Hiatus Ends

In November, my thoughts turn to Bruegel. The countryside holds no more secrets, no more foliage'd wonder behind thicket and hedgerow. Shadow and dusk have claimed the exuberance of spring and summer and have left in their wake the skeletal truth of where we roam. This is our landscape without clothes. This is our dun and copper blush, our russet brush and old yellow smear, our 14th century landscape.

Return of the Herd, 1565

I haven't been riding. Three weeks at least have gone by since last I saddled up, and that was a less than inspired 15 mile ride on a Saturday twenty days ago. Other, stronger life forces have taken precedent. Turmoil. Personal upheaval. The possibility of exile, the possibility of abandoning everything and setting off to unknown destinations, the possibility of No Return. The possibility of Greenland, of retreating above the Arctic Circle, of going away to hasten my own expiration.

These considerations were earth-shifting, the tectonic plates beneath my certain future all of a sudden proving to be dangerously susceptible to fracture, to geologic foment. Despair at first, then the rodent instinct to survive. Ultimately, the wretched mountain scaled, harmony restored, I am still here, still anchoring operations of Chez Shad in the heart of Woo City. I'm not going anywhere.

Except for a ride.

As I did today. 27 miles under bright sunny skies. A crisp day, the day after Thanksgiving, the roads quiet, through Woo City neighborhoods to Kelley Sq and the launch point for the Badger Extension, the ride I learned from riding with Bernard Hinault last October. Allez.

Since I've been on a riding hiatus, my resting heart rate has risen from 44 to 51. In just three weeks. At the same time, instead of gaining any weight, I have lost it. Riding at 148 lbs more or less these days. That's peak season weight, not November. Perhaps it's muscle loss and existential disappearing. It's hard to say.

What's not hard to say is that today I feel alive, I feel stout and staunch and, though increasingly diminutive, I feel, standing in my black Timberland boots, solid. I feel secure in my flesh and my spirit.

Autumn Riding

Wachusett Reservoir
Saturday, October 7, 2017

Bright days of autumn, of October though oddly humid days in Woo City and across the Bay State, residual hurricane breath perhaps, the big up-gust of wind and moisture from the tropics after all the destruction of Maria, Irma, and Jose. But in my small moment on the spinning orb, I welcome this beneficent anomaly, take advantage of balmy temperatures in the low 70s, a warm sun and a cool shade, perfect days for riding.

Second Wachusett summit 2017, this time by a new route, rt 70 around Wachusett Reservoir and into Clinton where I picked up old reliable roads through the Princeton Hills & up to the base of Wachusett. That's one serious climb that "up to the base of Wachusett." Then the mountain climb itself, almost two and half miles base to tower, caps it off. Sturdy stuff.

Today, October 10, another weirdly humid day. Feel good on the 29+ mile ride but the energy on the road was harsh, aggressive. A lot of traffic on the main roads forced a lot of in-a-hurry commuters onto the back roads where their impatience was evident. Several close calls with trucks coming too close to me had me growling and muttering invective.

Eventually I did enjoy long stretches of pristine October afternoon back roads bereft of traffic. But in the end, today was a reminder (not exactly a needed one, but still useful) that the roads are the domain of the automobile and that I, as a diminutive cyclist, have to glower and glare and gesticulate without hesitation in order to claim my right of way and my tarmac terrain.

Barney's Monday Night Ride

Gathering for Barney's Monday Night Ride

6:15 Monday evenings when the light is right and the weather cooperates. 

News Flash: Dubstoevsky hones his skills with the Woo City Strava stars of Barney's Monday Night Ride (the MNR). 

Oh yes, I've learned a thing or two with this crew; I've been schooled, and I've handed out a lesson or two as well. Peter the Headmaster taught me about the jump from behind. Frantic and Ponytail Billy have assaulted Dubstoevsky and have been left wanting. 

It's all a feverish rush for non-existent glory, a hungry thumb in the pie for plums.

D2R2 2017: The Redemption of Shad, Part IV: The Finish

Everyone who rides the 160K consoles him or herself with the popular notion that "it's all downhill after East Rd." This isn't exactly true but it helps to believe it. 

Dubstoevsky on the 160K

The fact is that much of the last twenty five miles of the 160K is rolling terrain, some downhill, some uphill, nothing exactly worthy of fear and loathing. This is why the last stretch is perceived as benign, because there's nothing in it that promises to break you. However, after 75 miles, after personal struggles with the audacity of East Rd., you are tired and vulnerable and any incline, even something that on a normal 30 mile ride would seem insignificant, becomes something not insignificant at all, becomes a grinding impediment between you and the next downhill, between you and un-cramping legs, between you and coasting.

