The mongrel

Cyclists wave to each other. That’s what we do. Doesn’t matter if we know each other or not. It’s usually not. But if you see another cyclist coming towards you on the road, you take your left hand off the bar and open it in a friendly gesture. Perhaps this little civility is why when we race, we call each other “brother.”

When this rhythm is disrupted, it’s sort of like when a Westy driver doesn’t give his compatriot the peace sign, or a Yotavan driver doesn’t give his fellow the bird. Certainly not high treason, but it reflects poorly on whomever failed to participate.

Sometimes, though, you see it coming. Like on Saturday, when I was casually pedaling through Alpine on my way back home. Two cyclists were riding towards me with the look, if not the pace, of riders on a Very Important training ride.

As I approached, I opened my left hand to bid them hello and happy riding. But instead of waving back or outright ignoring me, the lead cyclist looked at me long enough to see if I was friend or foe, evidently determined foe, then turned his gaze back to the white line and kept riding.

Now there are situations when it’s OK not to wave back, such as 50 mph descents, negotiating tight switchbacks, or alley-catting through traffic. But rolling at 19 mph on the quietest road in the most bike-friendly town in the state is not one of them.

And yet, the failure to wave was exactly what I expected. Looking at me first inquisitively and then disdainfully was somewhat surprising, but I knew the guy wasn’t going to wave. The sleeveless jersey was the giveaway. Obviously one of that mongrel breed of loners who call themselves “triathaletes.”

No glory in choking

About ten minutes into church on Sunday, I got a text from Aaron: “Are you watching this?”

“This,” of course, was the Confederations Cup final, where the US were playing Brazil.

“No, I’m at church. Recording it. Will watch when I get home.”

Once home, though, we had my family over for dinner. I was the only one who didn’t know the outcome, but everyone dutifully kept quiet. When we were done eating, my brother-in-law Charlie came downstairs and watched the first half with me.

I was flabbergasted at the first goal and dumbfounded by the second. With a two-nil lead, the US would surely hold on. In the back of my mind, though, were Dug’s words during the semifinal: “they’ll find a way to lose.”

Charlie didn’t stick around for the second half. I should have taken that as a sign. I watched, disappointed, as the lead shrank to one goal, then level, then a deficit.

Some fans are saying “well at least they made it to the final.” Or “at least they got an early lead.”

Bull crap. Both of those things are commendable. But choking and blowing a two goal lead is pathetic.

Good for the US for taking it to Brazil from the opening whistle and getting the lead. Once up two goals, though, they should have done what everyone else in that situation does: sit back and defend. Brazil have a hard time breaking that down or getting any flow when all the action is in one half. Foul Kaka—take him off his rhythm. Just don’t let them get any momentum.

Instead, the US continued attacking. A noble thing to do, sure, and certainly what led to the early lead. But not the way to win a game when you already have an advantage and are playing a team of superior talent. It would have been an ugly way to win, but unlike Brazil, the US are under no obligation to win pretty. They need to just win first.

On bird bones, irrational assumptions about physics, and bunch sprints

There’s always a sorting out, or actually two sortings out, on the Friday morning Alpine Loop ride. The first typically occurs at the turnoff for Tibble where the road gets a little steeper. Generally at this point it’s every man for himself, but sometimes the group stays together until the famous mile marker 18 when someone inevitably makes a move.

Brad claims that he tries to break free of Rick because he can’t beat Rick in a sprint to the top. We all know that’s a load of crap, though, and Brad is just that fast up the hill. I looked at his corn cob cassette when we got to the top this morning and asked him what his biggest cog was. He didn’t even know. I guess if you never use it, there’s no point in knowing. In fairness, I should point out that Rick doesn’t use any of his three biggest cogs, but he does run a compact crank.

Rick is a freak in his own right. I’m convinced he has bird bones, because he’s eight inches taller than me and weighs about the same. Not that I’m skinny or anything. But he’s not a gaunt, emaciated chicken like Michael Rasmussen or Juan Mauricio Soler, either.

Since Adam, Aaron, and Brandon were absent from this morning’s ride and Steve had tired legs from riding yesterday while I rested, I was able to claw my way to a podium finish. I kept Rick in sight for as long as I could, but once I lost visual contact, the rubberband snapped, and I never saw him again. Elden, helmet cam and all, was right on my wheel all the way to the top.

The contest that really matters, though, is the bunch sprint at the bottom. I’ve mentioned before that I’m kind of a pansy descender, which has heretofore kept me from being there to contest the bunch sprints. I’ve recently, however, adopted a new descending philosophy: if the person ahead of me can stay upright at a given speed through a corner, so can I. So I just pick someone to follow down the hill and try to hold his wheel. This may not be the safest or most rational approach, but it’s worked so far.

