Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Dr. King would probably still be dreaming…..


It would be Dr. Martin Luther King’s 86th birthday today and I find myself thinking about what he said, and accomplished throughout his life. I started by reading a post I made 3 years ago, linked below. At the time, I was on a bit of a rant about how my state legislated against homosexuals. The good news is that, since then, the Old Dominion has moved into a new place and same sex marriage in VA is alive and well. Of course, it happened because the Supreme Court allowed it as opposed to it happening by choice but, hey, a win is a win. If you want to catch my last post on Dr. King, check it out here.


Religious biases

Today, I’d like to riff on the religion-isms that are currently springing up, and up, and up. To begin, the 1st Amendment to the US Constitution prohibits the making of any law respecting the establishment of religion or impeding the free exercise of religion, along with several other things like speech, press, assembly, and petitioning the government for redress of grievances; it’s a kick ass amendment!

This means that US citizens are allowed to make their own decisions about who or what they worship without fear of the government telling them otherwise. It was one of our country’s founding tenets. So, when I see people talking about “returning our country to the religious place on which it was founded” (because we’ve “lost our way”) I just start shaking my head. It wasn’t founded on that, in fact it was founded on each of us deciding for ourselves. What you really mean is you’d like to take away my right to have my personal religion and accept yours because it’ll make us all act better, or at least the same. Right? Sorry, no dice.

Since we’ve accorded that right to all of our citizens, it would follow that we’re going to treat everyone else on the planet in the same way, at least where the government is involved. Everyone with me, so far? Good.

That means that, as US Citizens, we have to be okay with others having a different religious belief than our own. And here is where things begin to go sideways.

Those Muslims are savages!

I don’t know how many people I’ve heard say something along these lines, up to and including that we should just bomb all these Muslim countries since they all want to be martyrs, anyway! (Seriously, I’ve heard that said more than once.)

If you’ve studied the Quran, you know that its message is peace and love, not unlike the Christian Bible. Are there verses in there about death and jihad? Sure. Taken out of context, they seem incredibly vile and evil. Are there verses in the Bible about death and killing those who don’t believe the same? Yep. (Have you studied the Crusades?) Taken out of context, they seem incredibly vile and evil. In others words, they state things in much the same way as each other. But why? I’m not a religious scholar so I’m going to give you my totally uneducated take on this.

It appears to me that both of these works, the Quran and the Bible, were written at a time when their respective religions were in the formative stages – a very long time ago. In order to get people to join your ranks, strong motivation was needed so they used the best thing they had at the time. Strong language, with strong motivational tools (threats of death, stoning, disfigurement or smoting come to mind) was the methodology a couple millennia ago. But if you pull these individual verses out, both scriptures look suspiciously similar and downright mean spirited.

I was raised in a Christian church and the closest thing I could get to mean spirited teaching was if I didn’t repent, I’d be damned to fire and brimstone throughout eternity. But if repentance was in my heart, all would be love and light and heaven.

But what about those terrorists?

I think they are the extreme right wing side of the Muslim faith, led by some unscrupulous men who are using religion to drive their power and behavior. Are there a lot of them? Apparently, there are enough to make a pretty good sized war. Can they be stopped? I sure hope so; evil should always be stopped and this group is pure evil. Can peace be achieved? Eventually, I think it can. But it’s going to take some work or everyone’s part. I know a fair number of Muslims. Not one of them has threatened me or my family or my country. Do you know why? They aren’t terrorists! They’re human beings who happen to believe in something differently from me.

By the way, extremists exist in every religion. Would you like to be judged as a Christian by the actions of the Westboro Baptist Church? I’m going with, no.

That brings me to something that really ticked me off last week.

Rev. Franklin Graham

Shortly after the Charlie Hebdo massacre last week, there were people saying that “Muslims were misunderstood, generally good people” and needed some acceptance around the world. That same week, Duke Unversity announced that they were going to allow a weekly “call to Muslim prayer” on their campus.

Rev. Graham lost his shit on that one.

On his Facebook page he wrote, “As Christianity is being excluded from the public square and followers of Islam are raping, butchering, and beheading Christians, Jews, and anyone who doesn’t submit to their Sharia Islamic law, Duke is promoting this in the name of religious pluralism.”

