A few terms that get used a lot around where we live that are worth having an understanding of.
Working Up or Down the Road
A bunch working (swapping off turns at the front) will either have riders peeling off to the right or the left depending on the direction of the wind. This is all pretty much common sense as if the wind is coming from the right of the bunch riders will orientated in an angle to the left behind the lead rider. This is called working “up the road” and the lead rider will drop back to the right of the other riders after completing their turn. If the wind is coming from the left, then the opposite will occur and the riders will be working “down the road”.
Riders will often yell “Up the road”, to get the lead rider to move further to the right. This is because in a bigger bunch there will only be a certain amount of room before riders further back cannot get “a sit” and are forced to ride in the wind in “the gutter”, riding on the edge of the road not getting any protection form the side wind. When working “down the road” there is a danger that in their attempts to get a sit, that riders will move into the oncoming traffic lane.
When working a group might either “roll over” or ride a pace line and do “track turns”. Rolling Over is where the lead rider is constantly changing and the group appears to be “rolling”, the riders “turn” at the front is just a few seconds. It is essentially two pace lines riding in parallel with one moving forward and one moving back relative to each other. In Europe this would be a “rolling echelon” but Aussies just say rolling over and don’t use the word echelon much at all.
“Track Turns” involve doing an extended turn at the front of from 50 to several hundred meters before calling the next rider through with a flick of the elbow. This looks like a single pace line where rider dropping back after their turn does this alone prior to re-joining the back of the line.
The decision re which one to use can be complicated. Generally a bigger group will “Roll Over” while a small group is more likely to do track turns. In either case the aim should be smoothness, where the rider on the front slowing down brings the next rider through rather than the second rider speeding up.
A bunch of experienced riders will look very smooth and organised no matter which style they are riding. They will ride with minimum gaps between riders and will quickly get out of the wind when they have done their turn. Riders will not surge but will only vary the pace enough to ensure that they can get back into a sheltered position as quickly as possible – starting to match the pace of the bunch for instance when dropping back when riding “track turns” so that they do not have to accelerate too hard to get back on as the rest of the bunch passes. Good riders will also pre-empt a change in wind direction when going around a corner by moving to the correct formation without this having to be stated. If the wind is a head/side wind from the left and the bunch is working down the road, a 90 degree left hand bend will mean that the wind will be side wind from the right after the turn and the bunch is going to have to ride “up the road”. Good bunches will not have to negotiate this, the lead rider through the turn will have already anticipated that this is going to happen and will move to the right of the road on existing the turn.
In handicap racing the difference between the speed of the bunches is as much to do with how well they can organise themselves and deal with the wind as it is the fitness of the riders.
Getting “Torn a New Ring”
This relates to a situation where right from the start you were under pressure, and although you managed to hang on, it was touch and go and you were under extreme duress for the whole ride.
Bill “How did the race go?”
Fred “Mate, I got torn a new ring.”
Bill “Hard then?”
Fred “Was hanging on by the skin of my arse for the whole 75km”
Getting “Shelled”
This relates to getting dropped (losing contact with the bunch) completely. Getting torn a new ring means you suffered with the bunch while not really being competitive, but being shelled means that you could not stick with the bunch at all.
Bill “How did the race go?”
Fred “I got shelled when we turned into the side wind.”
Bill “Couldn’t hang on?”
Fred “They closed down the road and I lasted about 3 min and I was gone”
Getting “A Sit”
This refers to being in the optimal place to get maximum protection from the wind. This is usually a few riders from the front and behind a person bigger than you. This position allows a rider to use very little energy to maintain the same pace as the bunch.
Commonly used either in the run in for the sprint “It was pretty straightforward, I had the perfect sit and just had to wait until I got close enough to start my sprint”. Or can be used to direct a struggling rider into a position where they will get a chance to recover “come in here and get a sit”.
.
Half Wheeling
Half wheeling refers to the rider next to you constantly riding half a wheel in front of you when riding two-a-breast. As you try and level up, they keep lifting the pace until it is not sustainable.
Half wheeling is very much hated in cycling circles as it creates a tension when riding with others that is a real pain in the arse. Two half wheelers riding on the front together is the worst case scenario as it means the pace builds up to the point where they both blow up and then the process is repeated making it a very unpleasant ride for anyone.
