Blood On My Hands

The problem with being a vegan is that the minute you get sick, no matter what kind of illness you have come down with, most people will tell you that it is because you are vegan.

I have been sick a lot the past five months, so I'm beginning to get suspicious myself.  I mean, who can blame me?  Surely a good sausage roll will solve the problem.

The real bummer here is, of course, when sickness disallows me from riding my bike.  The minute I seem to string a good week together, the next week seems to be plagued with niggling illness, bad weather, or a bad case of the ceebs.

With this in mind, here are FJ's criteria to know when you are sick, followed by how to make ya feel better.

1. You wake up unable to swallow.  Swallowing is really painful.  You don't just have a sore throat.  No, you have swollen tonsils.  Forget about riding.  Forget about talking.  Just forget about having a good time for the coming days.

2. You get out of bed, and are a bit achey.  Head is all fluffy, and you aren't as hungry as usual.  When you get on the bike it's a struggle to even turn the pedals, let alone put any power down.  You probably have the beginning of flu.  It's gonna suck for the next three to four days.  Accept your lot, and go watch Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels.  And Snatch.  'Do you like dags?'

3. You wake up and you can't see because looking at light makes your head explode with pain.  You have meningitis.  You might die.  If you don't, you can ride in a week or so.

4. You're heart slows to a dangerous level while you sleep.  You have taken EPO.  That is so cool.

I have had all of the above, at some point, except for EPO (but if anyone knows anyone, hit me up).  I even rode home from a party after meningitis had set in.  It was pretty horrible but, on the other hand, my hallucinations were so severe I barely knew where I was.

I used to try and do the 'work through the sickness' thing.  All that seems to involve is going to work, sneezing on everyone, complaining about how you can't get any work done, and taking twice as long to get better.  These days I just call in sick, sit under a blanket, eat lots of healthy food, and twice as much of it, so I usually come good within 48 hours.  It'd be pretty good if the past three months hadn't been punctured with shit two day periods.  With this in mind:

1. Drink lots of water.  So boring, but so necessary.  I tried beer once.  It didn't work.

2. Eat fuckloads.  I got this off Jez 'Crossboss' Soawyer.  Just eat twice as much as you normally would.  So far, so good.

3. Sleep.  Get ten hours if you can.  If you're unlucky, you'll have a blocked up nose that causes you to wake up every two hours.  Sucks to be you.

4. Don't ride.  Even the smallest training ride will suppress your immune system to some extent.  Just take it easy for two or three days.  Think about how fresh you'll be when you get back to it!

5. Watch Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels.  It is a scientific fact that watching English thugs say funny things and shooting each other will, at the very least, reduce the time in bed by a third.

If you are sick, get well soon!  If you're not, carry on as per usual.  Let me know where you get your sausage rolls.

Charles, get the air rifle.  We're being fucked...

Sunday Morning.

We here at Heavy Metal Monday should apologise, first off, for our absence last week.  If it's any consolation to you, dear readers, in place of sitting here at the couch, hunched over a computer screen, I was out on the town with chums.  The we saw 'On The Road' at the cinema, and things took a turn for the worse.  Anyway.

Brendan, as you may have noted from his monday post, didn't really know where I was last weekend.  The photographic evidence he provided of me at the cycling cross, however, does indeed tell most of the story.  Here is my report from the weekends racing.

A contingent of some riders from Melbourne (I think there were less then ten, but I can't really remember) made the trip up to Sydney on Friday.  A delayed flight could not sway us from our chipper mood, in part helped by my getting delay vouchers off the check in lady.  A whopping eight dollars was spent at Hudson's on a jumbo soy latte, the lack of real money change made up for, by my emptying the chocolate sprinkly jar onto the top of my coffee.  Fearing that Nikcee and Blakey might start talking about cantilevers I wandered around with Steve and Clare, ate a foot long subway, and some sushi, and some gatorade, until I felt ill.

Then the flight occurred, wherein I remembered I get extremely motion sick at even the hint of motion sickness.  Fortunately I had my Sydney CX trip mix tape all ready to go, and I tried to zone out to the blissful tunes of Carly Rae Jepsen and Bolt Thrower.

On arriving at the hostel, somewhere forsaken on the Northern Beaches, I discovered they were playing Wolfmother.  Like.  The first album.  The one every dickhead was listening to in 2006.  Instantly transported to year 11, I cried a savage's cry, and ran from the room, only to return when someone opened the corn chip packet.

In the interest of brevity, I'll skip to the following morning.  The Melbourne contingent arrived at the location of cycling cross at approximately sometime in the AM, Saturday morning.  The Sydney CX mixtape had hit upon a spot of Venom and, to the sound off '1000 days in Sodom', we heralded our arrival as best we could.  On opening the car door, I tripped on my seatbelt, and was sent sprawling.  

Excellent start.

Given I had elected B grade for my cycling cross escapades, I was due to start shortly after out arrival.  I donned the stretchy clothing, did a quick tour of the course, in which I nearly ate shit multiple time, after which time it was time to wander over to the start line.  

Some minutes later I was thundering across the tundra, I mean grass, in about fifth wheel.  I was kinda surprised I was that far up to be honest, not having raced at all since May, and not having ridden a cross race since September last year.  Anyway, so that quiet sense of confidence slowly gave way to a sense of severe illness and the the strong desire to vomit up a lung.  As Steve's heckling became louder, and the urge to ride into Nikcee a little too tempting, the race was over.  I sat down, spent, and coughed up what looked like a bloody lump of something.

"How good was that?!" asked Steve.

"Fuck.  That was the shittest thing I have done for a long time" I replied.  

General attitude toward cycling cross notwithstanding, I then spent the rest of the afternoon hanging out with the rest of the dudes, heckled a bunch, drank some beers, and waxed lyrical about No Doubt making so much more sense in NSW.  Seriously, it does.

That night I was super stoked to get blind, but by seven I was exhausted and suffering from mild heat stroke.  Not only that, but we had celebrated Kate's birthday at the local Indian joint, the patron's of which had stared bemused at the bunch of skinny people all wearing party hats.  It was at this particular dinner that CX rad-man Jeremy referred to the Ultimate Frisbee World Championships as, and I quote, "basically God camp", as the rest of the contingent choked on our garlic naan.  

I fell asleep by ten.

The following day the B grade race was at some ungodly hour.  Something like 9.30.  Suffice to say it took a great deal of coffee and asthma pump to even get me to the start line.  I won't bore you with the details, but I did a lot better, finishing in the top ten, jumped some barriers, and didn't bin it.  Win win.  Following that, I watched everyone else get rad, Nikcee and Blakey get lapped, Steve roll a tub and snap a chain, and Syd (the winner) ride the toughest uphill section with multiple jumps necessary, that every other ride struggled to run.  Holy shit.

I was so tired and sun fatigued by the end of the day, I virtually threw my bike into my collapsing bike box, sliding anything I didn't have a place for into the seat tube.  Genius.

To top off a cracking weekend, most of us then went to eat some delicious Lebanese food where I consumed by body weight in chickpeas and chips, while watching at least one passer by get roughed up by a motorcycle cop.

On the plane home, I listened to No Doubt, read a mag that Nikcee had leant me, and tried not to be too distracted by this one hostess lady.

In Melbourne, the taxi driver refused to take my bike, under the guise of it not fitting, the reality being that I didn't live in Dandenong and, thus, wasn't worth enough to him.

