Yesterday, I decided to take a run. My finger has been hurting pretty bad lately, so I've been trying to scale back the climbing before the trip to the Red. Normally, I wouldn't take the rest and relax approach right before heading on a climbing trip, I'd try to train. Doing that, though, might well leave me unable to crimp with my right hand, so I've had to try to chill and lather the digit in arnica. (I think that's how you spell it. Spell checker suggests arsenic. Thanks.)
So in an effort to get some kind of movement, I laced up the saddest pair of Asics around. They go back to my freshman year of college. I'm sad to admit, but that was nearly a decade ago. Christ. I'm blowing through my life like a teenager through mom and dad's liquor cabinet when they're out of town. When they get back, there's hell to pay.
I ran South and made my way for Boulder Canyon, thinking I'd see the creek. The air was perfect, crisp but not bitter, and my iPod kept shouting good music in my ears, so I eventually found myself below a rock formation a ways up the canyon called The Dome. I stopped and looked up at the big slab of granite, remembering a few things.
My first real rock climb was on that same piece of stone. I remember driving up from Wheat Ridge with my father and two more friends of his, making our way up Highway 93 on a sunny weekend day one summer when I was about 12. One of the other guys climbed up to a stance under one of the roofs that punctuate the rock, put me on belay, and I started scrambling up the slab. I remember getting stuck and being scared to weight the rope, convinced that my 90 pounds of mass I carried at the time would be too much for the anchor, killing everyone involved. My dad's other friend saw that I was terrified and soloed up to where I was shaking and whithering on the rock to push me up past the "featureless" section. I'm sure it was about 5.5, not too difficult by any standard except mine at the time.
Below The Dome, Boulder Creek makes a series of pools as it flows towards the city. Another memory struck me as I wandered down through the willows and gazed out towards the water. My father gave me a light weight fly rod for my 23rd birthday, and just a few days after he gave it to me, I rode my bike up to that same pool and cast a fly for the small brook trout that dart in the shadows. My birthday is in the fall, but I remember it being warm enough to simply wade out into the water in shorts and sandals, the heat of the day washed away by the creek still chilly from late runoff.
As I looked out on the water, remembering myself standing there a few years earlier, I got the feeling that I really wanted to see another trout rise and take a natural fly from the water's surface. I looked to the same bank where I'd caught several with that day, and after a few minutes, saw the tell tale rise. Not content to just see one, I kept telling myself to stay for one more rise. Three more fish rose to take mayflies from the creek, and I turned away, finally content to let them eat their bugs.
I ran home, up and over Anemone Trail, eventually finding my front door just as the sun set. It was a nice run, but I'm ready to have a working finger and start climbing in Kentucky.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Color Preference? Mine's Red
When there's been a big break in the blogging action, a good bet is to return to what you know. I know this: I'm going to the Red River Gorge in a couple of days, and I AM PSYCHED! Why? Let me count the ways.
The Drive/The Farm
I just saw a commercial for a new sammy from Arby's, and I had a chance to say to myself, "I'll probably eat one of those in the middle of Illinois." We are driving out there, you see, and there will be plenty of time to peruse middle America's dining options. In spite of the 20 hour
on-yer-ass-sentence that driving inflicts, I'm actually really happy to be doing so. The Farm is about halfway, and I am really looking forward to seeing my grandparents when we stay out there for a night. I haven't seen them for too long, and to be fair, none of us are getting any younger. In addition, The Farm is a place that is really dear to me. I've been outlining and working on a more focused essay that will hopefully be up soon on Abaluba. It is totally focused on stories from my many trips out there growing up. Keep your eyes peeled.
The Weather
I won't blame you if you live on the East Coast and haven't been keeping up, but if you live in Denver or Boulder, you know. It's been wet, rainy, and all too often, snowing here on the Front Range for most of April. There are few things that squash climbing opportunities as effectively as precipitation, especially heavy wet snows like the ones we've had lately. Fortunately, it looks like it will be warm enough out in the South to keep the snow at bay. Rain won't really matter, because the rock is so steep out in KY that it's almost like climbing inside. But you can bet I'm looking forward to wearing shorts and sunscreen, and not belaying in a big puffy coat. Summer's coming, and I'll ring it in when I'm watching leaves bloom at the Red.