After lunch, I focused a lot on coasting. I seized every opportunity to not pedal. I rocketed down the occasionally paved downhill stretch tucked and tight like an arrow of Jah, grateful for every tenth of a mile ticked off without pedaling. I watched Nut continue to crank while speeding down ahead of me and I felt smug in my energy-saving-regimen. 

However, true to form with Team Shad, inevitably something rent the fabric of unity, if only slightly and if only for a half dozen miles or so.

At one point late in the ride, around mile 85, Wing Nut and I came to a trio of riders who we'd leapfrogged periodically since lunch. Wing Nut, being the Assassin, could not help himself. He rode away from me, up to their wheels, moved to their left and went swiftly passed them. I was unable to keep his wheel and follow through.

I saw Nut look back once after he passed the trio as if to ask, "Where's Dubstoevsky?" The obvious answer was "he's stuck behind the three guys you just passed and doesn't have the power to follow you" but that didn't make much impression on him. More than likely his glance back was simply to make sure I was still in sight of the trio so that I wouldn't be alone when he rode off ahead. He was Wing Nut. He had to demonstrate his remorseless power.

Wing Nut, quiet assassin, at the end of the 160K

So this small drama played out for several late ride miles, my legs churning and coming to life again like a re-kindled fire. In the stretch run down to the Big Top and the finishing line, a half dozen or more riders came up from behind, sprinting toward the finish as if this were a race. That triggered a pang of competitiveness in me, especially seeing that Nut got ahead and into the group of hard pedaling closers; I was stuck (again) behind a cadre of meanderers, until I too could launch out from behind them and rush to the finish line, as if that last minute gesture meant anything. It seemed like just something you were supposed to do to show that you still had something left in the tank, but I did it anyway. 

And yeah, amazing as it seemed to me at the time, I actually did have something left in the tank.

D2R2 2017: Part I

D2R2 2017: The Redemption of Shad, Part III

East Rd in Hawley is like a fear benchmark. Anyone doing the 160K, if asked about their biggest concern, would probably cite East Rd as paramount, particularly coming, as it does, after lunch and at mile 66 (or thereabouts). Only the most extreme look forward to it and even they treat it with respect.

I was looking forward to it. While Wing Nut does this climb a couple times a year (because he lives not far away), I, Dubstoevsky, have less opportunity to test myself on this four mile category 4 climb. I was eager to have a go at it again this year and replace the memory of last year's mechanical collapse with a more positive memory, one in which I climb like Alberto Contador straight to the top (passing numerous faltering rabbits along the way).

So how'd it go?

I felt good after lunch, not overly stuffed, almost rested. I was ready for Part II. We rolled along at a nice pace, a lot of it fast downhill as we raced toward the valley. While there were hills and descents prior to East Hill, everyone's thoughts were surely on the much-heralded "last major climb of the day."

Turning onto the East Rd climb

We hit the Valley floor and pulled over for a meditation break alongside the Deerfield River, a moment of gathering ourselves for the climb ahead. Focus seemed important. A mental reckoning. A quick look into the suitcase of courage to check for clean knickers. Then, East Rd.

There is no "I" in Team and I guess that translates as "Don't count on others when you have to count on yourself."

Naturally enough, I found myself alone on the climb. Wing Nut, ever in a zone of his own, simply rode away from me. Nothing demonstrative or aggressive, he just locked into a cranking rhythm and went forward, oblivious to what fell behind. There would be no Go Pro footage of Dubstoevksy dancing on the pedals this year.

But I didn't care. Climbing East Rd is not about how well you do against others (though I confess to feeling smug and pleased with myself about the fabled "Triumph on East Rd" from 2013), but about how well you do against yourself. The whole of the D2R2 is about personal fortitude, not about measuring yourself against external forces.

No matter how much experience you have on this climb, it still surprises. I recognized several spots where I hung out last year after my mechanical, but I didn't remember many sections of the total climb; didn't remember the intensity of the grade at points (12%+); didn't recall how fucking long it takes to get to the top. This latter point is important because what it means is that on several occasions I would round a corner or achieve what appeared to be an apex, only to be presented with more of the same - a steep, winding, gravel roadway UP.

Are you steady? Can you do this?

You question yourself at points. Especially when your Garmin tracking device goes into Auto-Pause mode because you are moving so slowly it thinks you've stopped. This was marginally demoralizing, though the remedy was simply to keep going, keep turning the cogs: "and every time that wheel turns 'round, bound to cover just a little more ground."

