating a local girl - her back to me the whole time - gets up and walks toward me for some unknown reason. She stares at me, I smile at her.

She recoils in horror. I wonder what's wrong.

In any case, perhaps that's enough effort for this week. I tell myself I'll get up tomorrow, do some sight-seeing. Maybe I'll ride. We'll see.

Day 6, Part 2. Seqouia.

2008-02-24T19:56:00.010-05:00

After a rather trying Day 5, I decided to take it easy on Day 6. Only about thirty miles, one mountain. I headed North to the twin parks of Sequoia and Kings Canyon.

You're all bored with my cycling stories, so I'll let the pictures tell most of the tale.

Beginning the Ascent.

Random shot on the way up.

Switchback... you can see the road cutting into the hillside on the right.

The trees frame the mountain.

Check out the road snaking and cutting through the side of the mountain (about 1/3 of the way up).

It took me about two hours to do the climb. At the top there was a ranger station, explaining how difficult it is for a Sequoia to grow into a mature tree. There was a roulette wheel describing the various perils of each new seed.

Mine was eaten by a rodent.

A mid-sized redwood.

Check out the walkway on the left for some scale of size.

At the top, a ranger stopped me (people stopping to talk with me is pretty routine, provided there are actually people there). He seemed surprised when I told him where I started from... 'This is the first time I've seen someone come up here'.

Well, maybe if you didn't have three feet of snow, more people would visit!

Same mid-size tree, with bike for scale.

The bark is over two feet thick.

Yet another picture of a tree. How many more are you going to look at?

At least one more, methinks. There was a reason I chose this particular mountain - on its slopes rests the largest tree in the world, a Giant Sequoia known colloquially as the 'General Sherman'.

Eh, I've seen bigger.

General Sherman, from across a meadow.

Usually I hate to have people in my pictures; it's a pet peeve. Here, though, they provide a great sense of scale. See the woman in the red jacket? She's about halfway across the meadow, headed towards the tree.

What's that white thing on her head?

Let's zoom in.

That's another person.

Let's look at the total picture again.

The largest tree in the world.

With some terrible photo-shopping... OK, I haven't even tried yet...

Just two more descents to go...

Day 6, Part 1. Ghost Town.

2008-02-24T19:55:00.009-05:00

After the trying day before, I went to bed at about 7:00 local time. And got up at 3:00.

Hmm.

What to do? I had intended to just get up and start driving, but now I had time for one more thing.

I wanted to see a ghost town. And what could be more ideal than seeing one in the dead of night?

I decided to drive the hour or so to Rhyolite. In the early part of the last century, it was a boom town, with 10,000 people, 50 saloons, 2 churches (that's a 25:1 ratio, people!), 2 undertakers... banks, stores, all that.

And getting there at night, I'd be able to crawl over the ruins without the admonishment of park officials.

Or so I thought. Barbed wire. Drat, foiled by the National Park Service yet again. No matter.

I drove around a bit. Most of the buildings were gone. I didn't even see squatting prospectors - or even the Brady Bunch. All in all it was a bunch of crumbling buildings.

Day 5, Part 2. Complete Idiots.

2008-02-24T19:55:00.008-05:00

I'm personally embarrassed about this.

A golf course in Death Valley. Gee, let's water the lawn some more. Idiots.

Day 5. A ride to hell with Dante.

2008-02-24T19:54:00.011-05:00

So, of course, one of the claims-to-fame of Death Valley is that it's the lowest point in North America.

Which I figured would be a great point to start a bike ride. I mean, hey, there's a mountain literally two miles as the crow flies, 5500 feet - Dante's View. Peering over the sheer cliffs, you view the salt-filled basin and mountain ranges.

In any case, the sign said, 30 miles to Dante's View. Perfect. I had a decent night's rest, despite (because?) of the power outage, and I got an early start. Sixty miles would make a great round-trip ride through the desert; twenty miles of more-or-less flat, and a ten mile climb to the summit. I put two liters of water on my bike, two liters in my jersey, forced myself to drink a liter, and set off on my way. Hey, I was prepared.

Now, as you can see, the road wound around cliffs and canyons; a welcome change from Michigan topography.

But there was a problem, of course. When I was forced away from the protection of the canyon from the canyon wall, I would face the wind.

OK, 'wind' doesn't due it justice. Think massive wind. Unrelenting. Thirty-five miles an hour, pure headwind. For reference, I usually bike at around twenty MPH. When I'm time-trialing, I go about twenty-five.