Wait, what?

First, I must have missed it but when did Christianity become excluded from the public square? Last I checked, it’s still the most common religion with 33% of the world population, although that’s lumping them all together; that’s something they don’t much care for.

Second, Sharia law is followed in a handful of countries and while they do have some pretty strict laws and penalties, I’m pretty sure rape, butchering, and beheading are off the table. (I’m not saying that doesn’t go on, I’m saying it’s not done by the followers of Islam as a matter of course. It’s the extreme faction.)

Third, Duke was promoting and inviting worship for their Muslim students of which they reportedly have around 800. (I’m told they were the first university in the country to have an Imam on staff. That’s a Muslim minister, bubba.) They were inviting people to come, not demanding that they join and promising eternal damnation if they didn’t.

Fourth, Reverend Graham I’m ashamed of your intolerance. In your world, evidently, Baptists are the only members of God’s people allowed to practice their religion. Not only that, but you seem driven to get everyone on that bus because 2 days ago you told Muslims, “that in Jesus Christ’s name they can be forgiven” on the Sean Hannity show. (You know, if they said the same to you about Allah, you’d be outraged.) I suspect that if you asked Jesus, “WWJD?” on this one, he’d be shaking his head, sadly.

If you aren’t part of the solution…..

It’s this kind of intolerant rhetoric, ringing from the mouth of nearly every person with a microphone these days, that helps to proliferate the struggle for peace. In other words, if you’re not adding a solution that everyone can abide by, then you’re part of the problem. Right now, we have far too many problems and not nearly enough solutions. So, stop it! Now. Just stop the fist waving, chest thumping, finger pointing, belief damning and just let everyone be. Take a breath. Understand that we're all just protoplasm on the planet, trying to live. Give each other a hand.

And Dr. King, what would he say?

I don’t know what he’d say today. I only know what he said when he told us about his dream.

…when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics…

Although he didn’t say it then, I suspect that today he’d include Muslims, and atheists, and every other religion because he preached tolerance. He decided to “stick with love because hate is too great a burden.”

So should we all.

Martin Luther King – I Have a Dream Speech – entire text

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.
But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.
In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."
But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.
We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.
The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.
We cannot walk alone.
And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.
We cannot turn back.
There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating: "For Whites Only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."¹
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.
Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.
And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.
I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream today!
I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.
I have a dream today!
I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."2
This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.
With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:
My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!
And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.
And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.
Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.
Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.
Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.
But not only that:
Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.
From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
And when this happens, and when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:
                Free at last! Free at last!
                Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!3

 Thanks, Dr. King.

Friday, December 19, 2014

Group rides

Safety in numbers and pushing myself to a new plateau

It’s that time of year when cycling is left to the hard core riders. The temperature has dropped to the 40s and 50s during the day, the amount of sunlight is limited by the angle of the sun and that same angle causes visibility to be compromised. I’m sure you’ve noticed when you’re driving your car into the sun, the glare on the windshield is nasty and makes it difficult to see things; like bike riders.

Yes, it scares us, too.

A couple of Sundays ago, the weather turned beautiful in central VA with the temperature soaring to 70. I hadn’t been on the bike in several weeks due to, well, life I suppose. My back was out for a couple of weeks (getting old is not for sissies) and family stuff had taken some time, as well. Plus, the weather had sucked whenever I did have time to ride.

With a gorgeous forecast and my favorite pro football team (Washington Redskins) sucking again, the day was mine!

Then, I received an email from RABA – the Richmond Area Bike Association – announcing a ride nearby. I’ve been a member of RABA for 3 or 4 years and have been on a couple of group rides but they typically don’t match up to my schedule. I also really struggle with the concept of driving in my car with my bike to go for a bike ride and then driving back home. This one was relatively close, though, so I decided to take advantage of the safety in numbers concept; more riders must to be easier to see, no?

I loaded up my bike and changed into an outfit that would match the weather. It seemed too warm for anything other than shorts on my legs but I put some arm warmers on to keep my upper extremities a little warmer. I filled a couple of water bottles and grabbed a Clif bar for a snack, just in case, and stuck a couple of dollars in my pocket.