Mantras can help. "... bound to cover just a little more ground." Indeed.

And in these moments, you look inside yourself. You check in with yourself and ask yourself - 'Are you steady? Can you do this?'

The answer for me was Yes. Alone up East Rd in quiet; not a car passed during the 30 some minutes I toiled upward, there were no riders visible behind, and Wing Nut had disappeared up ahead not long after we started up. Just me and Dubstoevsky pedaling through the sun-dappled, bird-chirpy forest on a tightly-packed dirt road. 

Unfortunately, I started to cramp. The inside thighs (both legs) and the right arm triceps. The triceps cramping had been going on for a while and I'd been conscious of trying to grasp the handlebars differently and relieve some of the strain. That had worked in the rolling terrain but here in the meat of the climb letting go of the handlebars was not an option and it was proving to be a problem. 

I mitigated the inner thigh cramping by alternately standing up and sitting down (which also helped the triceps). Doing so redistributed the demand on the various muscle groups, including the arms, wrists, and shoulders. Up and out of the saddle for as long as I could turn the pedals and keep upright on extended arms; and back into the saddle when the arms and shoulders couldn't take it anymore and the thighs seemed like they could reclaim some power, if only briefly. 

It went on like this for a long time.

Several times I thought I was rounding the last curving stretch of steepness only to reach the apex, turn the corner, and be confronted with more of the steep same. 

Finally, light ahead, a cascading of sunlight that indicated an opening in the canopy (most of East Rd is forested hillside and well-shaded). I sensed the top. And it was true. I'd made it! I'd avenged the great fail of last year and topped East Rd without having to get off the bike.

D2R2 2017: The Redemption of Shad, Part IV

D2R2 2017: The Redemption of Shad, Part II

You can be as confident as you like but you still have to ride the course. And even though in my mind the 160K is a familiar and friendly route, the truth is that it still comprises more than 9,000 ft of climbing, has nine category 4 climbs, two category 3 climbs, one category 2 climb (Beast-Forget Field aka East Rd), and covers 95 miles. This is no minor undertaking.

But confidence helps. You have to believe that you are up for the task, regardless of the length of the ride. Driving at speed across the state at 6:00 AM as daylight gradually overcame the darkness, I felt confident and ready for the day.

The D2R2 is a well-organized event and parking & registering is a breeze. Within minutes of arrival, I've located Wing Nut, checked-in, got my number and timing chip, and am gearing up. It's going to be hot, no need to don the sleeve warmers or the windbreaker vest I brought in case of a chilly morning - just slather on the sunscreen and get going.

View from So. County Rd

The 160K starts with almost 12 miles of pavement - ride up to Greenfield then meander northward on a bike path and the more pavement until So. County Rd, a short ribbon of dirt road that marks the first dirt of the day. Everyone is happy to get off the main roads and into the back country .... and back country is where we remain for much of the rest of the ride.

The day is exquisite. Again. Every D2R2 I've ridden has been pretty nice, though last year it was really hot. It's hot this year too but there's a cooling breeze and it's plenty comfortable in shade. And given the small roads and forest paths on today's ride, there'll be ample shade throughout the day.

We ride along separately, Wing Nut generally keeping ahead of me by 50 to 100 yards. I take to calling him "Mr. 100 Yards" in my head; for whatever reason, he seems incapable of riding together. In fact, late in the ride this becomes a little bit of a sore point for me as Nut insists on passing groups of riders we encounter, regardless of whether I'm capable of passing them too; I end up trailing far in arrears, out of sight of my teammate for long stretches of time.

But this is all par for the course. Wing Nut is a solitary assassin and perhaps he needs the solo show of power as a means of shoring up his own sense of invulnerability.

At least an editor caught it

The 160K is known for having much of the hardest climbing happen before lunch. This is a good thing psychologically. As it works out, I had misread the cue sheet and was expecting lunch to be at the 62 mile marker, deep into the day. So I am taken by surprise when, at mile 49 or so, we roll up to the Amos Brown house right on the border of Mass and Vt, and it's the lunch stop!

I remember lunch last year, also, as it happened, at this same stop. Then there were riders strewn all over the grass, prone bodies, stunned countenances, shattered psyches. They had all just endured the first half of the Mystery Ride and some were, as I was, wondering how they would get through the rest of the day.

Totally depleted and desperate to recover, I ate way too much, including way too much sugar - I had a Coke, cookies, maybe M&Ms, a sandwich, chips. After lunch, I'd felt like crap and eventually it was hard for me to keep eating or drinking anything; I was nauseous most of the post-lunch ride.