Blowing Up
Blowing up refers to riding over your limit and then completely running out of puff. Aka “Dying in the arse”. Most likely to happen either up a climb, on the run in to the sprint or when an inexperienced rider does a turn on the front into the wind and then on “blowing up”, can’t get back on the back of the bunch and gets “shelled”.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Pompadillo Dominates BCC 150th Memorial Ride
In a fitting end to a wonderful celebration of school history, part time BCC gardener and maintenance consultant, Pepe “Cipollini” Pompadillo, sprinted to victory in a clinical display of tactical riding during this mornings memorial ride.
The peloton rolled out from the start without last weeks winner Beechey, who it appeared was making the decision to rest on his one victory for the time being. There were also raised eyebrows when it was announced that Watto, after a torrid night of self-pleasuring, was a scratching. Crystal Cranks, who had been asked to give an opinion felt that it was more likely a localised friction burn than a scratch, but he admitted that he was not actually a doctor, so his opinions should be taken with a grain of salt. We can only hope that the “Silver Fox” gives it a rest and is ready to rock again next week – it may all depend on how excited he gets during the usual Tuesday night email correspondence.
So it was a strong and serious group that commenced the drag up Eureka St. “The Fonz” and “Big Ring” Fitzy, set a perfect pace, discouraging attacks and keeping everyone on their toes as they powered up the climb – "Big Ring" happy to chug away in the 53x19 for the duration, sending a strong message that he had some power in that big (but attractive)arse.
The regrouping at the turn showed that fitness was increasing for the group, and this was matched with an air of seriousness as a number of boys seemed to fancy their chances in the sprint today. The roll competition was again fought out by the fat (Marriott) and the affluent (Marriott), but no one really had their heart in it as the main prize beckoned with the turn into Humffray st. “The General” again went early to set the cat amongst the pigeon’s with a sneaky move in front of an oncoming and somewhat startled car driver, but the "Mammoth" made it clear that there would be none of those shenanigans today and he quickly brought the attackulator back to the fold.
A gentleman’s agreement then saw all riders together as the last roundabout was approached. Much jockeying for position occurred on the run into it, with ‘The Fonz” and Pepe both fighting for the prized wheel of the “Mammoth” on the outside while “The General” looked to keep his options open on the inside. “Threshold” Esmonde, Macka "The Ghost” and “Working for Ballarat” Wazza, all found themselves out of position, along, surprisingly with “Crystal Cranks”, who was again let down by his genetic impediment of a club foot, combined with the bunched up chamois in his woman cycling knicks.
Out of the roundabout and “Big Ring” went to work. His awesome power stretched the bunch, leaving Marriott on his wheel followed by a perfectly positioned Pompadillo. At this point things became something of a formality. A last kick by “Big Ring” could not pull him clear and his dying in the arse corresponded with Pepe pointing the Cipollini Saeco Cannondale at the line and hitting the afterburners – the rest, as they say, is history.
With the monkey well and truly off Pepe’s back, the pressure now falls firmly on the winless “General”. Has he shown all his cards, or does the sly dog still have a trick or two up his sleeve? Time will tell.
The peloton rolled out from the start without last weeks winner Beechey, who it appeared was making the decision to rest on his one victory for the time being. There were also raised eyebrows when it was announced that Watto, after a torrid night of self-pleasuring, was a scratching. Crystal Cranks, who had been asked to give an opinion felt that it was more likely a localised friction burn than a scratch, but he admitted that he was not actually a doctor, so his opinions should be taken with a grain of salt. We can only hope that the “Silver Fox” gives it a rest and is ready to rock again next week – it may all depend on how excited he gets during the usual Tuesday night email correspondence.
So it was a strong and serious group that commenced the drag up Eureka St. “The Fonz” and “Big Ring” Fitzy, set a perfect pace, discouraging attacks and keeping everyone on their toes as they powered up the climb – "Big Ring" happy to chug away in the 53x19 for the duration, sending a strong message that he had some power in that big (but attractive)arse.
The regrouping at the turn showed that fitness was increasing for the group, and this was matched with an air of seriousness as a number of boys seemed to fancy their chances in the sprint today. The roll competition was again fought out by the fat (Marriott) and the affluent (Marriott), but no one really had their heart in it as the main prize beckoned with the turn into Humffray st. “The General” again went early to set the cat amongst the pigeon’s with a sneaky move in front of an oncoming and somewhat startled car driver, but the "Mammoth" made it clear that there would be none of those shenanigans today and he quickly brought the attackulator back to the fold.
