They Call the Wind Mariah

I usually have a shorter word for it.

Even the most gravity-challenged cyclist prefers hills over wind. Hills end, and then you get to enjoy the view from the top for a minute, and go zooming downhill. Wind never seems to end and - although a tailwind is better than a headwind - you don't so much "zoom" downwind as you "sail."

Many of my pet names for the wind were going thru my head Saturday morning, riding from Almaville down towards Eagleville. For about five miles, the wind was dead on my nose, blowing at a steady 10 mph with gusts up to 25. Finally, I turned east, so that I could stop fighting that headwind.

And got my bike blown out from underneath me.

If you've never had that happen, it's impossible to describe. It's kind of like hitting a rock wrong and having it jolt your wheel over. Or maybe it's like having both your wheels slipping the same way on an icy patch of road. The difference with getting blown over, however, is that the bike isn't so much as coming out from beneath you, but more like you and the bike are being picked up and tossed to the side.

I was going so slow that I was able to fall well, and ended up more dirty than bruised. However, once bitten twice shy (Ian Hunter version - not that wimpy remake), and I spent the next few cross-windy miles hunched down over the bars, keeping the center of gravity low, sliding under the breeze as best I could to keep the bike verticle.

One thing that occurred to me during this stretch was that I needed to append my blog about snot rockets. Just like the song says, "You don't spit into the wind." Well, with a cross-wind, you don't fire a snot rocket that way either. You have to somehow blast both nostrils under your downwind armpit. It takes some reaching, depending upon how big your nose is and/or how short your arms are, but you can do it.

At College Grove, my route finally turned more northward. While the wind was not quite behind me, it was at least no longer pushing me over. Heading up Eudaily Covington Road, I could hear it shaking the tops of the trees and rattling the corrugated metal roofs on some old barns. But the sun was out, the temperature was a relatively balmy 50 degrees, and I was on a bike. Life was looking better.

It made me think of the Greatest Fleche Ever.

The Greatest Fleche Ever

In April 2006, my first year of randonneuring, I rode a fleche with Bill Glass, Alan Gosart, and Jeff Sammons. We went from Watertown, TN, to Johnny Bertrand's house in Georgetown, KY.

If you've never ridden one before, a fleche is a 24-hour ride of at least 360 kilometers, done Easter weekend. Unlike a brevet, 24 hours is not the maximum time - it is the time. You cannot finish the fleche less than 23 hours after you begin, and you cannot spend more than two hours at any one spot.

It's also a team event of up to five bikes (a tandem is a bike - not two riders), and at least three of the bikes must finish at roughly the same time. Thus, you stick together and help one another out, which is easier if your team is composed of riders of similar capabilities, speed, and temperament.

In 2006, for The Greatest Fleche Ever, we had temperatures dip into the mid-60s at night, and get up to the lower 80s the next day. The day was sunny and the night clear, with a full moon.

And we had a tailwind. Oh, what a tailwind. It never veered to the side or onto our nose, and was just strong and steady enough to hasten our speed and cool us ever so slightly. It nudged us along like a patient grandfather, allowing us to ride at 20 mph without really working at it.

We left Watertown at 7 pm, and cruised into Kentucky four hours later. We then rolled effortlessly through the quiet night, stopping at controls for a snack and a nap along the way. We ate a leisurely lunch in a lovely little town, and then napped on benches in the private dining room for an hour. When we got to Johnny's house - right on time, of course - we all felt like we could have ridden another 100 miles.

I thought about that wind as I turned east onto Spanntown Road for the last five miles yesterday, and the crosswind again tried to knock me down. "That was then, this is now," it said. Maybe Mariah is a good name for the wind. Like the song "Bitch" by Alanis Morissette, says:

I'm a bitch
I'm a lover
I'm a child
I'm a mother
I'm a sinner
I'm a saint
I do not feel ashamed
I'm your hell
I'm your dream
I'm nothing in between
You know you wouldn't want it any other way

Maybe, though, the wind represents the never-ending battle - the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Sometimes, it will be there to help you get home. Other days, it will be there to help you get stronger. And sometimes it is there to keep you humble, reminding you of your place in life - sitting on your butt on the side of Swamp Road outside of Eagleville, TN.

