Come With It Now.

Handicap races I can handle, and hilly races I can handle, but the two together is a bridge too far for me at this point. Three laps into a four lap race and I was done. After being swooped by a magpie - the bastards always seem to know when you're at your most vulnerable - I had ample time to think about what would happen when I finally rolled in. People would ask, "What happened to you?" and I'd say, "Well, I blew up." But this wasn't good enough for me. If you're going to lose, you have to be funny about it. So I started thinking about similies to echo my predicament. Sean the Man is fond of using "I blew like a hooker," but I like to think I only use highbrow material, so I ruled that out. The obvious comparison with things that blow up led me down some other unsavoury laneways (like an English pub in Belfast...), but eventually I settled on, "I blew up like the Hindenburg," and repeated it ad nauseum.

Here's a pic of me attacking the Pastoria hill:


Oh the humanity.

The Man and I hit up the store on the way home. DC, obviously sick of hearing every similie we had amassed on the hour-long journey home, decided that I should have a better chance of not blowing up in the hills, and prepared for me my new bike. You can read about it (and see pictures of me camping up the place) here.

I Got My Body And My Mind On The Same Page.

I've been driving quite a bit lately. The combination of the weather, a particularly hard training regime and a number of road races out in the countryside means that I'm in the car quite a bit. I don't mind driving, but I don't think I'm the best in the world at it. I've run red lights here and there, been caught speeding, don't pay enough attention sometimes. I'm pretty paranoid about hitting a cyclist one day, but I can see how it might happen.

Which is why I've always believed that as a cyclist, being hit by a car is a matter of 'when' rather than 'if'. It's the same as being in an accident involving two drivers - errors of judgement inevitably occur when fallible idiots like me - and like everybody - are in control. It's just that when you're in a car and you hit another car as you pull out of your driveway, the only damage done happens to your wallet. When you're in a car and you hit a cyclist, that cyclist gets fucked up bad. We - me included - need to take extra care, be more patient, more vigilant. It's easier said than done, but the way I figure it, we have an obligation.

Mind The Generation Gap.

Today held a lot of firsts for me. First road open. First race longer than 100ks. First time I've dropped in on my sister and my niece on my way back from racing in Bendigo. First time I've started a handicap in a bunch containing riders for whom cycling is a profession. And the first time I've been able to keep up with the scratch bunch for any discernible amount of time. Yep, I've had my cherry popped in so many ways today you could stick me in a cocktail. It was not, however, the first time I've been dropped. And nor, unfortunately, will it be the last.

It's Hard To Heal A Broken Heart.

So, it may be apparent that I'm pretty obsessed with cycling at the moment - way more than I've ever been before. But sometimes my obsession scares even me. Like, for example, when I was reading today's Cycling Tips Blog. It's about Chris Jongewaard and the time he spent in jail. Reading away, thinking 'Wow, that's pretty messed up,' which eventually led me to think, 'Man, if I had seven months away from all work and life pressures, maybe I'd come out of it all ready to smash the national road series'. That's probably not healthy, is it?

Civilian Casualties.

I used to want to be a road racer. It's true. When McNabb and Nath were trying to convince me to come down and try track racing, I told them no, I wanted to concentrate on the road. But eventually they suckered me in, and I kinda got addicted. Even with this addiction, however, I still remember being really freaking excited about the beginning of last year's road season. It took about two months for that excitement to wear off. The road was just too hard - I was getting dropped, getting cold and wet and sick, getting pissed off. It was obvious: I was a track rider. More than that - I was a sprinter. And when I first signed up with Rick, that's what I told him.

So I wasn't heaps happy when, after coming back from my break, I received my new program. Road racing. Every weekend. But I'm a willing pupil, and generally do what I'm told. I signed up for B grade and hoped I'd be able to hold on. I couldn't.

A few weeks went by. I did a mountain bike race, some crits, a lot of long hard ergo sessions on the wind trainer. In an attempt to actually find a road race each weekend I drove all over the place. I lost a lot of weight. The hills started getting easier and I started to learn how to suffer. And in some handicap held outside of Geelong I ended up on the podium. The next week, back with the Northern Combine, I made the top ten in another handicap. More results came in, I got bumped up to A grade, and I started thinking differently. I started thinking that maybe I could do this after all.

Of course, that led to choices, and lots of umming and ahhing. Some decisions don't come easy. I think I even lost a little sleep. Which I could've avoided had I just spoken to Rick straightaway. Aside from the Tour of Bright, Road season here seems to peter out around October, and he was all set to have me race road until at least then. And when I suggested that maybe I'd be better off as an endurance rider on the track, he fairly jumped at the proposal.

So now it's all settled. Road til October, perhaps culminating in the Melbourne to Warnambool. Then a couple of months of solid training on the track before the Christmas Carnivals - perhaps the Tasmanian versions. If you need me, you know where I'll be.

Is It In Me?

I also gave up coffee. I've done this before - through the early 2000s I didn't have any coffee at all, until the need to stay awake through the night in a Coca-Cola free Cuba broke the edge - and so didn't think it would be too much of a big deal. But holy crap, those first few days were rough. It's no decision to go legal drug free, so I smashed a few Panadols in that time, let me tell you. Now that I've come through I'm pretty happy with my decision. I'm feeling a lot fresher, and don't doubt that having less caffeine in my system has resulted in a greater absorption of iron. At the same time, the intense pendulum swings of mood that define the coffee high - and its consequent low - have been mellowed out considerably, so I'm a much smoother customer these days. Smoothness doesn't lead to much late night frenetic blog posting though. Sorry about that.