A gentleman’s agreement then saw all riders together as the last roundabout was approached. Much jockeying for position occurred on the run into it, with ‘The Fonz” and Pepe both fighting for the prized wheel of the “Mammoth” on the outside while “The General” looked to keep his options open on the inside. “Threshold” Esmonde, Macka "The Ghost” and “Working for Ballarat” Wazza, all found themselves out of position, along, surprisingly with “Crystal Cranks”, who was again let down by his genetic impediment of a club foot, combined with the bunched up chamois in his woman cycling knicks.
Out of the roundabout and “Big Ring” went to work. His awesome power stretched the bunch, leaving Marriott on his wheel followed by a perfectly positioned Pompadillo. At this point things became something of a formality. A last kick by “Big Ring” could not pull him clear and his dying in the arse corresponded with Pepe pointing the Cipollini Saeco Cannondale at the line and hitting the afterburners – the rest, as they say, is history.
With the monkey well and truly off Pepe’s back, the pressure now falls firmly on the winless “General”. Has he shown all his cards, or does the sly dog still have a trick or two up his sleeve? Time will tell.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Cycling "The Rules"
Ok children, listen up as I am going to impart advice that is important to you. “The Rules” of cycling, are bullshit.
That’s right dudes, the rules are bullshit and the people that waffle on about them are wankers –there I have said it.
What we have happening is that some school prefect types have decided that they are the custodian of some mythical “vibe” that they think defines cycling. They have hijacked a shaky high moral ground from which they pontificate about “how things should be”.
Go to any bunch on any day and you will see and hear a whole lot of shit about rules. Some will be made very explicit, and then there will be the particularly bullshit esoteric ones. These are the ones that some wanker will judge you by in his assessment of your quality as a human being. How high and what colour your socks are. Sneer at you wearing the team kit that your kids brought you for Christmas, your pump and where it is stored, the way you wear your glasses, your helmet, your leg warmers.
It’s all bullshit dreamed up by bored middle aged rich gits who secretly think they are some sort of Belgian hard arse. They are not. If there was really any rules they would look like this:
1. Cycling rules are bullshit.
2. Anyone who goes on about cycling rules is a dickhead.
3. Common sense and courtesy are not rules, they are just reasonable ways to live your life. (like your mum told you before you started to think you were some poor man’s Roger De Vlaeminck).
4. That means that you ride and act in a way that minimises the risk to you and those around you and you do this as a point of pride.
5. Wear whatever you feel comfortable in and lets you get out to ride.
6. Ride whatever you want, but if you are trying to make an impression then expect to get both good and bad reactions.
7. Remember that deep dish carbon rims only really work after about 40kph and are a pain in the arse in side winds – if you don’t regularly average over 40, you know what you are.
8. Chuck your Garmin, get off Strava and join your local club – only actually racing makes you a “real” cyclist. Busting your arse feels like busting your arse no matter what the number say. As Dan Coyle says in his book about a one balled doper. "However as Jan Ulrich was fond of pointing out, bike race's are not held in a lab. Out on the road, amid the storms of exhaustion and tactics there were times when it was smarter, more efficient even-to do what riders used to do before heart rate monitors and power meters: to simply, stubbornly ride like hell until the answer is revealed. Because as all bike riders know there are times when the numbers stop working, moments when strength suddenly arrives."
9. Ride at least a few times a week on your own – that way you don’t have to put up with wankers and their rules and you might actually find you like the freedom and sense of being at one with nature that this brings.
10. If you are riding in a group, it should be fun and everyone should be open to getting shit hung on them. If the guys you ride with aren't fun join another group. Life's too short to spend it riding with people who take themselves too seriously.
11. Generally just ignore officious rule enforcers, but there are times you really do have to stand up for what you believe in. As Kenny Rogers says – “sometimes you have to fight to be a man”.
12. If you do actually have to go toe to toe (I am not inciting things here but it does happen) in bike shoes, you will generally find that punching hard and punching straight is the most effective way to go. It is hard to have any credibility when you have gone the massive hay maker and just done a Torvill and Dean, ice skating style pirouette.
Now if some bloke who knows what they are doing takes the time to have a chat to you during a ride and maybe makes a few points that could be seen as advice, It’s maybe not a bad thing to listen to him. He is unlikely to talk about “the rules”, but he is highly likely to have point number 3 above pretty well sussed. Most likely he will look after you if you listen to what he has to say and he is very unlikely to make you feel embarrassed or “unworthy”. He will be the bloke less worried about looking cool and is genuinely just cool. There are usually a few of these guys (or girls) in each bunch. They won't be the loudest.