Ashland Ramble

According to the RABA site, this ride is called the Ashland Ramble a ride of about 28 miles that begins on the campus of Randolph-Macon College
Proud city
and winds through the roads of Hanover County after starting in Ashland VA. (This town bills itself as the Center of the Universe – I have no idea why. It is a cute, sleepy little town, though.)

I loaded up Fast Eddy and headed to Ashland, arriving about 15 minutes prior to the scheduled departure time. There were already five or six others offloading, including the ride leader, so I introduced myself all around and prepped my bike. I took a quick spin around the parking lot to make sure everything was working properly, chatted with some of the others and we set off at 2:00.

As we moved through town and out through a housing development, I had a chance to chat with several more folks. I’m always amazed at all of the different stories of how people ended up cycling. Some of us have recently re-discovered it after not riding for decades while others have always ridden sometimes commuting, sometimes racing, sometimes exercising. But now, we all ride.

After putting suburbia behind us, we came to a Stop sign where everyone queued up again. The ride leader took a head count to ensure everyone was okay and we broke into smaller groups as we headed out on country roads where passing of cars can get a little exciting. Smaller groups of riders makes it easier for cars to pass and blocking traffic is one of those pissoffable offenses to drivers so, we work to avoid it.

I wound up riding with two guys (Peter and Young Dude) who apparently didn’t get the memo that this was a B pace ride. We took off from the Stop sign and ramped up to around 21 mph, holding a very tight pace line. (Truthfully, I was holding tight to the wheel in front of me, riding third, to keep from getting spit out the back!) We kept cycling through, each of us taking a pull of about a mile or so, holding a very steady pace.

At one point, we came to one of Hanover County’s
Looks official
famous rollers (this county sits on the fall line of the piedmont area of the state and the land is rarely flat) and I had just taken the lead. I held the pace solidly as we headed up the incline for about 100 yards or so, spinning feverishly as I downshifted a couple of cogs. We crested the hill still holding about 19 mph and then crept back up to 21. I held that for the full mile of my pull and then tapped my right hip and swung left to fall back into line. As Peter and Young Dude rolled by, they both said, “Nice pull!” I nodded, unable to respond due to the lack of oxygen currently available.

The pace continued for about 10 miles when we came to another Stop sign and waited for the rest of the ride group to form up. I slammed the rest of my first bottle and ate half a Clif bar,
Energy!
hoping to keep my energy level up. I felt surprisingly good although my legs were vibrating, a little. The rest of the group appeared and there was happy chatter about how beautiful the day and the ride were.

I nodded and smiled, still trying to get my breathing to return to normal.

Once everyone was accounted for, Peter and Young Dude looked at me (evidently checking to see if I’d expired) and when I said, “Ready?” they headed out with me on their wheel, thrashing along to keep up.

We resumed our pace line tactic for the next half hour or so and I managed to pull my share, although I could tell I was burning a lot of matches in the process. Despite that, I was really enjoying this level of suffering; I’ve never pushed myself like this before, never seen what it was like to be part of a group that was hammering away. (I recognize that some riders will be thinking, “That’s hammering?” Yes, dude, it was for me.) I’ve pounded out some miles solo before, and felt like I was hammering, but it didn’t compare to this.

It felt good because it felt hard, I guess.

We came to a series of rollers that came at us like waves. I managed to hold it together up front and then I realized that the next one wasn’t a roller, it was an actual climb of about half a mile. I started up it, trying to hold the pace but I could tell I was gassed. I tapped and moved over as Peter and Young Dude blew by me.

I proved definitively that, as a climber, I’m a great descender.

Once I finally crested the hill, I could see the rest of my paceline as a small speck off in the distance. They had sat up but there was no way I was going to catch them without some form of mechanical assistance. As I continued to spin in an attempt to recover, someone else passed me. It was Dani, Peter’s wife. He had been telling me that she was an All-American swimmer in college who had just taken up cycling earlier in the year. Judging by the speed she was effortlessly going, she seems to be getting the hang of being on two wheels.