And now, all I could manage was seven. SEVEN. On the flats. Working hard. My powermeter said I was putting down the mustard, but the wind was licking all of it up and more.

It's tough to tell grade in pictures - but this one was about a seven degree descent. I should've been doing forty miles an hour. And I was doing fifteen.

Suffice it to say - what was supposed to be a one-hour warmup for a nice mountain climb turned out to be a three hour ride through hell.

And appropriately enough, it was punctuated, halfway through, by a memorial to the namesake of the valley.

A few miles later, I stopped for a break - Zabriskie's point; a rock rising about 100 feet from nothing. I must admit it the views from the top were reasonably photogenic.

So now I'm about 25 miles into my trip. Since it's thirty miles one-way, I'm almost to my desination.

$#$%%.

What did that sign just say?

20 MILES left to Dante's View?!?

It turns out that it was 30 miles from Badwater, my starting location, to the BEGINNING OF THE ROAD THAT LED TO THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN. I mutter vendettas against the national park service.

And press on through the wasteland.

Why couldn't you have shown me this picture BEFORE I started?

I must admit that I was a little disheartened. The climb was completely unprotected, climbing up the ridgeline of the mountain above. The wind - which was blowing south when I started - turned to the East, so it was an almost perfect sidewind.

After another two hours or so of climbing, I reached my destination. Dante's view.

Telescope Peak, Over 11,000 feet, juxtaposed with the lowest spot in North America.

By now, every tortured exhale was steaming. My sweat was freezing. I usually take my time at the top of a mountain, enjoying the view, taking pictures, drinking some water.

Not today. I'm cold beyond belief. It's time to get down to the valley. The least enjoyable part of any climb - the descent.

I take off down the hill, and stop every ten minutes to warm myself up; breath into my hands. When I pass by the memorial an hour later, I finally start warming up. I stop, rinse the salt off of my face with the last of my bottle. Twenty miles to go.

Keeping in theme with the luck of the day, the wind had stopped. I had no tailwind to carry me back. Pedalling becomes difficult. I have no blood sugar, how hard I can go is limited by how quickly my body can process bodyfat. I finally coast into the car. I rest for a few minutes and load it up.

It's time to go. That's enough of Death Valley for me.

Day 4, part two. Funny Thunderstorms.

2008-02-24T17:19:00.005-05:00

So as I was descending Wildrose, I saw a thunderstorm coming in from the east. It was a little odd looking, but hey, it was a thunderstorm in the Desert.

Or so I thought. Got back into the room about five minutes before the thunder started. I got my shower, got back out... and heard more thunder.

A lot more thunder.

Two minutes straight.

I may be slow-witted, but after a while, this was enough to pique even my interest. I looked outside. Hmmm. Not a thunderstorm.

A sandstorm. The fire alarms started going off. The power went out. So I used my lack-of-decision-making ability to it's fullest. I did what any jamoke would do.

I went for a drive.

A little dusty.

I have to say, the fifteen seconds between my motel door and the car door were pretty wretched. Like, as you might say, being sandblasted might feel. I had my cycling (full wraparound) sunglasses on.

The goggles. They did nothing.

I must say I was quite lucky that I hadn't started on my bike ride an hour later... if I had, I probably would've been huddled over on the side of the road for hours upon hours. There was no way I could've ridden through that mess.

Once I got in the car, everything was OK. I needed to go to the next town over - rumor has it they had a washing machine, and after four days cycling, I was out of clothes. Got there, no problem. Even found the laundry machine. And - my luck was holding out - some friendly visitor had left a half-full box of soap to use. I put in my money and soap...

Nothing. What's going on?

Oh. No power here, either. This is 30 miles from Stovepipe, and 150 miles from real civilization. If I lived there, I'd have a generator. Especially if my industry was tourism.

Their thoughts on the matter? Not so much.

So of course, I drove back to the hotel, in the dark. The storm was getting worse; I had to stop a few times. But hey, it's just like driving in a blinding snowstorm, right?

Even more dusty.

Day 4, part one. Wildrose.

2008-02-24T14:11:00.015-05:00

So, rumor has it that no one actually reads what I write. So I'll keep the words on this one to a minimum.

Ya wanna Television? Telephone? AND watah ya can drink? Ya ain't from around here, is ya?

Headquarters at Stovepipe Wells. Basic. I like it that way.

I woke up early in the morning; the plan being to go from below sea level, up to Wildrose, where the climb stops just above 8100 feet. Round trip: 80 miles.