That’s right dudes, the rules are bullshit and the people that waffle on about them are wankers –there I have said it.
What we have happening is that some school prefect types have decided that they are the custodian of some mythical “vibe” that they think defines cycling. They have hijacked a shaky high moral ground from which they pontificate about “how things should be”.
Go to any bunch on any day and you will see and hear a whole lot of shit about rules. Some will be made very explicit, and then there will be the particularly bullshit esoteric ones. These are the ones that some wanker will judge you by in his assessment of your quality as a human being. How high and what colour your socks are. Sneer at you wearing the team kit that your kids brought you for Christmas, your pump and where it is stored, the way you wear your glasses, your helmet, your leg warmers.
It’s all bullshit dreamed up by bored middle aged rich gits who secretly think they are some sort of Belgian hard arse. They are not. If there was really any rules they would look like this:
1. Cycling rules are bullshit.
2. Anyone who goes on about cycling rules is a dickhead.
3. Common sense and courtesy are not rules, they are just reasonable ways to live your life. (like your mum told you before you started to think you were some poor man’s Roger De Vlaeminck).
4. That means that you ride and act in a way that minimises the risk to you and those around you and you do this as a point of pride.
5. Wear whatever you feel comfortable in and lets you get out to ride.
6. Ride whatever you want, but if you are trying to make an impression then expect to get both good and bad reactions.
7. Remember that deep dish carbon rims only really work after about 40kph and are a pain in the arse in side winds – if you don’t regularly average over 40, you know what you are.
8. Chuck your Garmin, get off Strava and join your local club – only actually racing makes you a “real” cyclist. Busting your arse feels like busting your arse no matter what the number say. As Dan Coyle says in his book about a one balled doper. "However as Jan Ulrich was fond of pointing out, bike race's are not held in a lab. Out on the road, amid the storms of exhaustion and tactics there were times when it was smarter, more efficient even-to do what riders used to do before heart rate monitors and power meters: to simply, stubbornly ride like hell until the answer is revealed. Because as all bike riders know there are times when the numbers stop working, moments when strength suddenly arrives."
9. Ride at least a few times a week on your own – that way you don’t have to put up with wankers and their rules and you might actually find you like the freedom and sense of being at one with nature that this brings.
10. If you are riding in a group, it should be fun and everyone should be open to getting shit hung on them. If the guys you ride with aren't fun join another group. Life's too short to spend it riding with people who take themselves too seriously.
11. Generally just ignore officious rule enforcers, but there are times you really do have to stand up for what you believe in. As Kenny Rogers says – “sometimes you have to fight to be a man”.
12. If you do actually have to go toe to toe (I am not inciting things here but it does happen) in bike shoes, you will generally find that punching hard and punching straight is the most effective way to go. It is hard to have any credibility when you have gone the massive hay maker and just done a Torvill and Dean, ice skating style pirouette.
Now if some bloke who knows what they are doing takes the time to have a chat to you during a ride and maybe makes a few points that could be seen as advice, It’s maybe not a bad thing to listen to him. He is unlikely to talk about “the rules”, but he is highly likely to have point number 3 above pretty well sussed. Most likely he will look after you if you listen to what he has to say and he is very unlikely to make you feel embarrassed or “unworthy”. He will be the bloke less worried about looking cool and is genuinely just cool. There are usually a few of these guys (or girls) in each bunch. They won't be the loudest.
The Admiral
When I finished my last HSC exam, I had about three days off before I started my first full-time job (no schoolies week back in 1987). The job was not what you would call glamorous. It entailed cleaning rubber press machines at Empire Tyre and Rubber, an ancient business in Bendigo that used to make rubber suspension bushes and the like for car manufacturers. My role was to spray kerosene from a compressed air spray gun onto the machines that pressed the rubber to get rid of the accumulated layers of “carbon black” that was used to colour it. This left me covered in black each day and when I blew my nose it would be blue with the kerosene that I had obviously been breathing in – it was fun times all around.
My first day should have perhaps alerted me to the reality that things at Empire Rubber were going to be interesting. I got a bit of a tour with a bloke who obviously took this role quite seriously. He showed me around and then sat me down for a bit of a man to man type chat. “You have to watch some of the blokes around here mate” he said. “Oh” I said, “Why”. “Well mate if you pay peanuts, you get monkeys, and this place is full of monkeys”. Right.
