Link

We don’t do a lot of links around here, but this is a great piece by Richard Justice (surprise, surprise) that you simply must read: http://blogs.chron.com/sportsjustice/archives/2009/09/has_cecil_coope.html

He’s Back!

Enjoy it Idol Free while you still can: http://www.espn980.com/pages/pages.php?page=107

HHH-Call AAA-pt. 2

I didn’t quite make it to the next rest stop before it became apparent that I was going to need some more air somehow.  Fortunately, a man and his son rode up next to me, and we started to chat about how far it might be to the next rest stop (the signage on the course was terrible).  Neither of us had any idea, but he noticed that my tire was flat (I could feel that I was hitting the rim on every bounce in the road) and told his son to stop and pump up my tire with the pump on his bike.  I was so grateful.  They even hung back for a few minutes to give me a headstart so they could make sure I’d get to the next rest-stop and the mythical mechanic.  Unbelievably nice and thoughtful.

As you can probably guess by now, there was no mechanic at this stop, but I was promised that there would be one at the next stop.  I was also told that the next stop was only about 4 or 5 miles away.  Okay, I could do that, I thought.  I got a couple of miles out and saw an old lady (who was kicking my ass) if I could borrow her hand held pump for a few minutes.  She was nice enough to oblige.  I figured I’d just need to go another mile or two before the professionals would take care of me.  As I’m sure you can guess again, the next stop wasn’t only 4 or 5 miles away.  It was more like 8 or 9.  When this became clear to me, I decided to pull over and change the tube myself.  I didn’t have any air, but I did have a tube.

See, I had been reluctant to do this from the beginning because, although I know how to change a tube, it takes me about 20-25 minutes and a good deal of energy to do it in my garage on a cool day.  I had no idea how long I was looking at out in the open sun after 6 or 7 hours.  But the time had come.  I figured I could find someone with a pump after I got the tube on.  I took the wheel off (back one-go figure) and proceeded to strip the old tube out.  I took the new tube from my busted up saddle bag and started to thread the stem valve through the hole in the wheel only to find out that while I had the right size tube, I had the wrong stem and it wasn’t going to work.  I sat there, dejected, wondering what I was going to do when a couple rode by and asked if I had everything that I needed.  I explained the situation and they graciously handed over a tube.  God bless them.  Just after they rode off the roving assistance trailer showed up-good fortune smiling all over me.  This truck was pulling a trailer with about a half dozen riders and bikes who had been forced to quit due to either exhaustion or mechanical problems.  He asked if I needed anything and I said I needed air, and that some CO2 would be great.  “All out of that,” he said, “but I got a pump.”  Crap.  Even in my weakened mental state I was able to surmise that this meant that all of these pissed off riders who had been forced to quit due to either a bike failure or cramping or something similar were going to have sit there and watch me-Amateur McKnowsNothing-try and change a tire in a blistering hot parking lot with no shade.  Fantastic.

About the time I finally get the tube on and start working the tire around the rim, another guy rolls in on the other side of the parking lot and begins to change his tire.    10 minutes later, I’m still struggling (e.g., see the 1:00 mark of this video), and the other guy has finished his whole tire change.  “You can go help him,” I say “I’m still gonna be a few minutes.”  By the time the guy with the pump gets back, I’m finally ready to be aired up.  I fully expected some sarcastic applause from my audience but they were nice enough to hold them in.  The guy begins to put 100 psi into the tire and around 85ish it starts getting difficult.  He keeps going, and on the very last pump just as he presses down, the plastic pump handle breaks and he hits himself in the face with the pump.  I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or apologize, but he thought it was hysterical, so I laughed along with him and the rest of the people in the trailer (who I’m sure were just laughing at me). As there was no trashcan I picked up the two discarded tubes (one of which was perfectly usable) stuffed them into the back of my shirt (because the saddlebag was beginning to break even more) and rode the five or so miles to the next rest stop where there was, you guessed it, a mechanic just waiting to do maintenance and change tires free of charge.  Lovely.