I Gotta Go, I Gotta Go.

I don't know if I've posted this clip before. If I haven't, I should have. Now that I've seen it, whenever I'm chasing someone down, be it on the road, or in a crit, or on the track, I get this voice in my head. That's not something I need to keep to myself. I want that voice to be in your head too.

The Negative Vibe.

Hey, road racing isn't so bad after all. If it wasn't for some typical tardiness, I'd probably be tackling this this weekend. I know, I know. Road Opens. What the hell am I thinking? Well, sit down and let me tell you.

I scored a 7th place in this handicap race the other day. I figured it was probably an anomaly, that I was only able to hold on due to scratch coming past us, then sitting up. Nonetheless, the handicapper bumped me up to B grade. And on a fucking shitty as hell day last Saturday I was able to eke out a 2nd place. The handicapper called me as I was on the way home, asking for a race report. When I informed him of the results, he decided to bump me up to A grade. I told him to fuck off. Only time will tell what he does, but he's a pretty stubborn bloke at the best of times, so I expect to be riding against some pretty serious competition come the next Northern Combine scratch race.

When I finally made it to A grade on the track I made a couple of decisions. I'd finally purchase my own track bike, and I'd start entering Opens. And now the same should probably occur for racing the road. I've been searching on the internet all week for a new road bike - my current whip is a 90s steel Serotta with a front derailleur that keeps bending and leaving me stuck in the big ring. And now it's my job to start testing myself against some more intense competition. So, there's a road Open in Bendigo coming up, and another one in Shepparton in a month or so. Better to be a small fish in a big pond. Or, perhaps more accurately, it's better to play bass for Springsteen at Madison Square Gardens than pretend to be Springsteen in the cover band rocking out at the Croxton next weekend.

Fuck I love Springsteen.

Potholes In My Lawn.

This is one of the most brutal self-assessments I've seen. This kind of honesty is rare in any sport, let alone cycling, where braggadocio and self-promotion are as important as race results. Neil neglects to mention in this post that as well as being fucking strong, he shreds like Enron on the singletrack. Singlespeed worlds are waiting for you, brother.

Islands In The Stream.

A couple of kids songs.

I Might Be Wrong.

I ran away to Germany once. My friend Christiane was living in Heidelberg, and I was messed up on some girl, so I figured I'd go see her. Well, at least I think I was messed up on some girl. I had with me two Modest Mouse records and a copy of Catcher In The Rye, so I must've been messed up on something. But it was a while back now, and the things you get messed up on tend to get a little messed up themselves as they get further away.

When I arrived she wasn't home, but she'd left a note informing me that as her housemate had left the country, I could stay in her room. I could also use her bike if I liked. The house was a pretty typical student flat, with new carpet and a strange toilet. The bike was a ladies step through that had seen better days. I pumped up the tyres, then took it out into the street and rolled around the neighbourhood until Christiane got home.

Her bike wasn't so crash hot either, but we rolled around town together for the next couple of weeks. It was summer and the weather was fine. We went swimming in the river and ate dinner on the balcony. More often than not we'd be joined by a bunch of her friends, all of them riding step-throughs or old road bikes, inevitably in poor condition. It didn't really matter though. The town was small and the roads were narrow and flat. If something broke down on the way to the river or a party or a cafe we'd find a bike shop and sort it out, or just lock the bike up and dink each other the rest of the way.

This happened to Christiane herself one afternoon. Her brakes were seizing up and the levers wouldn't spring back after she'd squeezed them. We didn't have much money though, so she suggested we go to this place where they loaned you tools and helped you with repairs. As we walked up there I tried to explain to her exactly how inept I am when it comes to tools, but she wouldn't have a bar of it.

We wandered into the place, which was set up in the courtyard of some cafe. I squirted some lube into the brake cables, gave them a squeeze, twisted the barrel adjusters a few times and that seemed to do it. It wasn't much. Anything more probably would've been beyond me. But she looked impressed. She stood beside me, a little closer than usual, said thank you, and slowly leaned over and kissed my cheek.

I think I might've actually blushed.

I Am Lacking Something.

Like, an understanding of how to apply google analytics.

Photos Of Myself.

Also, I don't know if you remember this, but there was a time around the late 90s / early 2000s where bands really, really wanted to be The Rolling Stones. I'm ok with that. Some times I want to be The Rolling Stones too.

Ain't No Party.

As per usual, I'm a bit late to the ball with this one, but this NSFW blog is easily one of the best things on the internet (or, at the very least, one of the best uses of Google Images). So good it has already spawned cheap imitations.

From The Top Of The Hill.

More info here.

The racing will be set out like a classic six-day, with points accumulated in the scratch, keirin and flying lap counting towards a team's overall madison score.
As you can see from the link, Team Handsome were entered, but have withdrawn due partially to Ben's back being fucked, but also partially due to fear. There are - I think - three people on that list who are legitimately allowed to wear world champion stripes, as well as a smattering of state champions.

If you've ever thought about coming down to DISC to check out the racing, this will be the time to do it.

Coffee will be provided by Padre. And really, that's the most important part.