This year is a different story. I eschew all sugary drinks and food; I didn't use any sports drink powder at the rest stop earlier, never ate the M&Ms I grabbed, didn't drink soda at lunch. The result was that my stomach felt mostly fine all day. A couple times I chugged enough water to make me feel bloated and uncomfortable but those feelings quickly passed.

However, one affliction plagued me much of the ride: Fire Nipple. Sometimes known as Nipple Burn, this occurs when you sweat copiously and your jersey becomes soaked, as do the straps of your cycling bib shorts. The result is alternately chilled & heated, overly-salted nipples rubbing up against the salted, wet synthetic fabric of jersey and bib straps. Unpleasant. But better than cramping. 

Somewhere in the woods before lunch

Speaking of which, earlier in the week I re-read past Shad Rides postings about earlier D2R2s and one thing that is consistently noted are incidents of cramping. For me, it had always been WHEN I would start cramping, not IF. So I am astonished when I arrive at the lunch stop, nearly 50 miles in, having not experienced any cramping at all. The year I did the 180K (2014), I remember cramping up early on, maybe at the 40 mile mark on some horrendous gravel climb, and thinking "am I going to be able to finish?"

That was also the year I learned that you can actually ride through cramps; that you can acknowledge them, honor their pain, then incorporate them into your rhythm. Having to do so just sucks, that's all. So I was quite aware that after 50 miles of riding, after the first half of the ride was done, I hadn't cramped at all.

Of course, that wouldn't remain the case during the second half. 

Lunch is a mixed blessing, really. You're ecstatic to arrive there, are overjoyed at the prospect of a ham sandwich and a bag of chips, and eagerly plop down in the grass and relax tired muscles. It can get positively drowsy sitting there in the grassy shade, and Oreo cookies can seem like the obvious next step in the re-fueling process. But eventually, reality sets in and you realize that despite how comfortable you are, you have to get up, repack all your shit, remount your bike, and get on with it.

We don't linger at lunch. I limit myself to a sandwich and a bag of chips. Refill the water bottles. Stretch my legs a bit in the grass. Then it's back to it. 45 miles to go, only one major climb, the fabled East Rd in Hawley, site of previous triumph and previous despair.

D2R2 2017: The Redemption of Shad, Part III

D2R2 2017: The Redemption of Shad: Part I

Now the 13th edition of the D2R2 is in the books and Team Shad has redeemed itself following last year's disastrous results. 

Triumph of Shad after completing the 160K

The thing is, no one wins or loses the D2R2 - you either finish or you don't. Last year, we did not finish. This year, after 7 hours 43 minutes and 23 seconds in the saddle (Dubstoevsky's saddle, that is, based on Strava calculations), Team Shad rolled back through the starting gate at the D2R2 Big Top off Mill Village Rd. 

So what happened? How did Team Shad manage to claw back respectability after last year's failure and after an off-season marked by existential angst, motivational concerns, and the possible dissolution of the team?

The answer is actually pretty simple - we climbed on our bikes at the appointed hour and went for it.

Let's be clear on one point. Wing Nut is a D2R2 veteran, one of a handful of people who have started all thirteen editions of this event (including this year). That he didn't finish last year (his first DNF) has nothing to do with his ability and everything to do with his loyalty. Last year, Dubstoevsky's mechanical mandated that Wing Nut sacrifice glory for the rescue of a teammate (even if that rescue effort went comically awry). He would have finished had he not be duty-bound to Dubstoevsky.

It seemed monumentally unlikely that Wing Nut, never mind Team Shad, would experience a second consecutive year of failure. Last year had to be an anomaly, an unanticipated and unforeseen catastrophe of a singular kind. A flat tire, long un-rideable sections of the Mystery course, and a final ride-ending mechanical on East Rd formed the basis of last year's slog. 

Dubstoevsky, even at his most cynical and pessimistic point, couldn't muster any dread for this year's edition. All bad karma had been left behind in the wastes of Ho Cook Forest and on the dusty, loose-gravel crawl up East Rd a year ago - surely, the team's well of negativity had run dry.

And that's how I approached this year. Positively. I accepted that this year would be different, that the odds were in our favor, that we would return to the event triumphantly, that we would finish. Besides, we would be on familiar ground, the 160K, a ride we did in 2015 and that seems just the right tortuous distance. I'm glad I did the 180K on the 10th anniversary run, but those extra 20K down the stretch are hugely demanding and I don't feel compelled to do that ride again.