Cyclocross.  It isn't great.  But it's not bad either.

Work And Love.

Me and Hurley are sitting on the couch. "You know when Jamesy gets back?" He asks. I confess that I do not. He reaches for his phone and sends a text.

Hours later Jamesy still has not responded. We are beginning to wonder if something has happened. He was in Sydney for the Cyclocross, so there are perhaps three possibilities: he has gotten drunk and fallen asleep in a gutter in King's Cross; he is eternally trapped in a conversation about tyre pressure with Blakey and Nik Cee; or he has gotten drunk and fallen asleep in a gutter in King's Cross. Hurley is supposed to be picking him up from the airport. We don't know if he's flying back down or driving with the rest of the Melbourne contingent.

We're a little concerned, sure, but not enough to call anyone else, or stay at home waiting, or check Facebook. We go about the rest of our day without giving it much thought. The evening comes and we go our separate ways.

An entire day passes. Hurley is back in Shepparton and I'm riding my bike around town in the springtime sun. Eventually a text comes through from Jamesy. "Yo, I'm gonna be out till late. Do you wanna fill in for the blog," it says, "Soz, I totally forgot till now." It does not say where he has been, where he is, and if he is still either drunk or having the letters PSI tattooed on the back of his neck.

Fucking cyclocross.

Photographic evidence that Jamesy, wherever he was, was riding his cyclocross bike this weekend. And was fucking stoked about it. Or was drunk. Probably drunk.

Languor Rises Reaching!

So Brendan, as you may or may not have noticed, is on Spring Break.  At least, I think he is.  I haven't seen that dude for, like, days...so maybe he's ill, or overseas, or in Footscray at the new Arthouse.

Spring Break means better weather, and with better weather comes post ride eating/drinking.  You wouldn't think something as simple as eating in tight clothing would be that difficult.  But, as we speak, thousands of cyclists across Melbourne are making total asses of themselves in various cafes and eating joints, leading to what I'm going to call 'general cycling distaste.'


GCD comes about when approximately eighty three over weight men riding Specialized Venges with ZIPP 404s all arrive at a small inner suburban cafe, sprawl over any table available, and then demand two flat whites each, looking the wait staff in the eye only to complain there isn't enough sprinkly chocolate on their beverage.  They will then almost certainly start squeezing the sweat out of their head bands/caps/over priced helmet, much to the horror/disgust of the normal customers who, in trying to drink a coffee in peace, have been subjected to the human equivalent of a herd of elephants gathering around a watering hole.

It's fair to say that this brand of Fred has given us all a bad reputation.  Given I do most of my training at night, I quite enjoy rounding the night off with a burrito or a burger.  That said, I'm sensible enough to sit outside, quietly eat my burger, and then get the hell out before anyone else asks what the putrid death smell is.  Despite my caution, whenever I, or my friends, arrive at an eating establishment in lycra, we are looked upon as if we were masked and holding heavy weaponry, such is the fear and disgust on people's faces.  Given that my presence isn't that offensive, I can only conclude that the young beautiful people of Fitzroy, almost all of whom seem to work in hospitality, have undergone horrific experiences at the hands of old men in shiny cloths.

So it is with some hope that we can set the rules straight.  Although a general Fugazi-esque rule of 'don't be a fuckwit' should suffice, it doesn't seem that everyone has got the message.  Here are the primary rules of post ride dining.  Note that this is the bare minimum to avoid looking like yet another midlife crisis on tubulars.

1. Slow down as you approach the eating location.  I can't count the amount of times I have seen some bloke yelling to his mate about how good his aero wheels are, as he nearly knocks over some stressed out waitress, causing her to spill the 9 baby-chinos being demanded by the mothers in the corner.

2. Lean your bike somewhere appropriate.  Although passive aggressive notes on residential fences asking bikes not to be put there aren't exactly great, they are probably brought about by some dickhead placing his bike into a prize winning shrubbery or something.  And, if you can see that the cafe restaurant windows are sparkly clean, maybe don't lean your filthy bike up alongside it, just so you can 'keep an eye on it'.  Mate, you live in Malvern.  No one is going to steal your whip.  Everyone else probably has a better one.

3. Don't try and fit your whole bunch around a small table, filling the footpath with sweaty people.  It's just shit.

4. Gloves, sunnies, helmets out of the way of others and the table.  You wouldn't put your gym shirt on the dinner table would you?

5. Manners. It actually makes me angry how often you see a bunch of cyclists speaking rudely/indifferently to staff at eateries.  Just make a little eye contact and say please and thankyou.  Jesus.

6. Fussy orders.  As a vegan, I'm aware I'm treading a fine line here but, seriously, just have your eggs on toast and bail.  Now isn't the time to fuck around with Hollandaise and shitaki mushrooms.

7. Payment.  This kind of relates to the sweat issue.  Make sure your cash money or card is somewhere where it isn't going to get covered in sweat.  You should see the horror in the eyes of the hospo worker who has to take three crinkled, dripping twenties.  It's as if they just walked into Mordor with no lambas bread.

8. On leaving, try and make sure you don't knock over any prams, run any old ladies down, or generally make an ass of yourself.

This stuff really shouldn't be so tricky, but apparently it is (I have broken almost all these rules at some point).  I'm sure it's the relationship between the euphoria of exercise, coupled with the thrill of 'broing down' with your mates that causes this kind of militant disregard for others around coffee shops and eateries.  But, I figure, maybe, just maybe, if we change our behaviour where we eat after a ride, we're less likely to be abused and nearly killed by the mother of four in a BMW 4x4.

So, yeh, like.  Melbourne Cyclists: listen to Fugazi, don't be a fuckwit.

See ya at the cafe.

I Was A Teenage Anarchist.

It is with trepidation that we here at Heavy Metal Monday sit down to pen (type) this post.  Following our nightly training ride, wherein no training was done, but a lot of shit talking was, it has come to our attention that crit season is approaching.

Some know that criteriums are around the corner from the delicate blossom on the still Winter strangled trees, others know it when they find a hole in the shammy of their longs.  Most of us, on the other hand, can tell the circuit racing we love so much is fast on the way by the reappearance of that strange and elusive creature: the crit specialist.

The crit specialist in truly a sight to behold.  Here you are, having buried yourself on the cold, dead roads that is the road season all winter, when suddenly, these loud and chipper fellows appear, as if from nowhere.  Conversation's between crit specialist range from choice of deep section wheels this season, to what beer they are currently sinking (crit specialists are always sinking beers).  Please note that if you ask a crit specialist what racing they did over winter, you will receive a blank look.  This is not because the crit specialist is embarrassed he did not race over winter, it is because he is not aware that there is any racing over winter.  To the crit specialist, bike racing consists of criteriums, and criteriums only.  The only other racing he will accept is sinking beers, but that happens in the arvo, after criteriums.

As a skinny, gutless roadie, who happens to like crits, I have made it my duty to come to recognise the criterium specialist from afar, so that I can suck his wheel and then win.  Please note that I never win, because I am a skinny, gutless roadie.  It is with pleasure, then, that I put to you the most recognisable characteristics of our beloved crit specialist.  Long may you hold his wheel.

