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.

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.

Dub Fat in the Cold

A set back for Team Shad in the lead-up to the Rasputitsa. 

Dubstoevsky, unable to train for various reasons - a trip to Maui, a gout-ridden toe, general weird un-diagnosable body pain, and bitter, Siberia-like weather - has descended into ennui, gluttony, and sloth. This morning he punched the scale at 7.5 lbs above riding weight. Ugly business.

It would be nice to think that last night was the nadir.

Disposing of the evidence

But nothing guarantees that to be so. Each day, each night brings the possibility of reaching one's lowest point. That's called looking on the bright side of gloom. 

DS Mawgs is clearly irritated. 

Last night, after confessing to him the finer points of "Mexican Night" at Chez Dub - heaps of spice-rubbed butter-fried chicken thighs, a small tub of pinto beans, cold Wormtown Be Hoppy IPAs and a few honorary tequila shots (just to "keep it real") - Mawgs fired off this text:

Strength of the bull

"Slag Dub, 157.5 lbs? How are you gonna' ride the Rasputitsa, tubby?
You're the pork butt of jokes in the peloton. Har har, Dub's reaching
into his suitcase of snacks. Again. Damn it, man, show some kind of
impulse control! And NO, you're not serving meat pies tonight!!"

Duly chastened, Dubstoevsky promptly rushed out to an organic food emporium and spent money like the Sultan of Brunei, picking up such staples as German doppelbock beer, Belgian ale, three six packs of local hyper-fresh IPA from Fort Hill Brewery, a rasher of Black Forest bacon, a quartet of chorizo logs, and a few pounds of bull shin bones for braising. "Strength of the bull" he thought.

There's nothing to be done about it now. Restraint is an English word not yet clearly understood by Dubstoevsky, though he's lived in America all his life.  The bone chilling cold is not helping the cause.

DS Mawgs wisely observed that "weather conditions have rendered your fork uncontrollable." This is true.

There is something about single digit temperatures (on the Fahrenheit scale) that begs for braised meat. Haunches, shanks, ribs, an oleaginous sheen of happiness a-shimmering atop the braising broth. The warmth of simmered bones! And the gallant bitter sluice of finely-crafted IPA. This is what amounts to training camp. 

Seizing Opportunities

January is always hit or miss. It can roar or whimper, pee or squall. The roads can be wet or icy, sandy, sloppy, or bone dry and stained white with salt. Or all of them in a single ride. As they were today.

While Wing Nut is banging out 50 mile rides in the hills of western Mass, Dubstoevsky is pecking away at crumbs and possibilities. 11 miles here. 40 miles there. 18 miles today in the absolute gloaming. Seizing every opportunity, foolhardy though some might be. 

January 19, 2017

Tuesday is a perfect example. Fully-suited up and ready to pedal, I noticed the a pattern of droplets on the pavement. The imminence of rain. I asked myself "What would Wing Nut do?" 

The answer was obvious - set out and hope for the best - so that's what I did. The best proved to be ice pellets instead of rain. At least I was not wet or uncomfortable. The pellets hit my outer layer and bounced off. They stung my face like little biting ants. Though the roads were completely soaked by the time I got back, for most of the ride they were just in the "dampening" stage. I got lucky, perhaps I conjured the beneficence of WingNutKarma.

Today it was overcast and ashy when I left after 3:00 and it got steadily darker as I went on. By the end of the ride, all the cars' headlights were on and I was grateful for my strobic-blinking headlamp and the schizophrenic blinking red taillight. I got back at 4:50. It's still January, for fuck's sake. Stupidly dark. Both Tuesday's and today's rides were in the "foolhardy" category. 

Also in the "hard man of the peloton" category. 

Ah well. After today, I've got 6 rides in 2017, 117 miles over full-on winter roads. 

Every January ride is a pint paid for by a stranger. 

Clear and Cold

Holden Reservoir
January 14, 2016

Saturday, January 14, 2017 was the 50th anniversary of the Human Be-In. I rode. 29 degrees, overcast crept in by the afternoon, a wan gray overlay fifty years after that cornerstone cultural event. That was the beginning and the end of what was possible. 