Today that person happened to be Dug, whose descending prowess and record in the sprint to the guard shack are both the stuff of legend. I kept him in sight most of the way down, but in the final couple of swithbacks where the road was a bit wet I lost some nerve and let him go.

Steve was right with me, though, and I knew with two against one on the lower section where you actually have to pedal, we could catch him. Dug knew this, too, and sat up to let us catch. Elden was right behind, and we decided that four was enough for a bunch sprint and didn’t wait for the rest.

At the top, Steve and I had agreed that keeping Dug from winning was as good as a victory. I wish I could say that all of the crits we’ve done this year proved valuable. My inexperience in the AF sprint resulted in being stuck on the front when the sprint began. Elden started coming around. I stood up to go, but at 40 mph, there wasn’t much more accelerating I could do. I thought Elden was going to take it when Dug pipped him at the end.

Next week, Dug. Next week.

A remarkable turn of events

“They scored again.” I heard UTRider say from his office. I couldn’t believe it and checked the gamecast. Sure enough, the US were up 2-0 over the top-ranked team in the world and European champions in the 74th minute.

After the 3-1 defeat to Italy, I had written them off for dead in the group stage of the Confederations Cup. The 3-0 loss to Brazil more or less sealed the deal in my mind, given they would need a six goal swing in the final group stage round to keep the defending world champions from advancing.

Then on Sunday, I got a text from my brother telling me that the hardly probable had happened—the US had defeated Eqypt 3-0, and Brazil had defeated Italy 3-0. The US and Italy were level on points at 3 each, level on goal differential, so it came to the second tie-breaker: goals scored. Advantage USA. Only problem is that meant playing Spain in the semi final.

Spain hadn’t lost a match since 2006 and were on a run of 35 games without a loss and 15 wins in a row in International play, both records. When I texted Dug to tell him of the 2-0 advantage, his response was pretty typical of football fans long accustomed to disappointing performances in international play: “they’ll find a way to lose.”

They didn’t. It’s not the world cup, but it’s the finals of an international tournament. Cheering for the US in football is like cheering for French riders in Le Tour—take whatever success you can find and pop the bubbly in celebration.

Googleganger

Apparently, I’m still alive. Just a bit tired and hungry. No, I’m not referring to the High Uintas stage race, though it’s understandable how one could be cold, tired, and happy to still be alive after that one. I’m referring to my googleganger who got lost in the mountains in Washington. 

This story was enough to cause brief panic to one of my co-workers, who read the story over the weekend and only found relief when the hiker’s description, aside from the name, didn’t match mine.

Scaring friends with news accounts is nothing new. When a world cup ski racer with whom I share a name crashed in January, the “skier…in coma” and “flown by helicopter to local hospital” parts were enough to cause a friend fleeting panic until further details were revealed.

Not that it makes someone nearly dying any better just because it wasn’t your friend, but if we got all emotional as if it were a loved one every time someone in the news was reported dead or injured, there wouldn’t be much to our lives besides despair and wearing black. I guess we’d at least be able to relate to Goth teenagers that way.

By the way, this is one of only a handful of times that I’ve indirectly referenced my last name on this blog. Not that I’m paranoid or anything. And not that it makes any difference—another employee at my former company was able to figure out who I was before I made any references to my full name just by cross referencing comments from fatty’s blog.

Incidentally, today marks the one-year anniversary of not being employed at the Huge Company. The four month gap was pretty touch-and-go, and we’re still filling in that crater, but on the whole I’m very glad to be gone. Hang in there, 331 miles, your day will come soon enough.

Not what I expected

We’re all familiar with the disproportionately hot girlfriend phenomenon. It’s pervasive enough that the guy who started Hot Chicks with Douchebags has made a career out of it. Usually there’s an explanation for it. Often, though, there’s not.

When Steve was in high school, he worked at a nursery that had among its best patrons a very attractive woman. She usually came in alone, but one time came in with her husband. The alarm bells went off—how did he end up with her? The next time she came in—alone—one of Steve’s colleagues said to her “your husband’s rich, isn’t he.”

She responded without hesitation: “Loaded.”

Sometimes, though, the question isn’t so easy to answer.

I’ve recently reneged on my commitment not to buy diet coke from the 7-eleven two blocks from my office. It’s on the way to the Real Tacos cart on Second South and State, and the siren song of three carne asada tacos—piled high with cabbage and pickled jalapenos and carrots—along with a 44 ounce diet coke, all for less than four dollars and all without getting in my car, is enough to make me almost forget about the pizza incident. It also helps that the pizza eater lady hasn’t been there the last couple times.