Route

Start of the day, in what is loosely referred to as the 'town' of Stovepipe Wells.

I rode down the hill until I was at least three feet (minimum!) below sea level, and turned around to make it back up.

Unlike... well pretty much every climb I'd ever been on, this one really didn't have any switchbacks - it just, slowly and steadily, went up a lumbering mountainside.

2000 Feet

Fortunately the state of California put up signs indicating altitude every 1000 feet; Sea Level, 1000 feet, 2000 feet... what comes next? Oh wait, nothing. Man, I thought I'd have a great montage of pictures indicating altitude, but they stopped.

Some rocks. There were a lot of them.

Oh, so *now* you give me the elevation?

Random peak along the way.

At about 6000 feet, the road turned to gravel.

Charcoal Kilns, at about 7500 feet above sea level.

These charcoal kilns are considered some of the best preserved anywhere, having been only used for a year or two before being abandoned. Gee, who wouldn't walk 100 miles across several mountains and a desert for a good deal on a bag of Charbroil? Who the hell is tailgating in the middle of a desert, anyway? What are they grilling? Who's bringing the beer?

Questions that, perhaps, the owners of the kilns should have considered before construction.

Keeping track of where we've been.

Unfortunately, I didn't get all the way to the top; at about 8000 feet, the mud road turned to ice. Contrary to my usual lack-of-decision-making-ability, I did the intelligent thing, and turned around.

The long and winding road...

Looking down...

And started the godawful descent.

Day 3, part 3. Death Valley Road.

2008-02-24T13:40:00.007-05:00

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

So after my fun trip down Pine Creek, I headed east to Death Valley.

You see, what makes the Sierra Nevada so snowy is that they block the clouds - as the clouds rise to pass over the Nevada, they cool down, and the air cannot support the moisture any more. So all the snow comes out.

And nothing is left for Death Valley. Bad for prospectors. Good for winter cyclists. Assuming you don't need any extra water.

No, I distinctly remember telling you to bring the water.

The Road starts off in the middle of nowhere, and goes nowhere. But at least the altitude changes; it starts off at 3643 ft and goes to 7670 in about 14 miles. My plan was to go to the top, descend the other side (another 14 miles), then return, for a grand total of about 56 miles.

Desolate.

That's really the only way to explain it. No cars, no people. No nothing. I ascend to the top, where there are no signs congratulating you for reaching the summit.

The Top. We hope you know where you are, because, well, we hate signs.

I descend the other side... still nothing. After an hour of descending, I turn around, climb, and descend again.

Desolation.

I get in my car. Another two hours of driving in Death Valley, and I'll reach my headquarters for the next few days.

Day 3, part 2. Pine Creek Road.

2008-02-24T13:12:00.008-05:00

I like this picture.

Now, as alluded to previously, most of the roads in the Sierra Nevada are closed in the winter.

But not all of them.

Pine Creek Road is a little road that starts just North of Bishop, CA. It climbs past about forty mining-company-owned-houses in a far-too-perfect-to-be-natural grid, and goes up to the mine. The company keeps the road cleared year round.

Start of the climb.

Now, this road wasn't without it's drawbacks. But traffic? I saw one abandoned car in the two-hour climb. No other souls.

My Destination.

Obligatory switch-back photo.

This was a quick climb, only about an hour to get from the valley floor (at about 4000 feet) to the top (at just 7750 feet). So I only got an hour of fun... before the torture began.

The descent.

You see, at the base of the climb, it's 60 degrees and Sunny, and you work as hard as you can. When you start the descent, well, now you're at altitude, it's 30 degrees and you're going over 40 MPH down the hill... on this one I was going ~48.

The Descent.

You can't pedal fast enough to get any resistance. All of the sudden you aren't working at all, you're soaked with sweat, it's 30 degrees, and you have a 50 MPH headwind. "The cold skips all kinds of phases"... You're instantly frozen throughout your entire body. I stop several times to warm up. Seeing the end of a descent is a weight off your shoulders... finally, get back in the car to warm up.

And drive to the next climb.

Day 3, part 1. Bishop, CA

2008-02-24T12:05:00.010-05:00

'Wait a second', you say. 'I thought you were in Livermore on Monday the 11th, which would've been the Day 3?!?'.

My response: My blog, my rules.