HHH-Call AAA-pt. 1

Somewhere around mile 40ish (for reference, the rest stops are roughly every 10 miles for the first 60 miles and about every 8 or so after that) we noticed a slow leak in my tire.  Not a big deal since there’s (supposed to be) mechanical support throughout the event.  We put some air into the tire with a CO2 cartridge and rode on to the next stop where hopefully someone could change my tire for me.  When we got to the next stop we found out that the mechanics had moved on already or never showed.  Since time was becoming somewhat of an issue by this point, we decided to soldier forward.  The tire wasn’t too bad at this point, but it was definitely starting to take it’s toll on my speed.  If you’ve ever ridden with a partially deflated tire, you know it’s like riding through beach sand.

After going up a killer long hill that my dad let me draft on, we pulled into the next rest stop and last one before Hell’s Gate.  (as a side note, if you don’t make it to mile 62-Hell’s Gate-by the time it closes-12:30-then you don’t get to continue on and ride the whole 100 miles.  Talk about disappointing if you miss it by just a few minutes!)  We weren’t sure of the exact number of miles left, but we knew we only had 23 minutes to get there.  As it turned out, there was a mechanic there, but we didn’t have time for that.  We burned another CO2 cartridge (thanks, Dad) and hustled on.  About halfway to Hell’s Gate the tire was dead flat again.  Yet another CO2 cartridge (thanks Paul) and we were off.  I made it into Hell’s Gate with a grand total of 3 minutes to spare, completely exhausted.  The idea behind closing the course after 12:30 is to make sure people don’t over exert themselves.  I’m not so sure that works the way it’s intended.  We killed ourselves, my Dad, Paul and his daughter Adrianne, to get there and those last 5 or 6 miles was probably the equivalent energy that I would have otherwise expended on ~15 miles.

At this point, although Paul and Adrienne made it with me, they decided to ride the “short” route home (for a total of 75 miles) with my Dad who missed the 12:30 deadline by about 6 or 7 minutes.  I was on my own.  They asked if I wanted help changing my tire before they left.  I looked at the map and saw that there was (supposed to be) a mechanic at the next stop, and in my exhaustion induced haze decided I would just ride on with the (by now mostly flat) tire.  In retrospect, this was not the best decision I’ve ever made.

HHH and SICGOOMH

At some point around mile 20 my trusty ipod just stopped working.  The night before I had even gone and loaded up a bunch of podcasts and music that I had been dying to listen to but had been putting off for just this occasion.  So now I was stuck with the reality that I was not only going to have to ride 100 miles, but I was going to have to pay attention to the fact that I was riding 100 miles.  I can’t even begin to describe how much harder that made things.  So without any new inputs, you know what is bound to happen, right?  That’s right, I got one song stuck in my head and repeated it over and over and over until nearly screamed out loud.  That song was Boston by Augustana.  Definitely not the worst song in the world, but I could have probably done with about 3 or 4 less hours of it in on repeat.

Things would have been so much better if I had managed to learn the words to my newest obsession before I got out there:

HHH+3

My dad was supposed to ride the 100k which splits from the 100 mile route at about mile marker 25 or so.  I was a little bit ahead of him, so I stopped and waited.  He didn’t see me standing there, and I didn’t see him pass me.  So I waited, and waited, and finally rode back 1.5 miles before I got a cell phone call through to him.  He told me he just turned on the 100 mile route to follow me.  Ugh.  He said he’d wait at the next rest stop for me.  I hauled ass back over the 1.5 miles I had backtracked and all the way to the next rest stop.  In order to make up for the lost time, I just took a quick bathroom break while someone filled up my water bottles.  In total I spent about 3 minutes off the bike before setting off again.  On top of that, I had just expended an inordinate amount of energy trying to make up for lost time.  Also, the zipper on my saddlebag busted and I was stuck carrying some stuff in the back of my shirt for the rest of the ride.  Oh yeah, and my tire started going flat.  But more about that later.

HHH

So I did it. I finished the Hotter than Hell Hundred. First, some stats. Total bike time: 7 hours and 42 minutes. Total time (including rest stops and misc.): 10 hours and 15 minutes. Total number of calories burned based on my weight and activity: ~5,000. Total number of people who finished after me: about 60 (not including all the wussies who dropped out).