With about 5 miles left in the ride, I decided that now would be a good time to lick my wounds and ride comfortably back to the starting point. All in, I felt pretty good about putting myself out there with two obviously strong riders for the better part of 20 miles at what qualifies as an A pace. Being a lousy climber, I just knew I was going to be dropped on hills. My strength to weight ratio is just too low; I either need more strength (probably not going to happen) or less weight (more likely but not this time of year). At least it gave me a taste of what it feels like to ride at the next level, or a couple of levels above my current one.

Back to the Start

A couple of other riders caught up to me and we re-entered town through another housing development, turning back and forth through suburbia, eventually ending up back on the campus. I turned off the street and into the parking lot, rolling past my car in order to speak with Peter, Dani, and Young Dude who were slowly loading up at their own.

I thanked all of them for the ride, mentioning that it was the fastest I’d ridden for that long and that I hoped I hadn’t slowed them down. Peter gave me props for hanging with them, which was very nice of him while Young Dude just grinned. Dani gave me thumbs up, too.

I got off the bike and spent a few minutes stretching out; my legs had that jelly feel that you get after a hard effort and I didn’t want any cramp. I finished the rest of my 2nd bottle and the Clif bar and loaded up my gear.

As I drove back home, I started thinking about the past 90 minutes. Had I gone to a new level on the bike? Was my body really capable of doing more, far more, than I thought? If I did some training, maybe lost 20 pounds, and focused on it could I start racing with the Masters groups? Ride a century ride in less than 5 hours? That’s when I realized it.


Dopamine does weird shit to your brain.

Monday, October 13, 2014

Everyone knows it’s windy!


Ride Report on the Martin's Tour of Richmond 2014

Last Saturday was the Martin’s Tour of Richmond, an annual timed gran fondo put on by the Sports Backers organization; they put on a bunch of outdoor athletic events for the RVA. This was the third annual rendition of this ride and it keeps getting bigger and better every year!

This year’s event provided four different length rides, twenty nine, fifty eight, seventy eight, and one hundred one miles. There were over 1,400 riders signed up this year for all of the rides and I decided to do another century ride along with 392 other crazy people; the century had the largest number of participants.

The courses changed this year so that all riders began and ended at Richmond International Raceway, a famed NASCAR track. One of the cool parts of this ride is that it includes taking a lap around the race track before reaching the finish line outside. Looking at the course cue sheet and online profile, it appeared that the
This is RIR, Bubba!
new course would be much flatter than in the past and that was comforting to me as the last century I attempted, the annual Tour de Cure of Northern VA, I’d had to abandon to avoid killing myself in the Blue Ridge mountains when my legs were gassed. The online information would turn out to be inaccurate, of course, as my bike computer showed it having 50% more elevation change than the old course. 

Even so, it was a really wonderful course.

Instead of riding solo as I did last year, two friends planned to join me on the ride. Greg #1 would be riding his first century after taking up rode biking in the past year while Greg #2 would be returning to ride with me after dusting me by about an hour in the first event, two years ago.  Neither of them had as many base miles as me this year and expected to suffer, predictions that proved to be accurate.

Even though I had more miles in than past years, I was feeling anxious about the ride probably due to the Tour de Cure fiasco in June. The expectation would prove to be inaccurate as I felt strong the entire day.  Lucky for the Gregs!

Preparation is the key to something…sanity, probably.

I took time during the week to perform a tune up on Fast Eddy, cleaning off some road grime, cleaning and degreasing the chain, and then lubricating it, again. The result was that the bike felt great and shifted perfectly all day long. Mechanicals on a long ride just make the ride seem that much longer and, so far, I’ve managed to avoid one every big ride. I think it’s because I over prepare, which is totally unlike me; I’m not usually a belt and suspenders kind of guy but cycling is different.
Fast Eddy

I’ve also changed saddles this summer to a Brooks Classic hard leather model and the results have been excellent. With about 500 miles on it, I seem to avoid all the numbing that I’ve experienced in the past. I was looking forward to the century ride to see if that would remain the case.

Early start on a beautiful day

The scheduled time for the century riders was 7:30 and we all arrived, checked in, and were lined up in time for the playing of the National Anthem.  Right on time, the lead riders rolled out with their police escort leading the way. Their plan was to finish in about 4 hours. Their actual time was 4:30 due to the headwind that we all had to punch through over the last 40 or so miles. (More about that later.)