1. Size.  Crit specialists are always, how should we put this, of the larger variety.  They tend to hold to the old training moniker of 'saturated fat for saturated power'.  Witnessing a crit specialist come out of hibernation is akin to witnessing a bear stagger out of an all-you-can-eat diner.  Only they are wearing lycra.  Of course, the crit specialist will get down to 'race weight' by the middle of the season, but don't be fooled.  If he takes you down, you won't get back up.

2.  Cankles.  Crit specialists always have cankles.  This is related, it is assumed by this author/journalist/hack, to the girth issue discussed above.  The crit specialist will attempt to hide the cankle issue by either adhering to the track fashion of very short socks, thereby signalling a distinct fashion faux pas, or the roadie fashion of very high socks, which is perhaps even more obscene, given the total lack of roadie ribs showing through the jersey.

3. Bike creaks.  The crit specialist puts down some serious watts.  This is the guy that, when he inevitably attacks three laps in, you are chewing bar tape just to hold this suckers wheel.  As you manage to sit in, you will hear that rhythmic creak, as this strange specimen lays it all out on the road.  That is his carbon frame/un-torqued crank bolts/bar-stem combo literally groaning under the force of this animal.  As you sit there, wondering how this functioning booze hound is thumping you so hard, despite you training all winter when he was literally knee deep in pies, you will have that creaking to keep you company.  It will haunt you.

4. Can't stop/don't wanna attitude.  The crit specialist stops for no one.  Barely even the finish line.  When in a race, this guy will be the bloke who is yelling from the back of the bunch to 'close that gap' even though you are on the front, literally puking up a lung to get that U17 prodigy to please, you know please, come back.  He is also, it should be noted, the only kind of cyclist who can take on the Beach Road Clam (note:   the Beach Road Clam is a driver who swings their car door open, gets out of their car, realises a bunch is coming at them flat chat, and attempts to fit themselves back into their car, closing the car door, without actually sitting back down in their seat).  Such is the power and girth of the crit specialist, they would knock clear through this car door, then curse the headwind which is, 'arking up a bit at the moment'.  Meanwhile, you the roadie, will be sitting on his wheel, wondering which fucking planet this guy was born on.

5. Laughing in the face of danger.  Face it.  Most of the time in crits, you're shitting yourself.  Nothing says shitstorm more than a scenario where a bunch of amateurs race very fast in tight s trying to cross a line before everyone else.  If you are a normal, sane, human being, each crit race will have at least one moment where you are sure, nay convinced, that you are about to die.  It's just racing.  If you are normal, you will probably yell something like 'woah, hold your line mate!' then discreetly shit yourself. The crit specialist, on the other hand, will merely snort, then tell the offending person to 'pull a fucking turn you cvnt', before he dives into a corner on the inside of the bunch, proverbial, or literal, moustache, billowing in the breeze.  

6. Not winning.  The crit specialist rarely wins.  This is not because, as you the roadies suspect, because of his lifestyle habits off the bike, bur rather because 'all these young kids don't know how to race or show respect'  That is in fact true.  All these young kids are very, very fast, and don't give a shit if some fat bloke with cankles is demanding they respect their elders.

Love or hate them, the re-emergence of the crit specialist signals one thing for sure: crits are coming!  And really, what else are crits, other than a celebration of summer, and riding in the good weather.

Bring on the cankles.

When We Have Nothing Left To Lose.

HOW GREAT WAS THE OLYMPIC MOUNTAIN BIKE RACE?!

That's what I would be yelling at you from across the proverbial room if a) I had watched the race and b) mountain bike racing was good.

Given my incredibly lax journalistic style, a lot of you probably already guessed the former.  As for the latter, well, it's more of a general rule that no one really wants to face up to.  What I can guarantee is that the three blokes who did watch the race (probably all together) almost certainly fell into a 29er/650b/26 inch debate directly after the completion of the race.  That is, assuming of course, that all three gentleman got through the eighty three hour race without succumbing to cardiac arrest brought on by sudden and violent boredom.

Therein ends my analysis of the race.  You want more?  Go read cycling news or something.

Today, instead, I am going to talk about tubulars.

I have long since come to terms with the fact that I am, without hyperbole, probably the second or third worst bike racer in the entire world.  Unsure of how to deal with this uncomfortable truth, I started searching around for more cool shit I could stick on my bike to make myself feel better.  As is the case with most of the excellent decisions I make, Sean the Man got in my ear re. tubular wheels.

His offer was this: I could borrow his Ambrosio tubulars, laced to Dura-Ace hubs (perhaps the sweetest hub ever) with Sapim bladed spokes.  I could ride them as much as I wanted.  I could race on them.  I could even train on them.

As backstory, these wheels are down around the 1300gram mark.  They are stiff as hell.  Riding them feels a bit like flying.

I had my doubts.  Wasn't this a bit of a wank?  Tubulars for training?  What if I got a puncture?  (The new vernacular is punny, btw).  The idea of me knee deep in shellac out Whittlesea way with no ability to get home didn't appeal.  Sean stuck a spare tub under my saddle with a pedal strap, told me to stop worrying, and go ride.

So I did.

It is about a month later and I can report back that riding tubulars on high quality tyres is indeed one of the best things you can do to improve your life.  Sean described it as running through a field with a strawberry blonde girl, laughing your troubles away.  This is probably the closest I can come to describing the experience of riding tubs.

Training on tubs belongs to the small sub-category of 'so dumb it's awesome'.  When other cyclists see the tell-tale spare tubular under the saddle, tucked away, they can immediately infer two things.  Firstly, this rider is an idiot.  Secondly, this rider is a mad dog.  It's a bit like smoking, only cheaper.  Going through this cyclists head are the conflicting images of me getting a punny, and me cornering much better than him because of my sweet supple tyres.  It troubles and haunts this other cyclist.  He kinda pats his spare tube lovingly, but also kinda wishes he could spend an afternoon sinking beers glueing a single tubular.  It's not efficient, but damn it's classy as hell.  Kinda like smoking.

I'm now in the awkward position where I don't want to give these wheels back.  I look at my Dura-Ace race wheels, my Mavic Ksyrium training wheels, and am filled with despair.  All I can think about is harsh riding, terrible cornering, and quick and easy tube changes.  There's none of the risk, the stupidity, the god damn classiness of riding tubs.  It's just so pedestrian.  With clinchers, I'm just another hack.  On tubulars, I am the ubermensch.

I don't think I can go back.


SPEAKING OF SUPERMEN, GET SOME REAL MUSIC IN YA.

Rollbacks.

We have been inundated with a flood of responses here at Heavy Metal Monday headquarters following the anti-beardo manifesto.  Three comments on the blog, a staggering one guy yelling at me from across the street, his mudguards rattling in the breeze, and a guy from the Bicycle Victoria forums labelling my prose as "predictable claptrap".

Not only that but, today at work, I was forced to work for a good hour on a dynamo hub that wouldn't work.  It was as if the bearded gods wanted me to suffer for my blasphemy.

With this in mind, and with the sound of coffee hand grinders receding into the distance, we can push on to other matters.

So the Tour is still ongoing, even though we know Wiggins is going to win.  He is fortunate indeed that the only man who could possibly beat him this year is young Froome, also of team SKY.  Froome has been Wiggin's main go to guy in the high mountain passes.  Other than that brief moment where Froome seemed to forget himself, attacking and dropping his captain, he has loyally served the small ankle man to what will surely be a great victory.  Here's the thing though.  It must be awkward knowing that your lieutenant is a better bike racer than you.