So after the presentation on Monday (which will be the subject of it's own blog entry in a week or two (hint hint...)), I was actually a little worried - after two days of riding hard almost five hours a day, stopping can put your body into a coma. Nevertheless, I had already reserved a room in the little town of Bishop, CA - which was right at the base of some of the few climbs that weren't closed by six feet of snow.

An aside - Sierra Nevada literally translates to 'Snowy Mountains', and is home to the highest snowfalls in the contiguous US. I was aware of that, but not fully cognizant, as will soon be seen.

In any case, the five hour drive had the added benefit of about two hours driving through Yosemite; which I was looking forward to.

It's good to have a plan.

Now, plenty of people are cyclists in California, including some of the people to whom I was presenting. So when I enquired about how long it would take to get to Bishop, I was rather surprised when the response started with 'Well, this time of the year...'. Uh, what do you mean, *this* time of year?

Yosemite was closed. Closed. As in, we don't even try to keep it open, it's just not worth the effort. Wow.

And Bucknuts.

OK, no problem. Still 5:00 PM, and the hotel had a cancellation policy of 6:00 PM; I'd just go south - way south - to a cleared highway to make it over the mountains. I called the hotel. 'Oh... this was booked through Travelocity... you'll have to call them.'

I called Travelocity. Or, more accurately, I called their voice-recognition computer answering machine. They apparently got it on sale at Wal-Mart.

"Please state the name of the city in which you are staying".
"bishop, california".
"...Please wait... ...Beijing, China. Is this correct?"
"NO."
"Please repeat the name of the city in which you are staying".
"Bishop, California".
"...Please wait.... ...We're still pretty sure you said Beijing, China."
"$%^&*&#, I said BISHOP, CALIFORNIA"

After about five minutes of screaming "Bishop, California" into a voice-recognition system designed by heavily-accented software engineers with a very twisted sense of humor, I actually managed to talk to a real person.

"...Oh, I'm sorry, that reservation is for today. We can cancel it, but we won't refund your money."

Come again?

OK, Travelocity, now it's on. I will get to Bishop just to spite you.

I call the hotel again. I ask him how to get there, IN THE WINTER. He goes down the list...

"Highway XXX... oh wait, that's closed."
"Highway YYY... oh wait, that's closed."
"Highway ZZZ... oh wait, that's closed."

He finally gives me a route.

I love it when a plan comes together.

Before I leave Livermore, I stop at a grocery store. I pick up a week's worth of food in pre-packaged form... mostly energy bars. Eight gallons of distilled water (Many facilities in Death Valley don't have potable water). And a two-foot long extra wide sub sandwich, ostensibly meant for a family or a small festival.

Or me.

...and off I go. The last glimpses of sunlight cease. I stop for fuel. My headlights gradually start to illuminate different flora on the side of the road...

Grass yields to weeds.
Weeds yield to dirt.
Dirt yields to rocks.

Through the window, I see the Milky Way. I stop and turn off my headlights. I get out of the car, in awe of the stars. As far as the eye can see, there is no sign of life... no headlights, no town, no gas station, no street lights.

Hours later, in the middle of the night, I arrive in Bishop. All the lights are out; I have to wake the innkeeper. I stumble into bed.

The next morning the sun peeks in through the windowshade. I look out.

I'm here.

Day 2. Mt. Tamalpais; very little climbing.

2008-02-24T11:50:00.001-05:00

San Francisco, climbing out of the Morning Fog.

So, my tour guide from Day 1 recommended riding Mt. Tamalpais quite highly. Even though it didn't have much climbing, he told me the overall ride would be worth it.

He was absolutely correct.

But let's go back in time a bit, first. My host for the weekend, Gary, had been rattling off a bunch of touristy things to do - tour Alcatraz, see the Golden Gate bridge, yadda, yadda - when I interrupted him and told him I was in California for the cycling. Nothing more. Seeing the room where Al Capone whittled his shiv really had no appeal to me.

So, I mapped out the directions to the start of my ride. Normal looking google directions, nothing special. And then, all of the sudden, I was on the Golden Gate bridge.

Well, check that off the list of ultra-touristy things to do.

On the north side of the Golden Gate, I parked at the side of the road and started what was to be a 4.5 hour journey through some beautiful parks.

Prepping to hang-glide over the Pacific.

Now, granted, there was almost no sustained climbing on Day 2 - the highest elevation I reached was only ~2500 feet; I had to make up for it by climbing it twice. Fortunately I started at sea level.

You call *this* a hill?