All these years later, a refugee from the Soviet Union, a hard man of the proletariat, a skull-thumped survivor at large in America, the bicycle is my pedestal and soapbox. I claw my way forward, eating up the hills of Woo County, grinding out dogged winter miles, telling myself that the Rasputitsa is nothing, is a lark's pedal, a puff of bluster in a long train of savagery.   

Monday, January 16. I bow to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., prophet and peacemaker, visionary, martyr for justice. OM AH HUM. 

The day is bright, sharp, clear, above freezing. Perfect. Don all the garb necessary for a comfortable ramble. And a fine ramble it is, 40 miles across the free New England landscape. Is Massachusetts the best state in the union? Some would argue. But I would not. 

This is where we ride

Emulating Balzac

Onward. 

First ride on the year, first ride on the Crux since the D2R2 (I didn't even test ride it after getting in back with a new derailleur last August). First training ride for the Rasputitsa, 112 days from today.

William St, New Years Day 2017

Hall St, New Years Day 2017

They say that if Balzac finished writing a novel before lunch, he would, immediately after lunch, start his next one. 

So it goes for Dubstoevsky. No time for slacking, for taking it easy. Serious training, arduous training, relentless training getting underway. The bike, for a while, becomes a secondary focus. After three years of determined cycling, the body, while sinewy and strong in the muscle gruppetto, has lost significant strength and muscle elsewhere. Everywhere else. 

That sad state to be addressed. Core training. A strengthening regimen designed and overseen by DS Mawgs, the Huron fitness guru who has taken a personal interest in Dubstoevsky's resurrection. Barbell step-ups. The Kettlebell Swing. Rowing machines. Weighted sleds. Truck tires. 

It's the first day of the new year. Time to start the next novel.

Woo City Style, January 1, 2017

January 1, 2017

Bancroft TowerJanuary 1, 2017

It's a Wrap

The vanishing year

2016. Done. Finished. Weirdness. Success and disappointment. The abandoned Tour de Heifer. The D2R2 mechanical on East RD. Team Shad reduced to two stalwarts, Wing Nut and Dubstoevsky. But the Rasputitsa, if not a triumph, definitely a success. A strong showing for the team. 

Dubstoevsky? An injury-free season. A personal best mileage count. Strong outings at the Rasputitsa and at the D2R2, until the mechanical. 

Stats 2016

118 rides
3,116.1 miles
165,679 feet elevation gain
233 hours 51 minutes pedaling

Those stats indicate a worthy effort, as one would expect of the team leader. Not even a contract year, just another year of dogged perseverance, of joyous embrace the rounding wheel, of conviction.

Crows on Cedar St
December 27, 2016

Bancroft Tower 12.27.16

The Return of the Light

Take heart in the fact that it is no longer the shortest day of the year, but the second shortest. And every day now until June grows lighter. 

But much as we want more and more light, there is something inescapably superior about winter light, more beautiful than the other three seasons, especially just before and after dawn, and late in the afternoon as the sun dips below the frozen hills and fills the western sky with wan peach smears and gray cloud boas the colors of hearth ash and washed out apricot.

Or just after 3:00 setting out for a spirited reservoir romp, passing St Spyridon Church, old Greek Acropolis cloud sky embracing the be-crossed dome in the muted sun glare. 

December 4, 2016

On these rides, you have to be extra careful, you have to be aware of your surroundings at all time, as aware as an owl or a mountain lion, you have to take note of every road detail and never let your attention waver. A frozen road surface, an icy gutter sludge, a patch of sand, they could all take you down in a Zen breath. 

So today is the second darkest day of 2016 and I'm filled with light, and trying to be light on my bike, and light in my awareness, and light in the universe, an airy soul speeding along on rubber tubes of air. To the reservoir! 

December 22, 2016

And so 17 miles unexpectedly, a Thursday afternoon late in December, like finding a ten dollar bill on the sidewalk. All the miles between now and spring training are gravy, the low fat version. Every pedaled mile counts as a gold star. 

A Note on Team Shad

Not for the first time did I ponder the odd circumstance that finds Team Shad training on the road roughly 90% of the time, yet the only organized events on the team's race schedule year in and year out are gravel road affairs (Rasputitsa, D2R2, Tour de Heifer). What's up with that? wondered Dubstoevsky near the end of the year. Who is running this team, anyway?