He then went on to tell me about the horrendous OH&S history of the company and how he believed the payouts for this were going to ruin it. He walked over to one of the rubber presses, a big hydraulic unit for making windscreen seals, where molten rubber is pressed under pressure into a mould. The press essentially a lower and upper table which opened to allow the rubber to come out and for the mould to be cleaned and then pressed closed with great force for the next seal to be made. “You get your finger cut off by a knife”, said my guide earnestly, “and they can sew it back on”. “But get your hand caught in here, and it ends up looking like a fucking tennis racquet, and what are you going to do with that?”
But I digress. This story is not actually about giant hands.
To get to Empire Rubber I had to ride my bike. This was 20km each way and I used an old single speed road bike that I had long before this means of transportation was appropriated by bearded hipster types. As I generally did a 12 hour shift starting a 5, it meant that I was up long before the sparrows started farting, usually leaving home just after 4. As we lived out of town and I could take a number of back roads, I didn’t worry too much about lights. What I would do was just ride along the white line in the middle of the road and just get off the road if a car was coming.
One morning I was running a bit late and so I had the head down as I negotiated the first part of the ride. On the route in there was a long downhill which took you to the edge of the town. As you looked down the hill you could see the street lights, which did have an effect on your night vision. Anyway, as I was late I was hurtling down the hill, going somewhere between 40 and 50kph, when all a sudden I hit something and before I even knew what was going on I was on the ground and rolling. This was in pre helmet days so I just hit the ground like a sack of spuds, it still the most I have ever had the stuffing knocked out of me.
As I lay there in the dark, I thought I must have hit a kangaroo, I sat up and started checking myself over, and suddenly there was a loud voice in the darkness. “YOU STUPID BOY”. As my eyes adjusted a bloke of about 80 limped up to me. “What the fuck are you doing without lights you fucking idiot?” Then softening, “Are you alright?” I said I was and he told me that he lived just down the road so we walked back there, me pushing my bike.
When we got to where he lived, which was an old people’s home, I could see that he was bleeding. It seemed like my brake lever had hit him in the forearm and it had peeled the skin back like a banana. I then realised that I had peeled the skin of both of my hands, and was sore just about everywhere. The old bloke told me that he had been in the Navy all his life and that he could not sleep after 4 so he got up and went for a walk each morning. He said he walked on the white line. I asked if he wanted me to call an ambulance, but he told me he was fine – he was as hard as a cats head that old sea dog. He then told me that I had broken his umbrella and that he expected me to buy a new one. He asked for my telephone number and said he would call that night.
I rode into work and can tell you that working with kerosene with no skin on your hands is not fun. It was not until I had gotten home that night that I could clean the wounds that included hands, elbows, knees and arse. Just before I was going to bed the phone rang and it was the old sailor. He asked to speak to my mum. They chatted for a few minutes and she told me that he wanted me to drop him in a new umbrella the following day and to also bring the lights that he expected me to purchase. So my mum took me around to him place the next day and I gave him a new umbrella, he showed me his bandaged arm and I showed him my first ever bike light. After a brief chat he said fair enough, we are square – not sure it would happen like that these days.
My first day should have perhaps alerted me to the reality that things at Empire Rubber were going to be interesting. I got a bit of a tour with a bloke who obviously took this role quite seriously. He showed me around and then sat me down for a bit of a man to man type chat. “You have to watch some of the blokes around here mate” he said. “Oh” I said, “Why”. “Well mate if you pay peanuts, you get monkeys, and this place is full of monkeys”. Right.
He then went on to tell me about the horrendous OH&S history of the company and how he believed the payouts for this were going to ruin it. He walked over to one of the rubber presses, a big hydraulic unit for making windscreen seals, where molten rubber is pressed under pressure into a mould. The press essentially a lower and upper table which opened to allow the rubber to come out and for the mould to be cleaned and then pressed closed with great force for the next seal to be made. “You get your finger cut off by a knife”, said my guide earnestly, “and they can sew it back on”. “But get your hand caught in here, and it ends up looking like a fucking tennis racquet, and what are you going to do with that?”
But I digress. This story is not actually about giant hands.
To get to Empire Rubber I had to ride my bike. This was 20km each way and I used an old single speed road bike that I had long before this means of transportation was appropriated by bearded hipster types. As I generally did a 12 hour shift starting a 5, it meant that I was up long before the sparrows started farting, usually leaving home just after 4. As we lived out of town and I could take a number of back roads, I didn’t worry too much about lights. What I would do was just ride along the white line in the middle of the road and just get off the road if a car was coming.