At the top was the ubiquitous lookout station... although, quite unexpectedly, it wasn't open to the public! The signs indicated that this was a station to watch for wildfires. Ah, California... I'm not in Michigan any more.

Pacific Coast Highway - a view from above.

Once again, I was treated to some beautiful, beautiful vistas. I climbed the mountain from the south, went down the North side ridge onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Although the wind was terrible, the winding roads made up for the effort; they led me to a quaint, hidden little town, where I stopped at the General Store (really!) and bought some food for lunch.

I went back up the North side of the Mountain, stopped for some pictures, and headed out to Livermore to prepare for my presentation on Monday.

Another day, another dollar.

Day 1 in California - Mt. Diablo.

2008-02-24T11:13:00.004-05:00

Day 1. Madness and Mayhem in San Francisco.

Unfortunately, the climbing wasn't so much.

So, as many of you are aware, Ford sent me to Livermore (outside of San Francisco ) this past week. I took the opportunity to take a few vacation days, and shipped my bike out there ahead of time to my friend Gary, who is out there programming video games for the US Army.

I arrived on Friday, and enjoyed some of Gary's hospitality. On Saturday morning, aided by a time change, I set out early to do a nice 80 mile ride, culminating in an ascent of local Mt. Diablo; which had been recommended to me by some kind folks on the intrawebbiez. Gary printed out the turn-by-turn directions for me, and I began my journey.

Now, turn-by-turn directions aren't always the best. First off, the page gets immediately drenched in sweat; second, sometimes what's listed on your directions as 'Mt. Diablo Road' in actuality is labeled either 'State Route 666' or has no sign at all. So when, about two hours into the workout, I stopped to fix a slipping seatpost, I was passed by a local cyclist, I got a little hopeful. After a minute or two I got on the bike, and turned on the afterburners to catch him.

Fortuitous - he was headed to Mt. Diablo as well. Say goodbye to sopping wet wrong directions; say hello to the tour guide.

He was initially heading slower than I would've liked, but I figured that was a small price to pay for not having to hassle with the 'am I going the right way?' thoughts. He explained that this area was usually pretty dry - which explained the almost complete lack of trees - but had recently seen an inordinate amount of rain, which explained the beautiful, rolling hills; meadow after meadow.

I apologize for the over-exposure.

More Meadows.

After about another hour or so of cycling through some of the most picturesque scenes I'd laid my eyes upon, we started up Mt. Diablo. Unfortunately (for me), my blood sugar was now pretty dangerously low, and now I had trouble keeping up with him. The actual climb wasn't very long, though; only about an hour. I went to the top of a lookout tower and was treated to what allegedly was one of the largest fields of view in the world. One hundred and twenty miles to the east, I could see the towering Sierra ranges; and eighty miles or so to the west, I could see the Pacific ocean.

View from the top; the snow-capped Sierra's are a 'brighter' white on the horizon.

Death Valley. A history.

2008-02-19T19:52:00.007-05:00

Satellite View of Death Valley. Yes, it's strange there.

So, in 1849, there was an influx of gold-crazy emigrants to California. Some of the emigrants - like the Donner party the year before - got to Salt Lake City a little late.

With the late start (always a good idea when traversing 10,000 foot passes) they decided to forgo the Donner route, instead taking a route that basically ran through Mexico.

Albeit late, they were also an impatient lot, and halfway through the trip they decided that going that far south from Salt Lake City was taking too long. One man had a map; it showed there could be a 500 mile shortcut by cutting across Death Valley, (or as it was listed on his map, “Garden of Eden Valley, where the going is easy, there's plenty of water, and the oxen graze freely upon the plains’).

Not surprisingly, the victi… I mean the pioneers had a rough time. Canyons, mountains, no food and little water for them or their oxen… and then, one night, the man with the map decided he’d had enough of the scowls and jokes at his expense (for example, “Knock Knock” "Who’s there?" "Someone with a rope to hang the guy with the map."). Needless to say, humor wasn’t the strong point of early Californians; it would take another 130 years before they would invent the movie "Airplane". In any case the guy who's idea it was to go through Death Valley decided it would be best if he went on to California by himself, and took the only map with him.

The thing about death valley – the thing that keeps the clouds/rain/water from reaching the valley – is that 8,000 to 14,000 foot mountains tower along all sides of it. After entering the valley, there was no way the wagons could leave. When two months had passed without finding a decent source of food or water for themselves or their oxen, the exhausted emigrants decided to hike out of the valley. They burned their wagons and furniture to make beef jerky out of their withered oxen (the oxen did not have a vote in the matter, much to the chagrin of the fledgling Sierra club).