Team Shad setting out on the 160K

The 160K seems like Team Shad's ideal. Anything less seems like D2R2 Lite; after all, on any given day, knocking off 60 miles on dirt roads is clearly do-able, albeit challenging. Anything more, like the 180K or last year's relentlessly brutal Mystery Ride, seems like overkill. Hey, I can suffer as well as the next cyclist but after a point it becomes imperative to ask yourself, why should I bother? 

So even though we got a late start (7:35 vs the recommended 7:00), we set out in good spirits and with confidence. We were ready to put last year behind us.

D2R2 2017: The Redemption of Shad: Part II

D2R2 2017: The Night Before

The usual keyed up, anticipatory energy the night before the Big Event. It's always been like this for Dubstoevsky. In high school, the night before a big varsity hockey game, he would, in his sleep, put on his entire hockey uniform, including taping his shin pads in place. 

Some powerful subconscious mojo going on there. 

Things have changed since then. "Then" was 1977. That's a long time ago. But how does one measure time? How does one measure the continuum? 

The D2R2, for instance. Eight hours astride a bicycle might seem like a week, or like the blink of an eye.

Where are we when we wonder where we are? 

At some point, we move forward. That's what I intend to do tomorrow; move forward. Steadily. Inexorably. With Grit. With Joy. With Certainty. With Abandon.

Shad Rides carries on with a surfeit of determination and a modicum of total sadness. What the fuck is happening in this fucking country? Neo-Nazis in Charlottesville? White supremacists rallying on Boston Common? Are you kidding me? We have to fight back against Nazis in our OWN CITIES in 2017?? 

These are ugly days. Dangerous fucknatty times. 

And now it's the night before the D2R2, an event that is the epitome of Unity. Thousands of community volunteers and enthusiastic riders from far and wide (seriously - from the west coast, Canada, Europe, Worcester ... ) all forming a communal Whole ("the D2R2"). 

And within the "whole," anyone and everyone can be whoever they want to be, identify as whatever makes them feel whole. Everyone can ride at their own pace on the bike of their choosing along whatever course is suitable (60k 100k 160k 180k, the mysteryK). If you can handle it as a cyclist (and wear a helmet) then you're welcome to join the challenge.

So in times like these it feels right to engage in a communal and celebratory challenge, one in which everyone is supportive of one another, and respect is a matter of course.

D2R2 2017: The Lead Up

Last ride tonight before Saturday and the D2R2, the apex of Team Shad's quiet season. Two days off before Saturday's Big Event. Good. 

Tonight, Dubstoevsky's sinewy frame was more fisher than wolverine; more shad than tuna; more Bourdain than Harrison. These are all nuanced references that you're not necessarily expected to "get." 

Dubstoevsky training for the D2R2

The point is that the fifteen miles tonight, even though I was pushing it a bit, still felt like a lot. That it felt like a lot is disturbing. 

The D2R2 is in three days. 160K starting at 7:00 AM Saturday from a dewy field in Deerfield. 

Being "tired" isn't an option. 

The thing is, though, even if I turn out to be just a wiry fisher among larger, stronger predators, among beasts that crush it on the long rolling interior roads, I'll still be strong on the relentless climbs. This is Dubstoevsky's signature ability. Ride to climb.

On flattish ground, larger riders with bigger engines definitely have the advantage (exhibit A: Wing Nut, aka The Assassin); but on the long grinding climbs, normally I churn up the steep gnarl with the Niceness. I am counting on being able to do that on Saturday. The hills must first and always be my friends.

And yet so much depends on so much. How is anyone feeling on a given day? What will the conditions be like? Summer in Massachusetts has been fantastic, the perfect mix of sunny & hot, then cool & rainy. No more drought, beautifully lush green countryside, a beaming landscape vibrancy. But the gravel roads, will they be dusty or packed? Washboards? Dust? What about the dew point? 

So what's the weather forecast for Saturday? 

86 degrees F and partly cloudy. 20% chance of showers. Humid. 

Allez! Thanks, Phil! 

Fingers crossed

D2R2 2017 - A Week to Go

Muschopauge Rd, Rutland, MA
August 12, 1017

With just a week to go before the D2R2, I did my longest ride of the season, a 51 mile road ride. That's roughly half of the 160K that's on tap starting at 7:00 AM next Saturday. Was this ride any indication of where I am, form-wise? Yes, and no.

I rode hard, averaged over 15 mph solo, but eschewed climbing Mount Wachusett even though I skirted the base and was well-placed to make a go for the summit. It seemed too much. I never felt close to bonking but by the time I got back to Shad Quarters, I was ready to get off the bike and tuck into a cold Haze from Tree House Brewery. And into a 16 oz grilled ribeye. 