One morning I was running a bit late and so I had the head down as I negotiated the first part of the ride. On the route in there was a long downhill which took you to the edge of the town. As you looked down the hill you could see the street lights, which did have an effect on your night vision. Anyway, as I was late I was hurtling down the hill, going somewhere between 40 and 50kph, when all a sudden I hit something and before I even knew what was going on I was on the ground and rolling. This was in pre helmet days so I just hit the ground like a sack of spuds, it still the most I have ever had the stuffing knocked out of me.
As I lay there in the dark, I thought I must have hit a kangaroo, I sat up and started checking myself over, and suddenly there was a loud voice in the darkness. “YOU STUPID BOY”. As my eyes adjusted a bloke of about 80 limped up to me. “What the fuck are you doing without lights you fucking idiot?” Then softening, “Are you alright?” I said I was and he told me that he lived just down the road so we walked back there, me pushing my bike.
When we got to where he lived, which was an old people’s home, I could see that he was bleeding. It seemed like my brake lever had hit him in the forearm and it had peeled the skin back like a banana. I then realised that I had peeled the skin of both of my hands, and was sore just about everywhere. The old bloke told me that he had been in the Navy all his life and that he could not sleep after 4 so he got up and went for a walk each morning. He said he walked on the white line. I asked if he wanted me to call an ambulance, but he told me he was fine – he was as hard as a cats head that old sea dog. He then told me that I had broken his umbrella and that he expected me to buy a new one. He asked for my telephone number and said he would call that night.
I rode into work and can tell you that working with kerosene with no skin on your hands is not fun. It was not until I had gotten home that night that I could clean the wounds that included hands, elbows, knees and arse. Just before I was going to bed the phone rang and it was the old sailor. He asked to speak to my mum. They chatted for a few minutes and she told me that he wanted me to drop him in a new umbrella the following day and to also bring the lights that he expected me to purchase. So my mum took me around to him place the next day and I gave him a new umbrella, he showed me his bandaged arm and I showed him my first ever bike light. After a brief chat he said fair enough, we are square – not sure it would happen like that these days.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Has Cycling Lost it's Soul?
Cycling was a sport of the working class. Poor Belgian, French or Italian boys with few options, took the only road that they could out of poverty and obscurity. They used a bike as a tool - it was the only tool they had. The tool of a tough trade for tough men.....
Fast forward to 6.50am Humffray St. this morning. From a distance the pack looks like one entity, a swarming mass of colour and noise. As they get closer we see the truth. One rider leads the pack - he is big and powerful - a mammoth. His pedal stroke and general air of confidence mark him out as a rider from the old school. A keeper of old knowledge, of hard won lessons and truth's. He is bending the bunch to his will - this Willey Mammoth....
As the line approaches and victory seems assured, a look of doubt crosses the big man's face. The doubt turns to terror as his brain registers - the low growl of expensive carbon wheels, the colour co-ordinated immaculate attire, the faint smell of aftershave and the unmistakable aesthetic of a man scaped one day growth. Suddenly old school truth is replaced by the new reality. Trained on a diet of power metered intervals on his ridiculously expensive indoor trainer - new school comes around our old school leader, arms raised in the air, distain etched in his face as he surveys vanquished behind him.
The old mammoth puts on a brave face - you win some you lose some he mumbles. But there is steel in his voice as he jokes that next week is only 7 days away. His alarm will be set early, his food intake will be watched and his mind will be focused - on the next sprint.
The other riders know that this has gotten serious. They have all in the past become a little firm with excitement at the prospect of a new bike, some fast wheels or some flash new knicks, but today they have seen the power of technology pull down the beast that they thought was invincible. Bank accounts are scrutinised and Wiggle orders are contemplated. It seems in the new world of cycling speed costs money - how fast do you want to go?
Not that Leigh "Spreadsheet" Marriott is too stressed. He crunched the numbers long ago. He knows what he has to do and he knows how to look cool doing it - it's time for the others to catch up.
So the music has changed but the dance steps stay the same - we all want to win and no matter how flash your bike is you still have to pedal (except for in rolling competitions in which case expensive Zipp's do seem to go OK). Riders do best when they concentrate on just riding.
They are not working class any more but they maintain some of the old values. You do what you have to do to win. Your brother loosing is almost as sweet as you winning (from now on anyway).