Caught Up in the Moment

Did you ever notice how all the cruise lines run a lot of ads during Christmas? It's pretty smart of them, really, because they know that we're all sitting around, shivering under blankets with the space heater turned way up, listening to the wind sandblasting the siding off the house with sleet and snow. At that point, you are understandably receptive to the lure of warm Carribean waters and beaches.

The Amgen Tour of California is kind of like that to me during the winter. I TiVo it (of course ... who wants to watch 500 commercials with grinning Bob overdosing on Enzyte?) during the day, then watch it when I get home, dreaming of riding the warm California hills.

Well, okay, the first few days were not exactly what I was looking for. Watching the pros ride long distances in a deluge is gratifying only in the sense that I can see that they, too, corner carefully on slick streets. And during stage 4 I kept trying to not look at the snow piled up at the edges of the road as a breakaway with Tyler Hamilton held off the peloton.

But by stage 5, things were looking warm and the sun was shining. And while I don't even want to try to do five-hour 200K - which the pros did that day - I do want to ride a bicycle fast in warm sunshine.

Speaking of Tyler ...

I'm going to rant a bit here. If you don't like to read rants, skip down to the end.

Sunday I was talking to some friends about the ToC, and my friend commented that "All of the dopers are back." He was referring to Tyler, of course, as well as Floyd Landis and Ivan Basso, who've also been convicted of using performance-enhancing drugs. But he then went on to put Lance Armstrong in that category, adding that Lance "just never got caught."

I won't get into whether or not Tyler, Floyd, and Ivan should be allowed to race again. As with anyone convicted of any crime, they've done their time and should be given the opportunity to resume their lives. Lance got into it with a journalist last week about this, and I agree with him.

But, just as it's not fair to continue to punish those who've already been published, it is not fair to punish thost who have never been convicted. Just because there is no fail-proof system for catching all dopers does not mean that we can assume that anyone suspected of doping and/or accused of doping is a doper. If we are going to assume that everyone that performs well on the field only does so because they are using performance-enhancing substances, then why should any athlete even compete?

Further, must we assume that anyone with the potential to do a crime has done that crime? By that logic, I am a murderer. I live on a planet where people keep getting killed, and I don't have an alibi for all of those deaths. My motive? Well, there's this blog where I talk about having to contend with automobiles - and thus drivers - on the roads where I ride. I'm probably trying to cut down on my commute traffic.

Those guys on Criminal Minds, who catch a serial killer every week, should be busting down my door any minute now.

Rant Over

Sorry. I just needed to get that off my chest.

One more thing, though. In this new "everyone pees in a cup and gives blood three times a day" world of WADA, it's great to see Tyler and Floyd are still performing pretty darned well. Ivan, however ... not so much. Makes you wonder.

Anyway, back to watching the ToC.

Last night, I had to do an hour and a half of tempo riding. Last week I was able to do this with the Harpeth Bicycle Club out at the Nashville Motorplex. That was a blast, since it was easy to maintain a 225-watt average riding a long flat oval over and over and over again.

But, since it was very cold last night, the bike club didn't do the track this week, so I had to put the Bianchi on the trainer. As I said, however, I had TiVo'd the ToC, so I watched that while I rode. It was still not as much fun as being on a real road, of course, but the time passed faster than it usually does while you churn away on the vomitron.

At the end of the stage, the peloton swept up a four-man breakaway (surprise) and the sprinters' teams set them up for the usual mass chaos. When you're on a bike on a trainer at this point, you really get into the action. It was funny looking at my numbers on the computer later, because about this point there's a gradual rise in power, then a spike as Tom Boonen and Mark Cavendish duked it out at the line.

Also, I have to admit that, about halfway thru my ride I finished a water bottle and flipped it thru the air towards the kitchen. That felt really cool. And then the Randodog got hold of it and chewed it up.

I may murder the Randodog.

P.S.: I wrote a bunch of stuff about my team, Gran Fondo Heart of the South, and our upcoming 517-mile race. It's on the site of the Greatest Bike Shop in the Universe, Gran Fondo.