This isn't the first time this has happened of course.  In 1997, Team Mobile started the Tour with Riis as captain, and ended with Jan Ullrich as captain and winner of the Tour.  So dominant was Ullrich's performance, that Riis just agreed to work for him.  A few years ago, there were tensions between Contador and Armstrong, with a far more ambiguous ending.  Armstrong got third, but clearly wasn't happy about it, and Contador was a smarmy bastard.

But this is the first time it's happened where I could think of a funny term for the phenomenon:  namely, the Froome effect.  The Froome effect essentially describes the awkward situation when you are beaten by someone who shouldn't be as good as you.  Let's run through the jargon.

To Froome:  Verb.  To be in a position to beat the pants off of your team leader, knowing it, then doing it.  We witnessed this on the mountain stage the other day when Froome took the stage win, blasting past both Wiggins and Evans.  At the time, commentators said they let Froome have the victory.  I disagree.  That's a Froomin'.

To be Froomed: This is the situation where your team mate, who should be your underling, destroys you.  "I got Froomed today" suggests that maybe you took your nephew out for his first bike ride, and he left you in your dust before you could even find your other Speedplay.  I imagine the most vivid reaction I can think of when someone is being Froomed is from Wiggins himself.  He's been dropping the C bomb a lot lately.  Must be a bit frustrated?  It all makes sense.  That's a Froomin'.

Froomin':  This is the term for an action in which you are in the process of leaving your captain for dead.  Eg. "How you going Ullrich?"  "Froomin".  Note that, although the particulars of Ullrich's Froomin' happened well before Froome was around pro cycling, the label can be back dated.  Froomin' is timeless.

Crusin' for a Froomin: This is perhaps the funniest term.  This describes the situation where the particular individual meant to be in charge is carrying on, as my dad would have said, "like a two bob watch", ie.  a dick.  Perhaps they're arrogant, or just too cool for school, these people are just begging for someone to Froome the hell out of them.  Perhaps the person who was crusin' for a froomin' the most, but who never got his comeuppance, was Lance Armstrong.  Reason being: Hincapie's steerer kept snapping.  You best believe that's a Froomin'.

In fact, perhaps the only person who can never undergo the Froome effect, is Cadel Evans.  The reason for this is that his team is always shit.

Froome himself admits that this year has been tricky, and fully expects Team Sky to return the favour, should next years course be more mountainous.  This suggests that Froome himself is uncomfortable in the Froome role.  Rather, he would prefer to be Wiggin' it.  Namely winning.

And, although I think Wiggins as been gracious toward his helpers, and is hardly crusin' for a Froomin', I reckon next year you will definitely see Froome Wiggin' the fuck out.

Froome on mates.

Metal! Revolution!

Do you have a friend who used to have a sweet fixie, but who now considers full fenders, racks, and a dynamo a bare minimum for their 4km commute?  Did your roadie friend suddenly rock up to the bunch ride with those clip on fenders, their excuse being that, you know, what if it rains?  Perhaps someone you used to rip trailz with all of a sudden doesn't really want to get rad anymore, and instead rides fire trails on weird wheel sizes.  Maybe you recognise some of these tendencies in yourself.  If you recognise any of these scenarios, you may have been affected by what we call 'the beardo effect'. Heavy Metal Monday needs to interrupt the normal Tour De France schedule to discuss a most distressing of bike sub-sub-sulctures: the Beardo.

Beardos, it should be added, don't necessarily have to have a beard.  It's more of an attitude, or an approach to life.  The beard, if you will, is attached to the soul of the person.  Beardo's love the following things: mudguards, brass, racks, the verb 'portaging', new dynamo lights for use, old dynamo lights for polishing and talking about, cantilever brakes, steel, artisan tyre manufactures, talking about psi, the word 'supple', stupid shaped handlebars, not slamming their stem, waxing lyrical about certain cup and cone designs actually being more water resistant than a great deal of the sealed bearings on the market which, by the way, aren't strictly speaking 'sealed', gravel, lumens, the word randoneur, proper placement of load across a bicycle, sneering at credit card touring and, finally, 650b wheel size, and telling MTBers that they were into it way before they were.

Beardos aren't necessarily old either.  At this stage in their development as a bike sub-sub culture, they are made up of two distinct groups.  Old people who never moved on from the technology they grew up with.  Perhaps they thought Audax rides were a bit too competitive for their liking, or you know, maybe they used to race 'back in the day'.  Regardless, they stick to steel like the shellac on their old singles.  These are classic beardos.

Then there is the new generation.  These are comprised of three distinct sub groups.  MTB riders who totally nerded out.  Roadies who can't flatten their back and put it in the big dog. And, finally, fixie kids who, in a direct reaction to the militant minimalism of the 2007 track bike, responded by putting way more carrying devices on their bicycles then they would ever need.

It is much more common now, for example, to see a hipster riding a steel bike with a big front rack, full mudguards and perhaps even a poorly positioned Shimano dynamo front hub, than it is to see some guy riding a toight as a tiger track bike, all rolled up jeans and overly tight chain tension.

By the same token, we hear mutterings on the bunch ride that, you know, it's great that old mate isn't splashing water in my face anymore by having put on mudguards, but, it makes my bike look uncool, you know?

And finally the split in the MTBer community has been highlighted by those who spend more time positioning their helmet light than taking sweet jumps at the Youies.

Having recognised the problem, the community, and from which bike subcultures this sub-sub culture have emerged from, perhaps it is time to figure out how it can be stopped.

The first step is open ridicule.  When you see a full beardo riding by, tell them their mudguards are ill fitted.  That should stop them in their tracks for a good 35 minutes.  Don't actually approach them, or you will get caught in a conversation about 650b that will span the natural length of the universe.

The second is prevention.  If, on a day ride out on gravel roads you see an at risk beardo, or some one who looks like they might have put just that little bit too much time thinking about which tyres to run, and at which psi, tell them bluntly that you're running 22mm tyres, at 150psi.  Then put it in the big dog, and storm off, at a minimum of 400 watts.  Don't worry, their big dog is probably a 48 tooth, possibly even a 46 so they ain't gonna give no chase.  This will have the potential beardo in serious doubts as to their lifestyle choice.

Once gone full beardo, there is no going back.  So loud and inefficient is their coffee bean hand grinder, that they won't be able to hear you over the smugness.  But we can save many bike riders from a life of supple tyre pressure and skinny, hairy legs.  Direct action is the only way.

Pump up those tyres, to max recommended psi!  Slam that stem!  Melt all the steel in the land, and remove any scientific evidence about the benefits of having a brass bell over an alloy one.  Make those mudguards rattly, remove the dynamo, and affix the invisible and non water proof knog lights.  Shave those legs, by force if necessary.  Bring back the mudgauardless bunch ride, this isn't Washington state.   Demand that your bike shop stock nothing from Brookes, or any new 650b MTBs.  Deny any affiliation with anyone who tours 'properly'.

The revolution is rolling through.  It cannot and must not be on 650b wheels.  The entire bike community is depending on you.

I Wish I Could Peel Away Your Humid Human Skin.

My nephew Oskar, who is seven, has this friend called Isabelle, also seven.  Isabelle has down syndrome.

Isabelle had a couple of guinea pigs that she loved more than anything in the world, spending a lot of her time talking to them, hugging them, chasing them, and generally having a great time.