"If you wish to be in front, act as if you were behind" Sun Tzu
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Pepe Appears
Pepe came(consistently too soon according to Bec), Pepe saw, Pepe got his arse handed to him on a plate.....
But first things first. The bunch was somewhat deflated right from the off this am when neither "The Mammoth" or "Crystle Cranks" made it to the starting line. Pepe, on making the journey in after doing boarding duty last night and operating on a handful of hours of the old shut eye was particularly disappointed......
It was however a hearty bunch that headed out into the mist. First drama of the day was when Leigh "Eau de Cologne" Marriott punctured at the Eureka St. roundabout. Brad "The General" Fry dove into fixing the puncture like a rat up a drainpipe - completely taking charge of the situation. In an act of great chivalry, Paul Esmonde offered up his spare tube as the fast hands of Fry made light work of the tire changing. Unfortunately the extra weight of Eau de's tube meant that Esmonde quickly exceeded his 130bpm maximum heart rate threshold when the climb started and he found himself "dancing in the dark solo". Watto and Macca had made the smart call to start the climb while the puncture repair was still underway and were ready to roll once the bunch crested the rise, Watto obviously concerned that the extra drag of the reflectors on his wheels, which he refuses to remove, was going to count against him if the going got hot.
Up the pinch after turning off Brewery Tap and Dicko and Beechy showed that both have the engines to do damage if they have the chance. Both boys frisky on this first brisk morning for a while.
On the roll down, Eau De again used his Zipps to advantage and for a little while it was Pepe and the more affluent Marriott out in front chewing the fat. It was at this point that Leigh indicated that while he was happy to have S__t hung on him for his expensive gear, that he had been somewhat offended by the aftershave comments from last week as he rarely brought this out these days and if he did it was only on special occasions. Pepe being a soft soul, agreed that he may have overstepped the mark on this and that he would assist in helping Marriott take a back to back triumph in the sprint if the chance arose.
Turning into Humffray St, and with Marriott still a bit teary re the aftershave, the two pulled to the side to allow a regrouping before the final push to the line. No sooner had things slowed to walking pace than the flying duo of "The General" and Chris "Limpet" Beechey charged past at full tilt. Pepe turned to Marriott and the exact quote was "there is no way these c--ts are getting away with this s--t". Head down Pepe full gassed it to join the hurtling duo.
On reaching the pair, Pepe observes that the spurt is well and truly out of Fry's premature attackulation and so like all good riders he counter attacks. Sensing one rider on his wheel and expecting it to be Marriott, he asks if they are away - "yes" comes a somewhat feeble response. But they are not far off the front and so Pepe does what Pepe needs to do and puts the head down. Through the last roundabout and the elastic is broken to the riders behind. Surely Pepe and Marriott will share the spoils - after all, Pepe has done 100% of the work down Humffray St....
A wheel comes up to his bottom bracket, but it is not friendly, it is an attack. It is also not Marriott. The "Limpet" has pulled off a tactical master class. Pepe can bang his bars in frustration but for all his braggadocio, he has been thoroughly outclassed today.
While the "General" will go on to take the credit for the tactical underpinnings of this great win, Pepe can tell you that when the chips were down, Beechey let his legs do the talking.
There is a lesson for you in all of that Runge.
Pepe "used to be quick in the olden days" Pompadillo
Real Cycling Stories
Crystal Cranks Crashes Back to Earth
Giro Update
Oh How The Mighty Have Fallen
News has echoed across the lake. After a breakthrough performance last week, David “Puff Daddy/Crystal Cranks/Crotch Sniffer” Runge has gotten the hard ,crushing dose of reality that everyone clearly hoped was coming his way. Cycling is a hard sport and bursts from anonymity into glory as per last week are one off occurrences. PD/CC/CS finds himself well and truly back with the anonymous this week – maybe to never bask in the warm glow of glory again. At least he has a story to tell the grandkids about. While hanging on close enough to smell what the other riders had for breakfast (a few days go) - old straightback was not sighted when it mattered today in what some would say is return to form. If he is waiting to be spoon fed another victory he is in grave danger of starving to death in this company.
Big winner this am seems to be David “Mammoth Hams” Marriott. Testicular infection under control and dipping in under the 130kg mark for the first time in several years, Mammoth used the somewhat predictable early attack by Brad “Gone Early” Fry as the launch pad for his own sneaky late charge to the line – and let’s face it, when he gets those huge pistons pumping, who is going to match both the physical and psychological strength of “Le Hombre Mammotho”.