And of course, this brought the realization that the worst tragedy of the journey was before them.

The guy with the map also had all the Teriyaki seasoning.

Results

2008-02-18T18:50:00.008-05:00

So, the results of the test? At least read the story about the tent first.

After a few tests, the principal investigator told me my VO2 – a measure of how well your body processes oxygen, and a dominating factor in how well you do in endurance sports.

So what’s a good number? Floyd Landis (winner of the 2006 Tour de France) tested at 90. So did Greg Lemond (1986, 1989, and 1990). Lance Armstrong only tested at about 82 – but in an incredibly odd twist of body chemistry (in other words, the guy is a genetic freak), his body basically doesn’t accumulate lactic acid.

I waited with baited breath. My result? He said “58”.

I groaned. He looked surprised at my reaction, and told me that 58 really wasn’t that bad (later tests had me in the low 60’s).

So I looked up what the average person is.

VO2

Wait a second. I’m off the chart. Hmm. And the test normalizes by weight, which basically means that at race weight I’ll be in the high 60’s or maybe, if I train well, the low 70’s.

So then I looked at the next chart.

Professional Endurance Athletes

Hm. So right now I'm below average, and hopefully I can get to average by the end of summer. Not bad for before the altitude test, I thought.

So what about my power output? Before the test, it peaked at 396 watts.
Allen and Coggan's Power Output Chart; widely discredited.

...which I was pretty happy with, too.

So then, after a week in the tent, these numbers went way up, right? Unfortunately, no. I caught a bit of a bug about halfway through the week, and only put out ~365 watts (while trying not to get nauseous) in the post-test. So the month's worth of testing was invalidated.

But I'm still happy.

Day 2. Mt. Tamalpais; very little climbing.

2008-02-18T15:29:00.007-05:00

The Tent.

2008-02-07T13:21:00.005-05:00

I know most of the readers of my blog sit at home continually refreshing the page, ignoring thirst, hunger pangs, and various other bodily functions that I won't describe in detail (this is a family blog). You all had read this post, barely remembering to breathe while you anticipated the follow-up. Well, your wishes can come true (and soon you'll be able to take a bathroom break).

After my cycling aptitude had been tested four or five times, I was sent home with an altitude-simulating tent, meant to be installed on my bed. This is the kind of stuff that national-level athletes use, so I was happy to have the chance to try it out and see how it worked.

Somewhere, a US Olympian is getting weaker.

I was a little amused that I was going to be using an altitude tent that an Olympic swimmer had been (and by all rights still should have been) using. But hey, life isn't fair. Or at least it isn't for Olympic hopefuls. For me, things were coming up roses.

Oxygen De-generator.

The basis of the tent - this device takes the oxygen out of the air, simulating altitude. Your body compensates by producing more red blood cells. Basically, you're starving your body of Oxygen while you sleep so that it will more efficiently absorb it while you're working hard.

Camping in my bedroom.

It was a bit of a tough fit to put the matress in the tent. I had to repair a broken tent pole (it was like that when I got it) and managed to break another tent pole (so I started to get pretty good at repairing broken altitude tents, which I'm sure is a marketable skill). After about an hour of wrestling the matress and the tent, I had everything assembled.

Sleeping in the tent? Actually, I slept quite well. The lack of Oxygen made me go unconcious right quick, thank you very much. The second night in the tent, I started bringing in various devices to make my life easier - a flashlight so I could read the pseudo-altimeter, a couple of books, a bottle of water, and on and on... I definitely wouldn't mind sleeping in the tent every night (they make ones that are a little larger, and which are easier to get in and out of), except that this one cost in the neighborhood of $6000.

Too rich for my blood.

And the results? Was I suddenly catapulted from an also-ran into a National Contender?

Tune in next week to find out!

Just remember to breathe while you're waiting.

Flashbacks of Homeroom

2008-01-27T09:45:00.000-05:00

Contrary to popular opinion, there were rare occasions in High School where I actually made it to Homeroom. Not on time, that never happened. But occasionally I would get there before it ended.

At that point, my High School had sold it's soul - or more accurately, was forcing the students to submit to twenty minutes of advertising in order to pay for televisions in the classroom. The same ten commercials would repeat themselves, day after day, until even those of us who skipped homeroom daily were chanting them on the way to first period swimming class (swimming was always scheduled for first period, because school administrators hate students).