The other day Gillian, Isabelle's mum, heard a strange sound coming from the garden.  She ran outside, and there was Isabelle.  She was covered in fur, and looked a bit concerned.  On the ground next to Isabelle was one of the guinea pigs.  It was limping a bit, and making an awful squeaking sound.

Turns out Isabelle had hugged the poor thing so tight that its ribs cracked.  It died.

Isabelle had literally loved the animal to death.

Isabelle learnt a lot about death that day.  She did something bad, to be sure, but there was none of the usual fanfare.  No tears, no scolding, nothing broken.

But one of her friends was dead, because of a mistake she didn't know she was making.

As life lessons go, that's a fairly morbid one to go through at seven, especially when you have other uncertainties about the world around you.

I mean, Oskar just lost his dad, and he's obviously coming to grips with it as any seven year old should.  By shouting a lot, followed by occasional moments of vivd introspection.  But he's a switched on kid.  He knows what's up.  As hard as the next few months and years are going to be in some sense, he's going to be ok.

But Isabelle is another story.  Isabelle has to work harder to make sense of the world around her.  Sometimes she makes mistakes.  That's ok, we all do.  The difference is that Isabelle doesn't know what to make of the end result.  Her mate is gone, and it's because she did something wrong.  But what was it?  All she did was love the animal with all her might.

I feel like the worst thing that could come out of this situation is Isabelle coming to believe that you can kill something by loving it too much.


 

My Wicked Way.

Given my antics during Friday's Dirty Deeds prologue, during which a sizeable but not quite wizard status staff was built, you will have to forgive me if today's post is a little scattered.

Probably the question I was asked the most on Friday night was why I wasn't racing.  At the time I think I brandished my beer wizard staff and said something about other priorities, but maybe it's time to reflect a little closer as to why I chose not to race the first cross race of the season.

I mean, the main reason is because I'm pretty unfit right about now, and the last thing I felt like doing after work on Friday was wearing lycra in the cold, feeling like a vom.  I like pain as much as the next cyclist, but I'm not stupid, despite what anyone might say.

But there's also a big loss of confidence playing a part as well.  It's at about this point that Sean the Man would scoff, tell me to run a 94'', and just fucking back myself.  Which is totally true, but it doesn't take away from the fact that racing, and to a lesser degree training, requires a certain tactical suspension of disbelief.

Simply put, you have to believe that you can do better, get fitter, improve and, eventually, win races.  Otherwise what's the point?  Sure you can ride your bike and have a ball, no one is denying that, but then why race if that's all you want to do?

Right now I simply have no real urge to trick myself into thinking I could race like a mad dog.  When people ask me when I'm going to start racing again, I just shrug my shoulders and say: "when I feel like it."

Brendan wrote something similar the other day, mentioning that you have to have total faith in yourself, mentally and physically, to consider it worthwhile flogging yourself out on the road and on the ergo.  Right now, a bit like Brendan, I'm pretty happy going to shows, listening to records, and reading books that, up until a month ago, I've been too tired to read.  Not going to lie, it's been a rad time.

I've been on my bike, and I've had a ball.  But every time I put it in the big dog, I'm reminded of how much work I have to do, if I want to achieve any of the goals I've been aiming for.

At this stage I'm pretty happy taking my time. 

To Give Memories Identity.

I didn't learn how to ride a bike until I was seven.  I'd spent time overseas as a kid, where no bike was available, and so on my return to Australia I discovered I was probably the only seven year old boy who couldn't ride a bike in the whole neighbourhood.

This led to a few awkward months where I would avoid the other kids because they would be busy riding bikes down stupidly steep hills, and boasting about how many gears they had (remember this was still when more gears were cool.  My mate Marcelo got a bike with 12 gears and me and my mates collectively lost our shit).  

Eventually, sick of my whinging, my mum took me outside with the bike.  It was a sixteen inch Huffy (I know, my folks clearly didn't love me much).  Mum then said she wasn't going to let me back inside until I had learnt how to ride.  This sounds unduly harsh but, really, it was exactly what I needed.  We made our way to a gentle downward incline, she pushed me gently, and did the ol' pretend to be holding the back of the saddle but in fact she was not and I was riding a bike trick.  I was totally duped and ended up learning how to ride the stupid thing in about an hour.

I can't really accurately describe how fucking stoked I was to realise this machine was being propelled forward by my puny little legs and that, even though mum was yelling to turn around, I was far enough away, and fast enough with my new machine, to ignore her if I wanted to.  Of course, being the total coward that I was, I turned the fuck around.  

I knew I wasn't ready to hang out with the other kids yet, so I partook in the most serious 'secret training' I would involve myself with up until I decided to do the Baw Baw Classic this year.  I got up real early every morning, rode to the end of my street (which was about a kay) then rode back.  My first real incident was when I tried to counter steer around a cicada on the footpath.  The cicada lived, and I ate shit.  It wouldn't be the last time.

Then there was the first introduction to pure terror when, riding down a big hill, I realised that I had totally lost control of the bike, and that I couldn't stop.  I can't actually remember if I crashed or not, but I do remember the two or three seconds of pure unadulterated fear that gripped me as I watched the tree come closer.

The above memories are how I remember the first few weeks of my life as a bike rider.  It might not be the exact way it panned out.  It certainly wasn't as linear as it's described, and I have no idea whether it was Marcelo or Anthony who had the bike with twelve gears.  The real point here is that all the above memories were playing through my head as I got back on the bike on Saturday to do 'training'.  It's been about a month since I last rode and, to be honest, I haven't missed it.  But as I trudged up Plenty Rd, taking a left down Donnybrook, I played these little anecdotes out in my head, trying to keep my mind from my stupidly elevated heart rate, and my ragged breathing.  I listened to a lot of Wolves In The Throne Room, tried to forget about sucking at racing, and just rode my bike in the (albeit cold) sun.  

At first, I hated it.  My back kind ached, my knicks chafed, and I seriously thought about just going to La Panella, eating a pie, and fucking off home to listen to records, closely followed by a listing of all my bikes on eBay.  But as the cars thinned out, and the air became a little cleaner, my cadence picked up, and my breathing steadied.  I thought about mum holding the back of my saddle as I quietly shat myself, pedalling as hard as I could.  I marvelled at the fact that I could get on this two wheeled machine and propel myself forward to where ever the fuck I wanted.  I thought about Marcelo (or was it Anthony?) having twelve gears, who this one time hit 35kmh (don't ask me how we knew the speed).      I marvelled at the fact that I could put this race bike in the big dog and fang it at 50kmh without too much trouble.

I thought about that Huffy, and then I looked at my carbon Scott and realised that they're the same machine.  A little different at first sight, perhaps, but essentially the same.  Both were letting me ride anywhere, go faster than a running mother, and both allowed me to see the world in a particular light.

I then realised that I loved them both, for the exact same reasons.

When A Man Lies, He Poisons Some Part Of The World.

Given the general melancholia surrounding this blog at the moment, I was going to use this Heavy Metal Monday as a tool to break into something a bit more trivial but, I'm afraid to say, you're fresh out of luck.

Being off the bike for one reason or another has made me think a lot about the aspects of riding bikes that aren't immediately within focus day to day.  When I became much more involved in cycling some years ago, a lot of things changed straight up.  My diet was different, my sleep was different, the bikes I rode were better, I got better and, most importantly, the people I hung out with the most changed.