Revisiting that 7-eleven of course affords opportunities to watch the clientele, which brings us back to the subject of today’s post. While I was there, I saw a young lady who was attractive, if a bit trashy, and appeared to be in her early 20’s. The guy she was with, though, made me wonder if he was her dad, her pimp, or her long time child molester with whom she’d developed Stockholm syndrome.

This dude had been ridden hard and put away wet for years. He had that spare look of a guy who was accustomed to manual labor but didn’t eat properly. Kind of like an ex-professional wrestler who had swapped steroids for meth and lost a lot of his bulk but not the angry and ring-worn facade.

I couldn’t figure out how they ended up together. Sure, she already looked a little worn for her age, but that’s nothing new in that neighborhood. And her wear and tear was nothing compared to his. The difference could have only been ten years, but he looked to be at least twice her age.

Then it hit me—maybe he looked like a meth user because he was. Maybe she looked a little worn for her age for the same reason. Maybe he’s the dealer and a few months ago she was a college student who ran out of cash to fuel a newly acquired habit.

I started out writing this post intending for it to be funny. Turns out it’s just sad, especially if what I’ve supposed is correct. At this point I don’t even know what else to say, so I won’t.

God’s country

On my way out of town Friday, Steve sent me a text that said “have a good time in God’s country this weekend.”

The “God’s Country” he referred to is, of course, Wayne County, Utah. There’s a chance you’d take issue with me labeling it as God’s country, but chances are good you wouldn’t if you’re among the small portion of the populace that has ever been there.

I’ve been visiting Wayne County for as long as I can remember. My dad grew up there, and two of his brothers still raise cattle there (now as gentleman rather than full-time ranchers).

We stayed at my uncle’s house, which is at the edge of the foothills below Thousand Lake Mountain and has a Piñon-Juniper woodland out the back door and expansive views of the Fremont River valley out the front. It’s a cool place—literally. Because much of Wayne County sits around 7,000 feet or more, while Moab and most of Utah’s red rock country is scorching hot, Wayne County is still quite pleasant.

Yet hardly anyone seems to visit. Unlike the sometimes Disneyesque feel of Arches or Zions, Capitol Reef National Park and the adjoining Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument are uncrowded. When we arrived at the Capitol Reef visitor’s center on Saturday, many of the 15 or so parking spaces in the lot were full, but that was likely just because it was raining.

While at the visitor’s center, I indulged my inner nerd by purchasing a poster that provides a timeline and labels for the rock layers at all of the national parks in Utah. At some point I’ll know my navajo from my wingate from my kayenta and will be able to thoroughly bore anyone who hikes or bikes with me with unsolicited geology lectures.

From the visitor’s center, we drove south on a dirt road, into the rarely-visited heart of the park, and stopped at the trailhead to Surprise Canyon, a gorgeous slot canyon that winds its way into the waterpocket fold. We encountered exactly one other hiker.

Sadly, in our rush to get out of town following the gauntlet on Friday, the camera was among the things left behind. This was a real bummer, because there were all kinds of plants and flowers I wanted to take pictures of for Alex to identify. Not to mention all the rock formations. (Incidentally, the visitor’s center in Capitol Reef has an awesome catalogue of native plants—you just thumb through it like you would LP’s in a record store back when those existed, but instead of album art, you look at plant samples encased in plastic with the names, both proper and common, on the card.)

After the hike, we backtracked a little to the Burr Trail, followed it up and over “the reef” and into Grand Staircase-Escalante. If you’re wondering how Capitol Reef got its name, many of the early explorers were seamen who were accustomed to describing any barrier or obstacle as a reef, including the waterpocket fold. Since some of the white sandstone formations bear some resemblance to the Capitol dome, it was given the name Capitol Reef.

Someday I’m going to ride the loop we drove from Torrey to the Burr Trail to Boulder and back to Torrey on a bike. It is some of the most amazing country anywhere and ranges from red rock canyons to alpine forests, summiting at 9,600 feet before dropping back into the Fremont River valley.

I have to admit that my motivation for making this trip wasn’t all sightseeing and family time. I also wanted to check out the course for the Capitol Reef Classic stage race coming up next month. All I can say is I can’t imagine a better course. The time trial is in Loa near the airport, likely because it’s the only flat stretch in the entire county.

In the road race, tactics are going to be critical—the big climb going up to Fish Lake comes early enough that it won’t be decisive. If you make a break on the climb, you better have enough of a motor to solo for 40 miles. It will be my first real test as a Cat. 4, and the anticipation/anxiety is already killing me four weeks out.

If you’re looking for an awesome race in an amazing location for July, you should consider this one. Unless you’re a strong Cat. 4 that climbs well, in which case I recommend skipping the race and sitting on the couch and eating as many bowls of Reese’s Puffs as you can.