Thankfully, the advertising was well controlled so that our young, impressionable minds wouldn't be subjected to the whims of corporate advertisements. For instance, we were inspired to Be Like Mike by chasing dreams of athletic prowess rather than academic achievement, all while drinking gallons of high fructose corn syrup. Sometimes we'd be inspired to follow our own dreams, not to be afraid of being different - like when Van Halen urged us to try Crystal Pepsi. (I think the lesson was that following our own dreams leaves a horrible aftertaste). And lest you think that this is a tirade against nonstop junkfood advertising in the classroom, let me say this: corporate America should be trusted with informing our youth about their nutrional choices. For instance, without those commercials, I never would've learned so much about how Tasty Doritos are when paired with a Pepsi. And, uh, I have good word that Doritos are fried in corn oil.

Corn is *definitely* a vegetable. I think. Sometimes it's tough to pay attention in biology when you're hungry and the vending machine is just outside the door. In any case I know things turned out well, because America's youth is slim and trim.

So what did we, the students whose very youth was bargained away under the guise of education, receive from be subjected to these wares? Television in the classroom. A lofty goal, methinks. I did learn that it's much easier to sleep through a Jets vs. Sharks dance-off than it is to read Shakespeare.

Education for the real world. That's gotta count for something.

Ask a Cyclist

2008-01-25T11:37:00.000-05:00

Funny stuff from fatcyclist.com.

Testing

2008-01-24T10:01:00.000-05:00

So in fall of last year, I received an email soliciting my participation in a study to determine the effects of altitude exposure on anaerobic performance.

Being as I spent most of November and December completely exhausted and/or sleeping, I was a little reticent to start the study, but I figured I would honor my commitment. I'm definitely glad I did.

So I started biking again semi-seriously in late December/early January. I've found that I've gotten my energy level back up to snuff. A couple of weeks ago, I went in for my first test.

I took my bike in; they measured all pertinent dimensions, and set up their $6000 power-measuring computer-controlled bike based on mine. While they were setting up the bike, they took 'some' blood samples. By 'some' I mean they pricked my fingers 572 times and drained approximately 5 liters of fluid. Fortunately this resulted in a rather severe weight loss, which made my numbers seem all that more impressive.

After the fluid drain, they put me on the bike for a quick warmup followed by a four-minute all-out effort. In order to determine what was going on inside my body, they strapped a mask to me to measure the volume and constituents of my breath, and continued to drain my blood to measure lactate levels. I had them take a picture of me, as it was an impressively odd looking setup.

If my eyes looked glazed over and my face looks flushed, it's because I'd had a gas mask strapped to my face starving me of Oxygen for the past 3.5 minutes. I strongly suspect that this 'study' is really just a front, trying to understand how much physiological torture one would willingly undergo with no particular goal in mind.

More on the results later.

I'm exhausted.

2008-01-09T08:45:00.000-05:00

Whew, time to call it a day.

Hmm.

2008-01-05T10:10:00.000-05:00

No.

Mmm... Bacon.

2007-12-10T12:53:00.000-05:00

Another Dirty Dozen Write-up

2007-12-09T15:16:00.000-05:00

From pro-rider Barbara Howe.

Poor Decision Making Ability

2007-11-28T11:47:00.001-05:00

This past Saturday, while most sane people were digesting leftover turkey sandwiches and standing in line at Best Buy, I used my poor decision making ability (to its fullest), combining inclement weather with unfortunate terrain.

Yes, I decided to ride the 50-mile 'Dirty Dozen', or as the organizer, Danny Chew pleasantly describes it, "A Journey Through Pain"

Now generally speaking, 50-mile rides are mostly easy, 2.5 hour affairs. Not this one. Mr. Chew went specifically looking for the steepest roads in the Pittsburgh region to ride up.

For those of you who don't live in Pittsburgh: steep... means STEEP. As in world-record 37% grade. And unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your particular brand of masochism), that 37% hill was the easiest of the thirteen.

As per my modus operandi, I came to Pittsburgh ill-prepared; having a 11-21 rear cassette on my bike... basically, my bike wasn't set up to go slow enough for me to be able to still turn the pedals. A $60 penalty imposed by the not-so-local bike shop got me their last 12-27 cassette, and I was back in business. I was to learn later that another unfortunate participant walked in five minutes later to find out I had stolen his cassette from him...