It's been a weird year for Team Shad. Existential angst, questions of retirement, the possibility of disbanding, pressure from the Caviar Mafia of Baku, an abandoned Rasputitsa, long stretches of ennui and disinterest. All of that, coupled with last year's epic fail on East Road and the Three Stooges-like buffoonery that ensued, magnifies the importance of this year's edition. 
Dubstoevsky and Team Shad seek redemption.

But will we achieve it? Each edition of the D2R2 poses new challenges. Last year's Mystery Ride, with its horrendous stretches of un-rideable forest road and the oppressive heat, proved insurmountable for many, Team Shad included. Then there was the first year of Team Shad's participation in the event when Wing Nut powered ahead and dropped Dubstoevsky on a long grinding climb, leaving D-Evsky on his own to make a wrong turn, become completely disoriented and end up on a different course altogether.

But the years in between those two mishaps provided Team Shad the opportunity to shine. Three solid years, 2013, 2014, and 2015 saw the Shad performing at a high level. Team cohesion, strong, disciplined training, and prime weather conditions added up to peak performances.

But the six months prior to this year's edition have been anything but cohesive. Wretched stretches of spring weather (read, most of March and April) rendered January and February's six-ride-each-month moot. By late May, when Dubstoevsky finally began to log some miles, the season was in disarray and even participation in the D2R2 seemed up in the air. Training rides were of short duration. Twenty miles. Fifteen. #Sad.

Team Shad

But now here we are. And though I, Dubstoevsky, am generally not a water glass half full kind of guy, I have looked for some positives from these past six tumultuous months. The most important reed of hope to which I cling is the simple fact that I'm fresher this year. This, I deem major.

Last year, the Mystery Ride was my 78th ride of the season. Team Shad drove me like a locomotive. This year, the D2R2 will be only my 45th ride of the year. Though that's a sad and disappointing stat in one regard, in another it suggests that I have the strength of 25 un-ridden rides in my legs.

I'm counting on needing them come Saturday.

George Street Challenge 2017 Results

The results are in!

George Street Challenge 2017

Note that Dubstoevsky had to enter this challenge under an alias, Patrick Warner, in the men's 50-59 age group. The name, cycling historians and enthusiasts of arcane lore will know, is a loose Anglicization of the name of the eccentric Franco-Teutonic cyclist of the late 1800s and early 1900s, Patrique von Bongwarren. 

von Bongwarren family crest

The von Bongwarren clan, the result of the unlikely coupling of an aristocratic Prussian family and a down-at-the-barricades Alsatian brood, might have faded into ancestral obscurity if not for the cycling exploits of Patrique, the third son of Klaus & Simone von Bongwarren. 

Patrique, at age 13, entered the 1893 youth edition of Liège–Bastogne–Liège (minimum age was 16 but young Patrique bluffed his way in), won the race, and went on to be an perennial power in the spring classics. Known for his raw bursts of acceleration on steep climbs, and for his voracious thirst for Belgian abbey ale (he filled his bidet with it), Patrique von Bongwarren was a colorful character as well as a relentless competitor.

At the start of the 1907 season, however, he shocked his fans and the cycling world by announcing his retirement from the sport. Shortly thereafter, he abandoned his inherited chateau, gave away his acclaimed wine collection, and moved to southern California to farm pomegranates. 

See George Street Challenge 2017 for the recap.

George Street Challenge 2017

Starting Line
July 23, 2017
George St from Main St, Worcester, Mass

The official results have not been posted yet as I, Dubstoevsky, sit at Shad Bistro's only table typing up this recap of this morning's George Street Challenge, "the shortest race in America." It's essentially an uphill time trial that lasts (if you're pretty good) about 30 seconds or less, and if you're not all about climbing, then maybe you'll use a minute to get to the top. It's basically a 500 foot uphill sprint with a 17% average gradient. 

The competition was intense.

In a category all his own

Though despite (as mentioned) the International Association of Short Bike Races' officially sanctioned results have not yet been posted, we do know a few things about today's event with certainty.

Cello Dude

We know that a man with a cello strapped to his back took the challenge. We learned that the rider is a musician with a Mexican orchestra and that he never lets the cello out of his sight.

We know that the bright yellow pedicab ridden by an implacable Jamaican dude tenaciously and calmly peddled to the top, albeit with a pause or two en route. His ride was a crowd favorite.