We all have different friends from different walks of life, and I'm one of those people who tends to preface them with a more detailed description.  I have school friends, uni friends, music friends, and bike friends.  I have metal acquaintances because, you know, that's a scene I mainly frequent for the music, rather than the company.

Cycling is so often spoken about in terms of things gained, whether it be fitness, gear, race experience, scars, stories, but so rarely do we actually sit back and think about how many people we have met, purely though this two wheeled machine.  It's taken me time off the bike, to look around and realise that, in what has been a fairly unpleasant time for me personally, that these people are everywhere, and they mean a lot to me.

Cycling, as Brendan has written about in the past, places you into a community.  This might be a racing club, or group ride organised by a bunch of mates on a given morning.  Hell, it might even be a bunch of drinking buddies, the bike mattering only insofar as it gets you to the pub.  These groups spring up so naturally, and often so fast, that we can forget how quickly bonds are being forged.  And, true to form, I've only noticed the bonds once I've needed them.  

I'm thankful for cycling for a lot of things.  I have good legs, hilarious tan lines, and a few good stories.  But mainly I'm thankful for all my friends I've met through the machine, that have influenced and assisted me.  There are a lot of you, so I can't really make a list.  But, as the old adage goes, you know who you are.

Maybe we should think about this stuff more often.  We spend so much time fussing over the more obvious facets of cycling, we can lose sight of the larger, arguably more important picture.  Maybe we should place less emphasis on watts per kilo, kilometres weekly, strava segments, or even Saturday's race.  I'm not saying these are bad things (except for maybe strava) but it sure as hell isn't as good as hanging out on a bike with a bunch of mates.

The really precious moment is the realisation that the bikes are totally superfluous.  

We Can't See.

Things are pretty grim here at Heavy Metal Mondays.

People dying always sucks.  It sucks even more when I can't ride my bike to gain what people like to call 'perspective'.

People who exercise every day often forget to what degree they come to rely on that physical facet of their life to level out and shape their mood, and even outlook on life.  When not exercising is coupled with a moment in time that is horrible, the effect is almost crippling.

There's nothing wrong with being sad.  It's important.  But, when you don't have five hour bike rides to numb you, you need music to do the same job.

Some people, when they're sad, are ok listening to melancholy music.  Some people really dig the Smiths.  Those people are crazy.  Bands like Jawbreaker have been popular around these parts lately.  That's ok.  But it doesn't cut it for me.

When I'm sad, I need sonic landscapes that are as bleak as they get.  Music that is so mind numbingly depressing that it make your world change colour.

By facing up to it, you eventually come good and, before you know, you're listening to Iron Maiden again.

Dead By Dawn.

This Musique Mercredi is being brought to you by Heavy Metal Monday's FJ.  Let's get amongst it.

My first taste of metal was thrash.  That's pretty much all I listened to for a good two years.  Eventually, though, my tastes wanted something more extreme.  Louder, faster, filthier.  Death metal was the natural choice.

One thing that has always puzzled me about U.S. death metal (for the sake of simplicity, we're going to only discuss American death metal...anything more will get too confusing) is the fact that it almost exclusively came to prominence in sunny Florida, in the mid to late eighties.

Some will argue that Possessed, hailing from California, were the first death metal band, having released the totally rad Seven Churches, containing the song Death Metal, in 1985.  These people are insane.  Everyone with a clue know's it's thrash metal with a proto-death sound or, if you will, thrashened death.  Here are Possessed:




Great band, to be sure, but not death metal.

So which were the the very first real death metal bands?  Well, we had Death, Morbid Angel, Deicide, Cannibal Corpse (but they suck, so don't worry about them.), Massacre, Obituary...to name but a few.

Not only did all these bands come out of Florida, they came out of the town Tampa, Florida.  In a nutshell, a bunch of dudes really dug Slayer, and decided to one up them.  I guess they were just a bunch of really dedicated, inspired people.  That or they were really bored and listened to Reign in Blood too much.

As far as I can tell, no one really knows why all this ground breaking music came out of a state which is more famous for beaches and babes.  Glen Benton, the front man for the more satanic band of the bunch, Deicide, ruminated that it was perhaps because "it was so damn hot all the time.  Like hell".

Glen Benton was also famous for branding an inverted cross into his forehead, and telling everyone he was going to kill himself at thirty-four, to mimic the death of Jesus Christ.  Well, Glen is still alive, pushing forty five, and still has an inverted cross on his forehead.  And his band now sucks.

Anyway, here are some sweet clips from some rad bands, during a rad time in metal history.

First up, Death.  The band that arguably started it all, have probably left the biggest legacy.  Definitely a 'thinking man's metal', which simply means they didn't write about hell much, and more about madness, suicide, totalitarian states, infinite time and other pseudo intellectual things.  Probably one of my personal favorite bands of all time.  This band's legacy was cut short when frontman Chuck Schuldiner died of a brain tumor in 2001.




Note that Chuck is wearing bell bottoms.  It is 1998.  What a ruler.

Which takes us to Morbid Angel.  Arguably my favourite band of all time, Morbid Angel's first four records are what I would consider flawless.  So enamored were they of themselves, they often made no coherent sense in interviews, so entwined were they in their death-mystic world view, they claimed their guitar tones took you to other worlds.  They recently released an album which has been so universally panned, it's being called the 'New St. Anger'.  High praise indeed.  Here they are in all their glory.  Ladies and gentleman, this is death metal:





Holy god, when I saw them live in 2009, I had a chuck of my hair ripped out in the pit, and I didn't even care.

We've discussed Deicide's Satanic ways, so I'll just leave you with the clip.  They were dumb, but pretty awesome.





Obituary rejected the fast tempos of their contemporaries, and instead went for this 'dragged through the mud' sludginess that just pummeled your head.  More political, there was none of the other worldly pretension that so characterized Morbid Angel.  They were pissed.





That's right.  Obituary were into saving the planet way before it was cool.

As was the case with a lot of small but influential  music scenes, there were a lot of bands that never quite got the hype they deserved.  Enter Massacre.





What a bunch of kings.

These kids from Florida tried to change the world.  They succeeded insofar as they made some pretty awesome music.  I would go so far as to call it high are, but I happily admit I'm a little biased.  They failed insofar as almost all the bands that were inspired by them totally sucked, making the metal scene in the 90's a barren wasteland, where the only famous band was Pantera, and everyone kept whining about Kurt Cobain.  What was it about Tampa, Florida that was so conducive to the creation of perhaps some of the best metal ever written?  Was it a reaction to the plastic culture, the babes and beaches?  Was it simply a matter of the right time and place, like Washington D.C. in the early eighties, that brought bands like Minor Threat to the kids?

I, for one, have no idea.  Maybe Glen from Deicide was right, maybe it was just too god damn hot down there.

Doesn't explain the amount of cowboy boots and leather jackets though does it.

Stand Up Straight.

You know what pisses me off no end?'

People who don't clean their bikes.  

To clarify, I don't care if you don't clean your shitty bike.  You should see my sweet fixie.  The drive train looks like Mordor.  But that's ok, because it's my pub bike.  

But when you drop money on a bike of reasonable quality, you owe it to yourself as well as the bike, to at least give it a clean every now and then.  This is especially true if it's your race bike.  A clean bike is a fast bike.