The rest of the riders moved smoothly out through the starting gate and we headed out on to Laburnum Avenue towards the city. The first seven or eight miles took us through the streets of the city, through the Fan neighborhoods and finally down a long hill where we hit 36 miles an hour just before crossed the James River for the first time on the Huguenot Bridge.
The newish Huguenot Bridge

The first of seven rest stops was placed in a shopping center parking lot at the bottom of that hill and we were going so fast, I’m not sure any riders stopped; most didn’t realize it was there until they were past it.

We turned onto Riverside Drive, a gorgeous winding road that parallels the river and it’s my favorite part of the Tour! The road is quiet and fairly untraveled, rises and falls along the river with some sweeping curves, and the early sun was coming over the trees making for some beautiful views. There were dozens of photographers set up along this part of the course taking advantage of the early morning light and our suffering (some of the hills are very steep so there are some stiff, short climbs) to show fascinating juxtaposition in their frames.
Riverside Drive

There are also some beautiful neighborhoods that we rode through and many people were out on their front porches or lawns, sitting in lawn chairs, drinking coffee and ringing cowbells and cheering us on. Little kids were waving and cheering, everyone was smiling and enjoying the weather (70 degrees and sunny) and it just makes for a great ride!

The second rest stop was in one of these and we stopped long enough to refill bottles, grab a couple of snacks, and hit the portable john.

As we crossed the river again over the Lee Bridge and headed into Shockoe
Are you home, Gov?
Bottom, Greg #2 started speeding up. I held his wheel and we left Greg #1 behind as we accelerated up a couple of hills and flew past the Governor’s Mansion. Our speed continued to creep up and I wondered if Greg had a lunch date and was planning to be early or something. There was no sign of the other Greg at about mile 25; we thundered on, heading east and out of town.

Suffering begins early

About mile 30, Greg finally started to fade when he was pulling so I took over and told him to just hold my wheel. I pushed us on until the next rest stop at mile 34. As we stopped, Greg said he was starting to suffer. I told him not to worry, I still felt strong, and just to let me break the wind for him. In only a couple of minutes, Greg #1 who we had dropped a ways back, rolled in and joined us.  He had hooked up with a couple of others and gotten a pull to catch us. We stretched, refilled, re-snacked for about 15 minutes and finally headed back out. (Stops that are this long are tough for me as my legs start to tie up and I have to work to loosen back up when I get back to riding. Anything longer can really be brutal.)

We rolled along for another nine miles or so and then came to the next rest stop at a fairly large park with lots of young families enjoying the day. We stayed there for about ten minutes this time and then headed off. Greg #2 was quietly suffering, trying to hang on until he felt better. That’s the key to riding a long event, I’ve decided. No matter how you feel, good or bad, it won’t last so just keep spinning the pedals until it changes or until you get to the end, whichever comes first.

We had one more twelve mile section until we got to the aid station at mile 55. I knew this one was key because the station after it was twenty miles away and we’d be turning back toward town and into the wind.  The ride up to this point had been fast (over 18 miles an hour average) and quiet, a sure sign the wind was at our backs. It was important, in my mind, that the stop there be a good one in order to set up the next section of riding.

But we still had to get there and this section had its own identity including a couple of long gentle climbs and some spots where we turned into the wind so we got a taste of what our future held. The road itself held some rougher sections giving it the consistency of a cobbled road; very uncomfortable to my hands and wrists but I gutted through it.

We finally came over the last rise and rolled into the aid station. Greg #2 immediately climbed off his bike and lay down in the grass. Greg #1 took off his shoes to give his aching feet a rest. I went and grabbed snacks for everyone before refilling bottles and stretching my back and legs. I couldn’t believe how good I still felt; strong, full of energy, and ready to get after it. It felt like I’d only ridden about twenty miles!

After about a 25 minute rest, we saddled back up and headed off. I kept stretching the entire stop in an effort to keep my legs loose and it seemed to help.

The hills make you stronger, the wind just makes you angry.