The Rock
If you think you go to the gym and climb out the cave with your shirt off, all the girls thinking "I bet he's got a pound of junk in that lycra," and are climbing on the steepest walls in America, you're full of shit. First off, you don't have a pound of junk. And, more importantly, nothing is as steep as The Red. Nothing. Other than on the very rare 5.14, I'm not sure you can do a move much harder than V5 out there, but if you have to do about 194 of them in a row, you've got yourself a 5.13 in Kentucky. The Red is the land of 5.12, but not because they actually have one move of 5.12 on them. In fact, what you've got is a dead vertical 5.9 kicked back 45 degrees, renamed The Undertow Wall, and one of the most classic areas around. Oh my god, I can't wait.
The plan is to try to do a new 5.12 every day, and hopefully project one or two 13's while I'm out there. As long as my skin can hold up to the heavy duty sandpaper texture that defines the place, and as long as my finger can hold up (it's been feeling like a mule stepped on it recently) I think those goals are well within reach. I will certainly keep you up to date. Given that I'll be out there for two weeks, the stamina for those 45* overhanging 5.9's should come around. If not, a winter in the gym will have been all for naught.
The Routes
The tick list:
Too long to reproduce here.
Miguel's Pizza
Have I mentioned that one of the few places every rock climber knows about rests a few minutes outside of Slade, KY? Anytime you can get a pizza with sweet potato, BBQ chicken and roasted red pepper, you gotta grab it. That should be base camp for the trip, and I'll be keeping Abaluba updated with sends, flailures, and esoteric lingo bombs.
The Drive/The Farm
I just saw a commercial for a new sammy from Arby's, and I had a chance to say to myself, "I'll probably eat one of those in the middle of Illinois." We are driving out there, you see, and there will be plenty of time to peruse middle America's dining options. In spite of the 20 hour
on-yer-ass-sentence that driving inflicts, I'm actually really happy to be doing so. The Farm is about halfway, and I am really looking forward to seeing my grandparents when we stay out there for a night. I haven't seen them for too long, and to be fair, none of us are getting any younger. In addition, The Farm is a place that is really dear to me. I've been outlining and working on a more focused essay that will hopefully be up soon on Abaluba. It is totally focused on stories from my many trips out there growing up. Keep your eyes peeled.
The Weather
I won't blame you if you live on the East Coast and haven't been keeping up, but if you live in Denver or Boulder, you know. It's been wet, rainy, and all too often, snowing here on the Front Range for most of April. There are few things that squash climbing opportunities as effectively as precipitation, especially heavy wet snows like the ones we've had lately. Fortunately, it looks like it will be warm enough out in the South to keep the snow at bay. Rain won't really matter, because the rock is so steep out in KY that it's almost like climbing inside. But you can bet I'm looking forward to wearing shorts and sunscreen, and not belaying in a big puffy coat. Summer's coming, and I'll ring it in when I'm watching leaves bloom at the Red.
The Rock
If you think you go to the gym and climb out the cave with your shirt off, all the girls thinking "I bet he's got a pound of junk in that lycra," and are climbing on the steepest walls in America, you're full of shit. First off, you don't have a pound of junk. And, more importantly, nothing is as steep as The Red. Nothing. Other than on the very rare 5.14, I'm not sure you can do a move much harder than V5 out there, but if you have to do about 194 of them in a row, you've got yourself a 5.13 in Kentucky. The Red is the land of 5.12, but not because they actually have one move of 5.12 on them. In fact, what you've got is a dead vertical 5.9 kicked back 45 degrees, renamed The Undertow Wall, and one of the most classic areas around. Oh my god, I can't wait.
The plan is to try to do a new 5.12 every day, and hopefully project one or two 13's while I'm out there. As long as my skin can hold up to the heavy duty sandpaper texture that defines the place, and as long as my finger can hold up (it's been feeling like a mule stepped on it recently) I think those goals are well within reach. I will certainly keep you up to date. Given that I'll be out there for two weeks, the stamina for those 45* overhanging 5.9's should come around. If not, a winter in the gym will have been all for naught.