So, on this given Heavy Metal Monday, I'll pass on some brief instructions as to how to give your bike a quick clean.  Please note that everyone has their own way of cleaning bikes.  If you disagree, or have a better way, then leave an angry or indignant comment.

First, you put on some music.  I would probably put on some Motorhead or something, but you can play the Smiths if you have to.

Next, chuck your bike in your bike stand.  If you're not lucky enough to have a bike stand, you can hang the nose of the saddle from the cloths line.  It works fine.  Assuming of course you have a good quality cloths line.

Right, so now you just wet your bike with the hose.  Don't hit it with too much pressure, just a gentle stream.  After that, hit the drive train with some kind of degreaser.  There are lots of eco friendly ones that don't do a good job.  Up to you.  Have a clean bike, or save the planet.  I use a strong citrus based engine cleaner.  Spray it all over the cluster and move the chain back a a bit so that's covered too.  Let that sit for a few minutes.  As you wait, spray your frame and wheels with some kind of soapy water or similar.  

After a few minutes, run the hose over the whole bike (careful of that pressure) and make sure all the degreaser and soapy water is gone.  If you have done it right, your chain should be sparkling.  If it isn't, the environment is thanking you.

Now all you have to do is clean the bike down with a dry rag.  This gets rid of any  grease smears that might still be hanging around, and also prevents the water from rusting any of the metal.  After that, dab some oil on your chain.  Not much though.  And be sure to wipe off any excess, so it doesn't go splattering off in different directions, spoiling your nice clean bike.  Rule of thumb: if you can see lube, it isn't doing anything useful.  So wipe it off.

There you go.  Your bike is now clean and ready to ride/race/go shopping on.  

But the Motorhead record still has heaps to go, so you should just stay outside and party.

To Protect And Serve.

As Brendan mentioned on Friday, I spent the weekend being very un-metal, racing the Tour of South West with a bunch of mates.

It was the first time this tour had been run, but all in all, it was pretty well organised.  It was hard, hard racing.  You could probably hear me howling from Melbourne.

The first stage, a road race, was about ten kilometres out from Warrnambool.  I was in c grade, and thus had to do eighty five kilometres.  The wind was howling.  On the second lap, as the bunch began to literally explode in the cross winds, I did too.  Watching the now much smaller bunch ride away was pretty frustrating.  I put my head down though and, with  bunch of dropped C graders and B graders, we made our way around for the required laps.  About five or so minuted down but, all in all, not too shabby.

Except I was fucked.  And I had to do a time trial in the afternoon!

Sharing battle stories was great fun.  Steve and Adrian had raced really well, with Steve pulling off a second place in a bunch sprint.  Everyone was knackered.  We lay around on the grass, idly thinking about putting time trial bars on our bikes, and hoping the ominous clouds to the west weren't indicative of the weather to come.

I eventually put my stupidly short time trial bars on.  I bought them for fifty bucks off a forum I frequent a few years back.  I'm fairly confident they do nothing in terms of my aero position.

Just a few minutes before my start time, the rain started to come down.  To pour.  I was  drenched, cold, and shivering.

On the start ramp, I resisted the urge to, when the commisaire asked me if I was comfortable, punch him in the face.  Not his fault really but, all things considered, how could I be comfortable?  I'm pretty sure by that point my balls had retreated into my body cavity.

Down the ramp I go, thundering along with a sweet tail wind.  Once I got into the cross winds though, my mornings effort came bak to haunt me, and I crawled along at an embarrassingly slow pace.  Stopped the clock at something outrageously slow, and went to sit down.  Some of the others, most notably Jeremy (who had had a hard morning's race) and Adrian had done really fast times, placing them, for a while, in the lead.

Done for the day, we limped home.  Everyone was rooted.

The next morning crit featured a monster of a hill.  It was a great course but, as with all good things, it was going to come at a price.  The way I was feeling that morning, it looked like it was going to be my life.

Race starts at a cracking pace, in an attempt to shed the weakest links.  First few minutes of the race I saw the upper end of my heart rate almost straight away.  The leaders were destroying the hill and going flat chat, close to 55kmh on the flats.  I held on for as long as I could but couldn't handle the heat.  That distant popping sound you heard on Sunday around 9.30 was me exploding.  The one shortly after that was Gene exploding.

Meanwhile, as I sat in the gutter and sulked, Adrian was going for broke.  He was sitting in fifth on the GC, 36 seconds behind.  And he was trying tog get it back.  All of it.  And he nearly did it.  For a while there, the gap was out to forty seconds.  He was out there, by himself, literally burying himself.  He did hold on for a fantastic, enviable win, but didn't quite hold out for the overall classification.  He went away with second...still a fantastic effort.  Half a minute later, the bunch came round, and Steve mixed it up again in the sprint, coming away with a third.  Hipster domination.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't a bit disappointed at my showing on the weekend but, when I think back to all the other fun, and success on behalf of the other guys, I can't help but be stoked.

Great little two day tour, one which I'm sure will carry on, perhaps as part of the National Road Series a little later on.

I'll be back, probably with sweet ENVE wheels, and a better engine.

Here's the song I had stuck in my head all weekend:

Look Beyond The Colours.

I can't fit in a proper Heavy Metal Monday post this week.  Sorry folks.  Instead, I'll present you with some of the songs from the records I've been listening to for the past week or so. There are some who say that death metal and river dance don't mix.  These people are of course incorrect.  It fucking rules.  Tell me this doesn't make you want to walk the land, brandishing a claymore. While I certainly don't have the xedgex, like Brendan, my experience with hallucinogens  is extremely limited.  That said, I love me some stoner doom.  If staring at a door for five hours and speaking to God is your thing, I can think of no better sound track. If you like walking through the forest with a cape, pretending you are a wizard which, for the record, I do...then Burzum is the sound track to go for. Emperor are probably one of the best bands in the world.  That is all. Sometimes, I don't listen to metal.  Sometimes I pretend I am a jock who wears baseball caps back to front and very baggy shorts.  Then I listen to Bane.

I just had a chat to Brenno who called me a lazy fuck for ripping off the Musique Mercredi on a Monday.  He has a good point.  I might get fired.

But, bear with me here.  I'm currently totally obsessed with trying to make my music match my riding surroundings.  For instance, yesterday I was riding out beyond Belgrave on one of the Melbourne Gravel Grinders.  Gravel roads, huge trees, lush ferns.  Bit of mist.  Man, it's as if that stretch of road was made for some Wolves In The Throne Room (look them up, thank me later).  Certain records can come to define a particular stamping ground.  Because of that, some of your music then takes on a more complex character.  It begins to remind you of all those thousands of km you spent out on the road.  And that's kinda rad.

So, hopefully, you find something to your liking, and can do some musical exploring of your own.  Maybe some of that music will come to define a stretch of road.  If not, then, well, keep listening to Coldplay.  I don't care.

If you need me I'll be riding through Kinglake, blasting Emperor, pretending I am a wizard.

Golden Years.

Frankly, given how hard the Baw Baw classic was yesterday, you're all very lucky there is even a Heavy Metal Monday today, albeit a little late. So be grateful. Mediocre, misspelt prose doesn't write itself.

I was going to write a race report but, really, it would just be an elongated version of: got dropped too early, cramped a lot, cried briefly, 3km before the Baw Baw summit.

Instead, I might address the issues of expectations.