We know the crowd was epic. Not just cyclists cheering on each other, but a whole line up of curious onlookers who lined the street and cheered with enthusiasm. There were cowbells and air horns. Everyone clapped and yelled.

We know that Dubstoevsky acquitted himself well and did not, as he did last year accidentally, stamp too hard on the pedals at the get-go, causing a slight wheelie; instead, this year, he caught the rhythm of the bike holder's release and eased into his launch with control. Underway smoothly, he hit it full force and powered upwards digging hard, downshifting at about the 3/4 mark, right at the slope's uptick, churning and thrashing the cranks to the line.

Are you kidding me?

Dubstoevsky's result? 31.62 seconds, nearly two seconds ahead of last year's result of 33.38. Sweet!

Which is ironic, actually, as I'd felt pretty crappy this morning, tired, drained from a migraine headache yesterday. My legs felt thick and unmotivated, stubborn. I timed my pre-race practice ride up at 47 seconds. I wasn't going all out but I didn't feel very powerful at all. I thought, well, fuck it, you're signed up so give it your best shot. If your legs fail, so be it.

But they didn't. 

So allez! Yes, we can surprise ourselves. 

***

Post Script: The results are in. 

Hugo and the Tour

Hugo and the Tour 2017

The big hairy Viking cat named Huguenot Torte, or just plain Hugo, or even, in the vernacular, The Monster (because he has unequivocally been determined to be a Love Monster), has here climbed into my lap and settled down to watch the Tour de France with me and discuss the various nuances, controversies, and twists & turns that have made this year's Grand Boucle so far; the Sagan/Cavendish imbroglio (Hugo is in Sagan's camp on that one), the brute Nacer Bohnanni and his innate villainy, Aru's attack mentality, the annual disappointment of the Colombian Enigma, Nairo (rhymes with Cairo) Quintana, whether anyone can beat Marcel Kittel in a sprint, the great job the NBC broadcast team is doing (Phil, Paul, Bobke, Christian V, the Mighty Jens Voight, the hapless Steve Porino, the intrepid Steve Schlanger, and the anchor, a classic strong-jawed American sportscaster with a deep voice and an air of avuncular security whose name I cannot remember). Hugo, as it turns out, is an aficionado of the Grand Tours in general but the mighty French leg in particular. Being something of a gourmond, he's asking for escargot tonight instead of the organic duck in beef gravy or the rabbit pate that he's used to. Poor Hugo. We have no escargot.

Clawing through Ennui

Tour de France 2017

I have not been dormant. I have not wrapped myself into a fetal cocoon and drawn the shades. Nope. It is July. The Tour de France is underway, fantastic weather has returned, and Dubstoevsky has been slowly but surely clawing his way back into shape. It has taken a suitcase of commitment to do so but the effort seems to be paying off.

Ah, July. Birth month. Humidity. Sunshine. Thunderstorms. The 4th of July. Long days. Warm nights. The Tour. 

4th of July
Kimball's Ice Cream, Lancaster, MA

The New England weather has shifted over the last two months. Two thirds of the days have been sunny, pleasant, not that windy, and the other third have been overcast and some semblance of rainy. Hot and dry followed by cool and rainy. Perfect. The landscape is lush and green, the air pleasantly thick and moist. We've had an abundance of evening masterpieces when the rich descending sunlight slants across the neighborhood illuminating the giant verdant trees and the many old dignified buildings built by skilled hands.

These are introspective days. Team Shad has splintered into a thousand cosmic thoughts. Dubstoevsky is now a team unto himself. Wing Nut, Assassin for Hire, freelances out of the wilds of the greater Deerfield drainage. He's thrashing the competition in the Big Hills of Conway, Rowe, Colrain, Shelburne Falls, et fucking cetera. I Ward has disappeared in the forests of Montague. 

These developments are not unexpected. It was a rag tag shoestring trio to begin with, a trio of eclectic mirage and squawk. Like the U.S.A. itself in a way. The important thing now is to move forward. 

June

June 1st. Two rides in May. One in April. It's been an appalling stretch off the bike. And yet. 

And yet June arrives, and summer yawns ahead. Nothing guaranteed. Team Shad has imploded, shattered to pieces, splintered across the universe. In truth, we have simply dissipated, been absorbed into the greater Ether Sphere of solitary endeavor. 

Just like that, the cohesion of focus has gone missing. Now, there is only the existential question of why one does what one does.

I, Dubstoevsky, make no pretense of being able to answer that koan. I, like everyone else, am simply flailing away on the meat wheel of life, uninformed, un-mollified, and making it up as I go along.