You see the picture of the official ride jersey for 2009. I told my dad and wife that if I finished the whole thing I was gonna spring for the jersey (they’re usually really expensive). My dad said “If you finish, I’ll buy you the jersey.” That was all the incentive I needed, and it is now my most prized piece of clothing (my Ph.D. regalia doesn’t count as clothing). But really, the thing that kept me going was the thought that I did not, under any circumstances, want to have to come back out here again next year. I’m glad I did it. I’m very proud of myself, and it was certainly an experience, but I NEVER want to do that again. That was the true motivation. When I wanted to quit at mile 60 (and 61 and 62 and 63…) I just kept thinking to myself “If I stop now, I’m still gonna hurt a lot tonight and tomorrow and the next day, but I’ll also have to hurt again a year from now and the day after that and the day after that.”  That was enough to spur me forward for another mile.

I’ll have more to share in the coming days.  You can guess some of the drama from the Tweets on the right, but I’ll be telling stories about missed connections, fat people and cookies, Hell’s Gate, my hatred for blacktop, flat tires, really, really nice riders and others who helped, flat tires (no, I’m not being redundant), broken pumps, how far away 70 is from 100 (it’s more than 30, trust me) and bringing up the rear.  For now, though, I’m just really, really glad it’s over.

Dispatches from London X-Home Edition

So as you can imagine, Texans have a somewhat, uh, unique relationship with London.  For a while we had our own embassy there when we were our own country.  (Ya’ll do know that we were once our own country, right?).  Since then, Texans have loved and hated this place.  (Unlike NYC which we pretty much just hate).  Anyway, in honor of my return, I offer the following song and lyrics.  You can see the video here and the lyrics are below (and they’ll explain the picture).

LONDON HOMESICK BLUES by Gary P. Nunn
Well, when you’re down on your luck,
And you ain’t got a buck,
In London you’re a goner.
Even London Bridge has fallen down,
And moved to Arizona,
Now I know why.
And I’ll substantiate the rumor that the English sense of humor
Is drier than than the Texas sand.
You can put up your dukes, and you can bet your boots
But I’m leavin’ just as fast as I can.

Chorus
I wanna go home with the armadillo
Good country music from Amarillo and Abilene
The friendliest people and the prettiest women you’ve ever seen.

Well, it’s cold over here, and I swear
I wish they’d turn the heat on.
And where in the world is that English girl
I promised I would meet on the third floor.
And of the whole damn lot, the only friend I’ve got
Is a smoke and a cheap guitar.
My mind keeps roamin’, my heart keeps longin’
To be home in a Texas bar.

Chorus

Well, I decided that I’d get my cowboy hat
And go down to Marble Arch Station.
‘Cause when a Texan fancies, he’ll take his chances.
Chances will be taken, that’s for sure.
And them Limey eyes, they were eyein’ the prize
That some people call manly footwear.
And they said you’re from down South,
And when you open your mouth,
You always seem to put your foot there.

Repeat chorus ’til the cows come home.

Dispatches from London IX-WTTW Edition

One of the things I’ve been doing with my free time here is running as a way to prepare for the 100 mile bike ride I’m doing at the end of August.  Since I don’t have a bike here, I’ve just been trying to run for as long as I can at one time without stopping, not really caring how fast I run or how far I get.  Yesterday, I decided to really push myself as sort of a test since it was my last running day here.  I ran for 2 hours straight and covered something like 12-13 miles.  That’s amazing to me.  If a year ago you would have suggested to me that I would have run a half-marathon, I wouldn’t have believed you.  Needless to say, I’m paying the price for it today (I’m very sore), but that’s okay.  Big props to Tony and Mike for getting me through this as PTI podcasts from the previous week are the only thing that kept me chugging (like a train, get it?) through the boredom and monotony.

On a possibly related note, my general crotchetal area is very sore. So Word to the Wise, if you plan on running for that long, I would highly suggest that you have the right equipment.  I don’t know exactly what that is, but I know that it is something other than cycling pants and loose shorts.  I know that much.

Dispatches from London VIII

This is just for my mom.  How on earth could anybody actually buy anything here?