I'm not going to lie. I had hoped for a much better result than I got. At first, the thrill of just finishing, of the whole ordeal being over, was enough to satisfy me. But now, the insidious creep of 'what could have been' sneaks in, and begins to alter your opinion of events.

My game plan before the race was to hang on to the main bunch until the foot of the climb, after which I would just climb at my own pace...which is basically your only option on a hill as steep as Baw Baw.

Of course it didn't pan out like that and, as a result, I spent a lot of the race coming to terms with my disappointment. First there's anger, then frustration, then sadness. You spend months preparing for these events (even if you're a muppet like me) and to have it unfold all so wrong from the very start of the race (I knew I was in trouble before the neutral flag was down) is really horrible.

Of course, I could just spit on the ground and mumble something about that being bike racing. Which is true. Sometimes you feel shit, and sometimes you feel awesome. You can't always tell how it's going to pan out.

A long time ago, Brendan advised me that, in training, you have to come to it with the notion that you have untold amounts of hidden potential, waiting to be unlocked. As he said at the time, that may not be the case but, then again, it may indeed be.

As I said on my own blog the other day (I'm in the whining mood), I've kind of been in a bit of a rut, in terms of inspiration. I still love riding my bike more than anything on the planet (except perhaps X files) but I am finding it increasingly difficult to convince myself that I have this hidden potential to unlock. Largely because all the evidence points to the contrary.

I've stupidly allowed myself to become so involved in bike racing that, slowly, it's begun to mean a lot to me. Once upon a time, I could have shrugged off this kind of lack of success. Now, with the passing of time, it has begun to eat at me.

Which, given my current level, and the relatively short amount of time I have been racing bikes, is ridiculous.

But there it is.

Of course, Bruce Dickinson would have no time for this self indulgent bullshit. He would tell me to get my head out of my ass, to realise I'm living in my golden years.

And he would be right.

Black Wizards.

Before we hurl ourselves into another Heavy Metal Monday, can we take some time to stand and applaud Brendan's efforts at the track world cup. I've never read a better account of the more human aspect of bike racing before. Not only that, even someone as track illiterate as me could tell what was going on. Some people won, some lost, and Victoria Pendleton likes sesame snaps. Well, don't we all. Anyway, to business.

The other day, I woke up, and I didn't want to ride my bike. Which, given my current obsession, is pretty odd. I lay there a bit, vaguely aware that my whole body hurt, and thought about my total unwillingness to go ride. Luckily for me, it was my day off, so it didn't really matter, but the sentiment definitely took me by surprise. The next day, yesterday, I felt exactly the same. Walking up stairs really hurt, and beyond about 1pm, I found myself falling asleep despite having had a solid ten hours rest.

Lethargy, soreness, lack of desire are some of the first symptoms of over training. Anyone who knows me knows I have kind of been smashing it the past six months or so (the kilometres part, not the winning part). With the Baw Baw classic only a week away, I figure the best thing I can do is just to rest, and not do anything to hard.

So I did. On Saturday I took the tram for the first time in ages, instead of the bike, to get to my Mum's house. I read my book (I'm halfway through David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest which, despite Brendan's dismissal, is very good), listened to music, and watched Melbourne get about its business. I helped Mum pick the olive tree we have in the back garden which, after about ten years of nothing, has finally started to bear olives.

Sunday I woke up and ate myself into a chocolate coma, only rising to seek out coffee when I felt I would die without it. Then I watched about ten episodes of X Files (the really fun bit is pinpointing the exact moment the producers worked out Scully could be a nerdy science type and a total fox at the same time...it's about halfway through season two).

It's so easy to get caught up in the 'cult' of cycling. With the blinders of goal oriented training, you can go weeks, or months, without really having what I will call a 'cycling day off'. That doesn't mean necessarily a day where you don't ride your bike (because those days are still defined and shaped by bikes... namely not riding them), but a day where cycling doesn't even come into the equation. Not a rest day but just a day where I didn't happen to ride my bike. A day undefined by physical structure.

That's what I did this weekend, and it was really enjoyable. As comforting as it is to go to sleep totally wrecked after a solid five hours on the bike, it's also quite nice to be able to sit in bed and read without nodding off within two minutes. You can get a lot of shit done when you aren't tired all the time.

Today I went out with mates to ride the Baw Baw race course. I was still sore and tired, which has me a little worried, but it was so cold and rainy, it might just have been that weather that had my legs cramping up within 10km. Afterwards we found a pub that I swear to god was the same pub from Lord of the Rings, where the four hobbits meet Aragorn. Normally that would freak me out, but given how cold it was outside, and how warm it was inside, I was happy to roll with the hobbits.

How is this related to metal you ask? Well it isn't really, but Jeremy and I did blast Emperor, as we drove through the forest, the rain and fog rolling in from the hills.

Days off, olive picking, not bike riding, Emperor, chilling the fuck out. Good Easter break.

Dead Angels.

You know that bit from the Simpsons, where Homer finally infiltrates the top-secret Stone Cutters group? Homer goes up to Lenny and Carl, where Lenny reveals the Stone Cutters ranking system (Lenny is number 12, and Mr Burns is 29) which has no reflection on the conventional every day hierarchies. This leads to a hilarious sequence where Lenny calls Mr Burns over and kicks him in the ass, only for Mr Burns to say: "Thank you sir, may I have another?"

Trust me, I tried to avoid the laboured nature of the above paragraph, and simply find the clip, but yet again I failed to do so. What that whole sequence does remind me of, though, is how similar the cycling, and more specifically the racing world, is to the stonecutters world.

There's a running joke in bike racing that you have to be prepared to be beaten by people half and twice your age, which is pretty much bang on the truth. But it's not just that they are faster than you, it's the fact that they thus garner more respect: they are higher up in the cycling hierarchy.

If I had met the kid who won B grade at Coburg the other week on the street, I would have dismissed him as some pimply 17 year old, perhaps with a penchant for Linkin Park. But ever since he obliterated me in a sprint, I kind of feel I should at least say hello, and maybe congratulate him on his win.

It goes the other way too. Last year at the Northern Combine some old dude, with an expensive car came up to me, asking lots of questions and advice. I played it cool, despite having no idea myself. But there it was again: you can bet this bloke wouldn't have been asking for tips from some clueless twenty something muppet, if it were in relation to anything but cycling. Not his investment portfolio anyhow.

They (who?) say cycling is a great leveller, that whatever your income or view of life, you can bond over the shared experience of riding a bike. This is, of course, bullshit, and simply code for: you too can be shelled from the bunch by a small boy who still hasn't grasped the difference between 'they're' and 'their'. Don't blame him though, he's not stupid...they just haven't covered it in school yet.

It's not that cycling dismisses hierarchies, as some claim it does, it simply re-jigs them. Investment bankers grovel for young men doing apprenticeships, those young men give real thought to just how the hell they are going to beat the old fox who's been hatching break way plans since 1983. And that's not to mention our collective admiration for the pros, some of whom only seem capable of stringing together such gems as "I had lactic acid coming out of my ears." Well done Fabian.

If any of this has any real repercussions, it's the hilarity of watching said investment banker, rolling along in C grade, stoked on his recent dominating victory in D grade, be torn to shreds by aforementioned plumbers apprentice who, while ripping along in A grade, has the time to yell: "Hold your line fuckwit, A grade coming through!"

Consider yourself levelled.