June 1, 2017 Cherry Valley, MA

Sure, the Caviar Sponsorship never worked out, the suitcases of cash never arrived, the 'royal treatment' has new meaning, and Team Shad is now a footnote in the mesmerizing text that is Small 'Big Time' Time Cycling.

Fuck it. Days like today (June 1st) occur after weeks of Armageddon and cloud cover.

But there are other things that happen as well, other catastrophes and failings. We are mortal, and small, and at the mercy of circumstance. We profess confidence but we're really wondering what the fuck is happening, and why the fuck is it happening NOW. And there are no answers. 

For Dubstoevsky, there is the bike, the road, the world.

Approaching Amsterdam, from the bow of the Koningsdam
Sunday, May 21, 2017

Shadian Shift

Call me Dubstoevsky. 

For five years I have labored like a Welsh shepherd for Team Shad. Rain, snow, blazing sun, rocky tarmac, long tortuous ascents in the wake of the Virginian's unwashed racing kit. I have ridden with teammates, ridden with the Badger, and I have ridden solo along little-traveled back roads past dilapidated houses that bring to mind lurid crimes from the 1940s. 

I have not complained. I have sluiced the gruel of disciplined cycling like a camel at a palm nut oasis, snout deep in the sloppy trough. 

Not for glory, not for prizes and adulation, not for the sponsors with their gold pens and advertising campaigns have I ridden; not for the right to wear the lapel pin of a secret society nor to receive the teddy bear of indifference from a hairy-armed podium wench have I labored hour after hour in the saddle. Not for the worthless contract I signed with the rug merchants and caviar hucksters from Odessa and Baku have I dedicated myself to churning the cranks week in and week out, season after season.

No, I have mounted the holy bicycle again and again like a Tibetan lama in Himalayan meditation, have supplanted the zabuton with a racing saddle, have burned the magic incense and faithfully waved the smoldering brass censer, all with singularity of purpose: to mine the ore of self-awareness and extract the diamond shards of essential wisdom.

Here's the point. Team Shad has withdrawn from the Rasputitsa. In fact, the entire season is now a question mark. While Dubstoevsky struggles with the existential angst of Life itself, the Virginian erodes the hillsides of western Mass with his relentless pedaling. I Ward has disappeared into Never Ever Land. We have become our own planets spiraling away from the gravitational force that heretofore cohered our imaginary peloton.

Team Shad was always an amalgamation of hubris, intemperance, hi-jinx, and Dada. With the world at large erupting into madness, with the armies of Gog & Magog stomping around the planet, the question of what becomes of the team seems relatively unimportant. We are but shad coursing up a vast river toward uncertain spawning grounds and must now navigate the watery chaos individually.

I admit it, I am relieved to bag the Rasputitsa. Despite having six solid rides in each January and February, March came along and dealt a weather blow to my training regimen and only now does the wretched spate of wintery bluster seem to finally have broken; only now does there seem any likelihood of dependably conducive training conditions persisting. I managed my first legitimate ride in weeks just a few days ago. I refuse to go to East Burke just to suffer.

But all that no longer matters. What's done is done. The only target on the calendar now is the D2R2, a distant four and a half months in the future. 

Adopting a new Zen attitude toward The Ride and having cast off the shackles of Team Shad's Azerbaijani taskmasters, I, Dubstoevsky, am now free to determine my own course of action, train at my own pace. 

I am now free to journey into my own cycling future. 

I can don a hair shirt racing jersey emblazoned with a cycling Shaolin warrior shad and cycle down the road of no expectations. 

I can huff the meditation and chant a silly litany in poetic cadence.

There once was a shad on a bike,
a pedaling piscine tyke
who got a bit radical
and took a sabbatical 
to go off and do as he liked.

Morale like a Glass of Sour Milk

Harsh. Windy. Snow. March like a wounded animal, a chiseling weasel. Nothing so far to encourage Dubstoevsky. Now is the time of Russian tragedy and farce. A single measly ride in March, and that a timid rambler on the Crux Elite, touring through the neighborhoods like an urban tourist.

Not exactly honing Dubstoevsky's non-conditioning. 

Once, the season looked promising. A half dozen rides in January, nearly the same in February. Not a lot of miles but enough to keep a sense of the edge, the fitness edge, the line that, when you slip over it, you know you're in a place of sloth and lard.

I rolled over that line, mutton leg in hand, some weeks ago. 

Scenes from what amounts to "training for the Rasputitsa." It feels dishonest even writing that sentence.

Harvard St, Woo City, March 19, 2017

Slow Above

Tagged

Bancroft Tower, March 19, 2017