The next twenty miles were a combination of lovely and painful. The road wound through a number of farms, dead flat and into a 12-15 mph wind. I kept my body position low and just focused on spinning the pedals, managing to hold about 13 mph. The Gregs were unable to hold my wheel and fell off but I wasn’t going to stop if I could help it.

Between farms, the road would rise gently into some trees bringing some coverage from the wind but then adding a slight incline. I preferred this because I was able to hold a higher speed with less effort.

These two scenarios traded a couple of times and then the road rolled along between some marshy areas on one side and some housing developments on the other. About mile 69, we came around a curve and a nasty hill rose up in front of me. I downshifted to my smaller front crank and started up at a good speed, working my way through the rear cassette until I got to the 2nd smallest cog. And then, I just put me head down and spun the cranks as evenly as I could, trying to not to go into the red zone. (This hill turned out to be about a mile with an average 5-6% grade. That’s nothing for the pros but for this old fart, it’s more than enough climb; one spot got to about 12%.)

I finally crested the hill and looked behind me. The Gregs were nowhere in sight as I regained my ability to breathe normally. I continued on for another fifteen minutes and rolled into the aid station. I was still feeling remarkably good, especially considering this last section, but I needed some nourishment. I’d pounded a couple of power gels during the last 90 minutes but now I wanted something to chew.

Pizza? Did someone say pizza????

The Gregs rolled in about 4 minutes behind me and found me standing in front of one of the tables eating slices of Papa John’s. It was the best pizza I’ve ever eaten, proving that hunger really is the best seasoning! The Gregs grabbed a few snacks, laid down, removed shoes, stretched, and got something to drink.
Yeah buddy!

I ate pizza. I probably killed one entire pie by myself. (A delivery of 20 had just shown up and it was hot and delicious.) I also drank my fill of water, had some Powerade, and refilled my bottles. I felt good knowing that there was only about 27 miles to go.

After about 35 minutes, I dragged the Gregs to their feet and we mounted our bikes and headed out. Almost immediately, we passed a woman riding a unicycle. Turns out there were 3 of them entered in the rides including one doing the century. As long as they made the time checks, they were good to ride and, from what I could tell, they would meet those times easily. I felt for them having to ride into a headwind with nowhere to hide from it although this woman’s uni had a set of aero bars on it!

One more stop and then we’re heading home!

The next session was flat with some gentle rollers with the continuing headwind. I lead the Gregs nearly the whole way and we held together well. We rolled into the stop and I pleaded with them that we keep it short so I didn’t stiffen up. They agreed.

I checked my phone and realized I had multiple calls from MB. I had turned on my RoadID app at the last rest stop, as we’d agreed, so she’d know my whereabouts. It has a function in it where it sends an “ecrumb” to her via text that allows her to
Never ride without it!
track me by my smart phone. Evidently, the service was so bad out where we were (rural New Kent County) that it registered me as not moving for a long time and sent her a warning text that I hadn’t moved for 5 minutes. She had been trying to track me down as a result. Once I got her, she let me know that the signal had finally moved and she wasn’t worried anymore. The Gregs overheard me telling her we were on Studley Road and they yelled that, “the road was named for me” since I’d been dragging them along. I signed off and we prepared to head out.

As we hit the road, Greg #2 took the lead saying he was feeling better. I tucked into his wheel and we rolled off and pulled away from Greg#1 again. We kept this pace for the next 40 minutes or so and climbed the second to last hill towards RIR. Greg is a really good climber and he started pulling away from me.

We turned onto the last road and climbed the last hill with Greg dropping me steadily. I started to catch him at the last traffic light but he swung the left turn and took off again, down the hill towards the entrance gate.

I pounded my way down it as best I could and turned into Gate 7 which has a pretty stout hill. I stood up to climb it and my left calf immediately cramped painfully. I sat back down and kept spinning my way to the top of the hill and continued on course to the track entrance, by way of the tunnel, to take my victory lap.

Low Speed NASCAR

I rode up into the infield and followed the ribbons out to the track surface for my lap in the opposite direction of cars driving on it. The official photographer was stationed at the end of the straightaway to take everyone’s picture and I smiled to show that I wasn’t actually dying. (I haven't gotten the picture yet but will add it later!)