Not really knowing what to expect, I arrived with my entourage (read: mother and sister) to the start with what I thought was a half-hour to spare. Seeing as it was about 40 degrees out, I didn't expect a big turnout.

I was wrong. In all, 130 people showed up. Perhaps due to the extra people, we didn't manage to get started until an hour after I'd arrived; that trend was to continue throughout the day. I *did* manage to balance out my early arrival/late start by managing to be the last person out of the starting gate, though, so all was well in the world.

I didn't think starting last was a big deal, because I was going to take it easy on the first hill and feel out the procedure and hills. It turns out that a whistle is blown at the bottom of the hill, which indicated the (rolling) start; the top ten riders scored points. At the top of the hill everyone would wait for the last rider, and then ride (presumably neutral) to the next hill.

Now, position when that whistle was blown was sometimes irrelevant, and sometimes critical, depending on the turns, road surface, and wet leaves, that all can preclude passing. As I didn't know the route, I was attempting to stay about five-ten people back when the whistle blew; attempts that were, by-and-large, complete failures. On Canton, I was stopped when, not unusually, someone in front of me fell over backwards and started doing somersaults down the hill. Unfortunately this was NOT caught on camera, but still, the antics of other participants bears watching. Fortunately, I am not featured in said video.

Yes, I made it up all of the hills. I scored points on three of them. I was stopped by falling riders on two, automobiles on a third, and a last-minute rule change on a fourth. The others? I was just too lazy, including the last one, where I swore I wouldn't do this again.

I finished in 22nd place, at least, to the extent that '22nd' is a 'place' instead of a 'measure of failure'. I blame the ten pounds I've gained in the last two months.

Gymkata.

2007-11-12T21:15:00.000-05:00

One Mullet.

One Gymnast.

One Ninja.

...Do I have to find a new place to ride?

2007-11-11T09:32:00.000-05:00

Police are now canvassing the park I normally ride through.

For 'Human Remains'.

Good Times.

Bowl Bound...

2007-11-10T18:43:00.001-05:00

Assuming that Ohio State does not go to the BCS Champion game, and Michigan is NOT chosen at large (both of which are looking unlikely)...

Penn State will go to either the Alamo Bowl (New Year's Day) or the 'Champs Sports Bowl' in Orlando on December 28th. I believe that the Alamo bowl will be given a choice between Illinois and PSU. Usually the bowls go with teams that travel well... i.e., PSU.

The Jamoke

Theory of the Green Hair.

Monterrey, Big Sur, and Naciemiento Fergusson.

Diamond Valley, Rock Creek Road, Sonora Pass

June 13th: Pescadero Road Race

June 6th: Ross's Epic Hillclimb.

1

NCAA Violations

James K Polk

Sunshine

Another Status.

Status

Massachusetts

Mt. Whiteface

Vermont

Driving there.

Yosemite

One Day, One Hundred Degrees, Three "HC" Climbs

Climbing Categories.

Mt. Washington: Part Deux

Hines Park TT Race Report (unabridged version)

National Time Trial Championship

ABANDON SHIP!!!!

Those wacky Chinese

Michigan Sunsets

Ominous

Road Racing vs. Mtn Bike Racing.

Perspective

Those Crazy Germans.

Am I employed?

Someone knocked on my door...

Meet the Flintstones.

FYI -

Legions of Minions

Don't bring a gun

Surprise!

Ford is now advertising here.

Hydrogen.

Trash. But it's free!

Stung by a bee on a bike ride...

Television

X-ray results

A tribute...

The long and winding road....

State Championships - Time Trial

Engine Pulll

Quick Update

ElJamoquio: Hardly Ableson.

ElJamoquio: Professional Blogger

To every thing, turn, turn, turn...

Auctionsniper

Why Tubulars are faster than Clinchers.

Riding through Hail

Tour of Kensington Valley

Don't Blink.

I'll make you famous.

Pessimism

Is it drafty in here?

Engineer jokes are the funniest.

First (real) race of the season

Beware the Penguins.

Engineers

Another boring day in paradise...

Epilogue: UPS

United Parcel Service

Random Day in the life

Korea

Virgle.

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

Russell Younkins

How many did you count?

Weather

Day 7. General Grant.

Day 6, Part 3. Why am I in this basket?

Day 6, Part 2. Seqouia.

Day 6, Part 1. Ghost Town.

Day 5, Part 2. Complete Idiots.

Day 5. A ride to hell with Dante.

Day 4, part two. Funny Thunderstorms.

Day 4, part one. Wildrose.

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