So our thoughts turn to who can shine from here. Dickson and Watson are the obvious candidates. What have they learned from the last few weeks about what you need to do to win a bike race? What will they do to become the lead players rather than just the extras in this pantomime that we call the Wednesday morning sprint? What nickname will befall them when they make their bid for glory?
These questions and more will be answered in the coming weeks. Geez its exciting.
Pepe
Oh How The Mighty Have Fallen
News has echoed across the lake. After a breakthrough performance last week, David “Puff Daddy/Crystal Cranks/Crotch Sniffer” Runge has gotten the hard ,crushing dose of reality that everyone clearly hoped was coming his way. Cycling is a hard sport and bursts from anonymity into glory as per last week are one off occurrences. PD/CC/CS finds himself well and truly back with the anonymous this week – maybe to never bask in the warm glow of glory again. At least he has a story to tell the grandkids about. While hanging on close enough to smell what the other riders had for breakfast (a few days go) - old straightback was not sighted when it mattered today in what some would say is return to form. If he is waiting to be spoon fed another victory he is in grave danger of starving to death in this company.
Big winner this am seems to be David “Mammoth Hams” Marriott. Testicular infection under control and dipping in under the 130kg mark for the first time in several years, Mammoth used the somewhat predictable early attack by Brad “Gone Early” Fry as the launch pad for his own sneaky late charge to the line – and let’s face it, when he gets those huge pistons pumping, who is going to match both the physical and psychological strength of “Le Hombre Mammotho”.
So our thoughts turn to who can shine from here. Dickson and Watson are the obvious candidates. What have they learned from the last few weeks about what you need to do to win a bike race? What will they do to become the lead players rather than just the extras in this pantomime that we call the Wednesday morning sprint? What nickname will befall them when they make their bid for glory?
These questions and more will be answered in the coming weeks. Geez its exciting.
Pepe
Crystal Cranks Wheelsucks Way to Victory
Giro Newsflash
On a crisp and clear morning, the enigmatic and much maligned David "Crystal Cranks" Runge, clicked into the 12 cog of the heritage Kypo, put his head down, and sailed past a stunned peloton to take his maiden victory in the hotly contested Giro sprints.
Never one to let the fact that you have to pedal get in the way of talking up a big game, CC was clearly underestimated by his breakaway companions as his previous mental fragility had generally seen him come unstuck when the going got hot.
Not today however. Employing his aesthetically challenging but undoubtedly effective (today at least) last of the straight backs sprinting action, Runge hit the front for the first time at the only time it matters - 5 meters from the line.
Cries of "hollow victory" came from the vanquished, who refused to even have a post race coffee with the winner, instead going home to cry into their moccachino's alone. Worst effected was traditional sprint king Marriott, a scratching from todays stage and at home nursing an infected boil on his left testicle (allegedly).
This journalist caught up with the winner and his lead out man Watto as they basked in glory on their ride back from the lake view. Runge was so keen to inform of the small details of his win that he did another lap of the lake just to hold onto the moment for a little bit longer.
I think you will be hearing a lot more about this victory in the coming weeks, months and years.
Pepe Pompadillo
Real Cycling Stories
On a crisp and clear morning, the enigmatic and much maligned David "Crystal Cranks" Runge, clicked into the 12 cog of the heritage Kypo, put his head down, and sailed past a stunned peloton to take his maiden victory in the hotly contested Giro sprints.
Never one to let the fact that you have to pedal get in the way of talking up a big game, CC was clearly underestimated by his breakaway companions as his previous mental fragility had generally seen him come unstuck when the going got hot.
Not today however. Employing his aesthetically challenging but undoubtedly effective (today at least) last of the straight backs sprinting action, Runge hit the front for the first time at the only time it matters - 5 meters from the line.
Cries of "hollow victory" came from the vanquished, who refused to even have a post race coffee with the winner, instead going home to cry into their moccachino's alone. Worst effected was traditional sprint king Marriott, a scratching from todays stage and at home nursing an infected boil on his left testicle (allegedly).
This journalist caught up with the winner and his lead out man Watto as they basked in glory on their ride back from the lake view. Runge was so keen to inform of the small details of his win that he did another lap of the lake just to hold onto the moment for a little bit longer.
I think you will be hearing a lot more about this victory in the coming weeks, months and years.
Pepe Pompadillo
Real Cycling Stories
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