I rode back into the infield, down the tunnel, past the two ladies who cheered their heads off for everyone that came by, and then around the outside of the facility and back to the finish line, stopping the timer at 7:59:04. (Actual riding time according to my bike computer was 6:23:41; the lengthy stops really killed my overall time.)

At the finish line, volunteers were handing out small bottles of Powerade and cups of chocolate milk which was incredibly delicious! Great idea and thanks to the volunteers!

Epilogue

The temperature was perfect for the ride, highs in the upper 70s with broken clouds and sun. The wind was the big story with a second half headwind of 12 – 15 miles per hour; it made for a tough day but I felt good about taking it on.

The volunteers were amazing, as they always are, friendly, encouraging, and smiling. The law enforcement personnel were out in huge numbers and did a remarkable job at keeping us safe at every intersection. (I understand that one officer was hit by a driver out on the road and I hope he heals quickly!) The course was well marked, easy to follow, and a joy to ride.

In short, the 2014 Martin’s Tour of Richmond was an absolute success!

Next year, Richmond has the UCI World Cycling Championships in September so we’ll be riding the Tour of Richmond in celebration of those. If you get time, come join us for either or both!


Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Golf is hard and so is Pool


Golf and the Yips

One of my favorite quotes about golf is from Winston Churchill. Sir Winston allegedly described golf as “a game where you attempt to send a small ball into a small hole using implements wholly unsuited to the purpose.” I can’t think of a better
...and tomorrow
I shall be sober
description, frankly.

There have been times when I felt as though I could do anything I wanted with a golf club and the ball would react as I envisioned. I recall playing a round of golf with a non-playing girl friend riding along with me in the cart. I had badly hooked my tee shot on a par 4 and the ball had come to rest in the middle of a parallel fairway about 170 yards from the green with a large stand of trees between the two of them. She asked me what I was going to do to remedy the situation. As I took my stance, I said, “I’m going to hit a high fade over the trees and it’s going to land right on the green.” I’m pretty sure her response was something like, “Yeah, right.”

I took a swing and the ball took off, rose up over the trees, turned right and fluttered onto the green about 10 feet away from the hole, exactly as I’d seen it in my mind’s eye. I walked back to the cart to put my club back in the bag, feeling pretty studly, as the young lady asked me, “Wouldn’t it be easier to just hit it down the middle of the fairway, first, instead of having to go over the trees?”

That’s golf in a nutshell; momentary flashes of brilliance surrounded by longer periods of abject stupidity.

My putting suffered from the yips for a number of years. For those of you unfamiliar with them, the yips are a psychological problem that infects a part of your golf game, usually putting although Charles Barkley 
He actually poses
like this during the swing
suffers from it in his full swing. (There are videos on YouTube but I don’t recommend watching them if you play golf. The yips transfer through the eyes. You have been warned!)

For about seven or eight years, attempting to putt in the 20 – 30 foot range was very uncomfortable. I’d pull the putter back and then twitch as I was about to hit the ball. As you might imagine, the ball didn’t do what I was hoping it would, most of the time. The result is that one begins to feel it coming on and can only just watch and hope for the best as if having an out of body experience with a golf club in ones hand.

It was so bad that I almost gave up the game. Somehow I managed to push the yips out of my putting so that, nowadays, I’m regarded as a very good putter. I don’t recall how I accomplished this; probably better off forgotten anyway.

Unfortunately, the yips now inhabit my chipping and short game. Typically, the ball will either travel about three or four feet because I’ve hit the ground behind it
(golfers call this the chili-dip or the Hormels after that famous brand of chili) or it will run quickly across the green, missing the hole by a wide margin and into a much worse location because I’ve bladed the ball and it didn’t get off the ground at all.

When my best friend plays with me, he will turn his head when I’m about to play a short shot around the green. And encourage others to look away. I can’t blame him but it must be very hard to do. Like not looking at a traffic accident as you drive slowly past it; don’t you just have to look?
Operators are standing by!

The good news is that this past weekend, I played 9 holes with my best friend and found a method for swinging that doesn’t hurt my arthritic wrists! There may be hope that I can continue playing this great game. And hitting the ugliest chip shots with a smile on my face.

Or maybe I’ll have the time to devote to fixing it.

