Winter Cycling: Riding the Razor's Edge

Riding a bicycle during the winter in any of the United States forced to straddle the schizoid meandering jet stream is kind of like being the sole offspring of a broken marriage of two abusive shmucks.

The jet stream plummets and you are shuttled over to stay with your Ice Queen mom. Life isn't too bad there, so long as you dress correctly and are constantly on guard against the barbed comments that strip the flesh from your bones and bring tears to your eyes. Her icy embrace leaves you trembling like a dog staring fixedly at the gleaming tip of a steel-toed boot, and your nose runs so much that you wipe it bloody. The harsh glaring blue of her skies brings no warmth, and is as fleeting as the smile with which she blesses you when she thinks someone may be looking.

Then dad punches out the jet stream as he blows up from some Gulf Coast casino in a backfiring Cadillac convertible that he "borrowed" from his beach whore girl friend, coughing fumes fraught with unfiltered Pall Malls and bottom-shelf blended bourbon from one end while blasting methane laced with last week's gumbo from the other. He is always wringing wet, with alcohol seeping from his moon-crater pores punctuated by delirium tremens-inspired storms of last night's gumbo and stomach acid, slowly abating to mournful dry heave rumblings about something lost.

The only thing worse is the hand-off, when they scream and spit and spew years of pent-up rage fueled by unrequited narcissistic self-loathing, as you cower below, rolled into a tight fetal wad with your hands clamped over your ears moaning for the kind of succor that you read about in a book whose title now eludes you.

And then -- oh so rarely -- that wondrous thing happens, and Grandma and Grandpa come swoop you away ... maybe for an hour, and sometimes for a day or maybe two ... and life is sweet again. Sure, they are the creatures that spawned your abominable parents, and the bloodlines run strong and bloody, but time has worn off the sharp edges of their temperament, making their fury more furry. You would never mistake an afternoon with the grandparents for one of those glorious days with Aunt Summer, but it is enough. In a long schizoid winter that even Chekhov could not have survived, it is these respites that keep us sane.

Well, guess who's coming to visit tomorrow?

For all of you out there, if you can find time to slip away from work, holiday shopping, and family duties: Get on your bike Tuesday. It is the first day of winter, and we're getting what may be the only break we're going to see in a while.

And then, tomorrow night, when you're warming up by the fire and feeling some good pain in your quadriceps, call your grandparents. You owe them one.

Putting the Ego in Alter-Ego

Many authors use pseudonyms. George Elliot, who wrote Silas Marner, was actually Mary Anne Evans. She used a man's name so that her works would be "taken seriously." There are also a number of authors who are famous in one genre, but publish under a pseudonym outside of their regular realm. Stephen King uses Richard Bachman, Nora Roberts uses J. D. Robb, and Dr. Seuss uses Tom Clancy.

Could you, would you, with a squadron of light infantry soldiers armed with Heckler and Koch submachine guns?

I could, I would, with a squadron of light infantry soldiers armed with Heckler and Koch submachine guns!

I, too, have an alter-ego. Or maybe it's just a recent manifestation of my multiple personalities disorder. As Ian Hunter once sang, you're never alone with a schizophrenic, and once bitten by one you will be twice shy.

But, as usual, I digress.

Just as the phone book validated existence to Navin R. Johnson, so did a document that arrived in the mail yesterday force the formerly dormant racer wraith within me to blast it's hoary head through my brittle sternum, hiss caustically at a horrified world, and leap onto the nearest Big Wheel to roll hell-bent for spandex.

Meet Max Watzz. I would describe him for you, but I can feel his life force consuming me again ... too strong ... can't stop ... argh ... yadda-yadda.

Whew. Thank goodness we got rid of that loser. What kind of moron rides a bike for more than 100 kilometers anyhow? I mean, I can see it for the Spring Classics, but just to go riding out in the country for hundreds of miles ... for "fun?" With no podium at the end?! Puh-leaze!

And I want to make something clear, here. This dork RandoBoy DID NOT win the Super 80 and the Heart of the South 500 last year. I did. Me, me, me, me, me. That's my favorite word, by the way, so I'll say it some more. Me, me, me, me, me.

Okay, now I'm done. Yes, I am. Me done. Heh-heh. Me, me, me, me, me.

But back to the races that I won -- not RandoBoy. He wouldn't know how to reach into the barrel of pain, stir around in the victuals of strength, and pull out the kind of performance that it takes to be a winner. I know how to do that. Me.

I also know how to show restraint. It's part of the class that is only shown by true champions. Eddie was like that, and maybe Lance. They are like me that way ... the lucky bastards.

And I have shown lots of restraint lately ... maybe too much, if it is possible for me to make a mistake. It was actually all part of my master plan ... yeah, that's it. I had a plan from the start. Because another mark of the true champion is the ability to change history in his mind so that it continues to validate his world view.

So, my plan all along was to let this RandoBoy character get me enough good bikes that I could then strip control from him and bring myself out to bask in the limelight that is my own magnificence. Not that I need a good bike to win, of course, because it's all about the power that flows, barely controlled, through my massive loins.

Speaking of the power of my massive loins ... why, yes, I don't mind if I do. I will be using my brobdingnagian quadriceps this year to set new records in time trials throughout Tennessee. I may also bestow my skills to some road races, but will mostly limit myself this year to the Race of Truth. For that is where my Greatness shall most surely shine.

Anyway, back to power. My 42-centimeter quadriceps are capable of delivering untold wattage. Why, my threshold wattage alone is ... what? ... wait ... no, you can't take over again ... I won't go back in the box ... Nooooooo!

Geez, what an obnoxious peckerwood. You'll probably hear more from him during the course of the year, and for that I apologize. We all have our dark side, and we occasionally have to let it out in the sun in hopes that it either dries up and blows away, or at least stops raising such a stink.