Pool and the Yips

I play pool, I think, for many of the same reasons that I play golf. It’s difficult. It’s mentally challenging, probably more than it is physically challenging. And since the player is the one that is solely responsible for success or failure, I don’t have anyone else to blame for a poor shot. All of that appeals to me. Along with the fact that you can drink while playing, I suppose.

I usually get an hour or two on Sunday afternoon to practice my pool game. I spend the time doing some drills for speed control, quality of stroke, and to cement my pre-shot routine. I also spend time doing something called a Q-skills drill which is a semi-scientific way to track progress over time.

My practice sessions over the past month or so have been really good and I feel as if I’ve reached a new level in my game. That makes last night’s occurrence all the more disturbing.

Monday night is league night for me. I play in an 8 Ball league at one of the few remaining pool rooms in the area, Diamond Billiards. It’s a BCA league (for all of you that care about such things) and is very competitive. My team is made up of 5 people, and we’re all pretty fair players. Halfway through the current session, we’re in first place.

In my first match last night, I broke dry and my opponent scratched on his opening shot giving me ball in hand anywhere on the table. I set up for an easy shot in the side pocket with just a touch of angle on it so as to play position for the next shot, slightly down table. I went through my pre-shot routine, got down on the shot, went through my mental checklist and shot. The object ball hit the point of the side pocket, ricocheted over to the other point of the pocket, rattled back and forth and did not fall. I had managed to miss my opening shot with ball in hand!
Just a bit outside!

I was so stunned, I don’t remember walking back to my seat. My teammates were all staring at me, wondering what happened. I was trying to determine what I’d done to miss that easy of a shat (truly, the easiest possible shot). The only thing I could come up with was that I’d been trying to cheat the pocket and had over-done it, causing the ball to catch the edge of the rail by mistake. Meanwhile, my opponent was running the table and played a safety with 2 balls left. I got back to the table with almost nothing to shoot at, managing to make a couple of shots before missing a very difficult safety of my own and my opponent ran out.

In league play, when you do something dumb like this, your teammates are there to pick you up, and cover your errors.  Or, they abuse you relentlessly for the next 30 minutes or so, just to help you remember that stupid stuff isn’t tolerated. Whatever. I’m guilty of it, too.

I managed to get my groove back a little bit in the second game although the other team kept getting these silly rolls when they would miss and leave us with really bad position from which to shoot. I lost that one, too.

In the third game, I broke dry and my opponent was running out when he rattled a ball and left me a shot. I ran the rack out, making some very difficult shots and playing some pinpoint position. I felt like I was back!

In the last game, my opponent ran down to the 8 ball before snookering himself. When he fouled trying to hit the 8, he gave me ball in hand. I didn’t even think about what had happened in the first game as I plotted my path to run out the rack. (Having very short memory is essential to confident shooting.)

I set up my first shot, made it and got perfect position for the next one. I ran every shot just as I had drawn it up in my mind and it was a difficult layout with a tight cluster of 4 balls at one end of the table that required a break out shot to enable the run out.

With only the 7 ball and the 8 left on the table, I was set up for a very simple touch shot in the corner where the cue ball would strike the 7, make it in the corner pocket and then roll forward about a foot for position on the 8 in the other corner. The shot required a gentle stroke with just enough speed to accomplish everything.

I got down on the shot, went through my mental checklist and shot. The object ball, I could immediately see, was slightly offline and hit the point of the pocket. It rattled back and forth, and stayed up on the table.

The cue ball rolled forward into perfect position…..for my opponent to shoot the 8 ball into the opposite pocket to win the game.

Yep, did it again.

Some rather colorful language came out of my mouth, quietly, as I slowly walked back to my seat amongst my teammates. They congratulated me for the great run, even if I did choke on the most important shot of the game. (These words were said with a smile, at least.) I truly have no idea how I missed that ball. Probably a tiny eye movement at the last second.

Now these two shots, that I went brain dead on, aren’t really the yips as the yips are typically a constantly repeated, psychologically driven phenomenon. And I didn’t see them coming, as you can when you really have the yips. But damn. They hurt just as badly.

I guess it’s back to the practice table again this weekend.  Good thing, too, since it’s Labor Day!