The Routes
The tick list:
Too long to reproduce here.
Miguel's Pizza
Have I mentioned that one of the few places every rock climber knows about rests a few minutes outside of Slade, KY? Anytime you can get a pizza with sweet potato, BBQ chicken and roasted red pepper, you gotta grab it. That should be base camp for the trip, and I'll be keeping Abaluba updated with sends, flailures, and esoteric lingo bombs.
Snap to it
My schedule for today has filled up substantially, but I'm still going to heed the calls of the masses and rock out a quick post on Abaluba.
Here we go.
Last night, at a local Mexican food emporium called Illegal Pete's, there was a collision of worlds. So far, I've been able to keep Kate from most of the carnage that is my life. She got a little taste of her sweetheart's inner idiot when she shook hands with Giggle Magic Barbie. I know that's not a very nice thing to call someone, but in my defense, I didn't come up with the nickname. It was given to my college girlfriend by my friends and family in an apt description of how they really felt about her.
Kate was polite, and GMB giggled, as you might expect. It's weird when the present meets the past, especially when you're standing by and it's your present melding with your past. There's a certain embarassment I felt with the whole thing, especially when Kate looked at me as we were walking out and said, "I thought she'd be really hot," somehow insinuating that GMB actually wasn't. I'll take it as a compliment that I should be dating only the finest of the fine, and not read too much between the lines. Doing that, and I'd have to think Kate was discreetly asking me how I could fall in love with someone whose flaws are so on display.
But that's the problem with meeting up with your past when you've got perspective as an ally. A more precise picture comes into view, and you can no longer hide behind blind passion. Is that where I'll be in a few years' time? Looking back at this present, which will then be the past, with a clearer perspective and a hint of sadness? Goddamn, trying to figure out how to live is difficult.
So the worlds colided, and everyone survived. Kate and I went into a film after the chance meeting, and met up with friends. We watched a premier for a climbing film, and even though I love climbing, it can occassionally be a tough time at the movies. There are enough chumps (not me, of course) at those shows to make it uncomfortable at times, especially when they're yelling "Poser!" at the screen if they happen to recognize the 50-foot tall face we're all staring at.
And now, I've got to get back to work. There's a bunch of stuff to finish before I can take off for Kentucky on a two week climbing trip. I just hope that when I'm down in the South, scaling some of the best sandstone sport climbing in the country, that my belayer doesn't take the opportunity to yell "Poser!" at me as I clip the rope into a draw.
Here we go.
Last night, at a local Mexican food emporium called Illegal Pete's, there was a collision of worlds. So far, I've been able to keep Kate from most of the carnage that is my life. She got a little taste of her sweetheart's inner idiot when she shook hands with Giggle Magic Barbie. I know that's not a very nice thing to call someone, but in my defense, I didn't come up with the nickname. It was given to my college girlfriend by my friends and family in an apt description of how they really felt about her.
Kate was polite, and GMB giggled, as you might expect. It's weird when the present meets the past, especially when you're standing by and it's your present melding with your past. There's a certain embarassment I felt with the whole thing, especially when Kate looked at me as we were walking out and said, "I thought she'd be really hot," somehow insinuating that GMB actually wasn't. I'll take it as a compliment that I should be dating only the finest of the fine, and not read too much between the lines. Doing that, and I'd have to think Kate was discreetly asking me how I could fall in love with someone whose flaws are so on display.
But that's the problem with meeting up with your past when you've got perspective as an ally. A more precise picture comes into view, and you can no longer hide behind blind passion. Is that where I'll be in a few years' time? Looking back at this present, which will then be the past, with a clearer perspective and a hint of sadness? Goddamn, trying to figure out how to live is difficult.
So the worlds colided, and everyone survived. Kate and I went into a film after the chance meeting, and met up with friends. We watched a premier for a climbing film, and even though I love climbing, it can occassionally be a tough time at the movies. There are enough chumps (not me, of course) at those shows to make it uncomfortable at times, especially when they're yelling "Poser!" at the screen if they happen to recognize the 50-foot tall face we're all staring at.
And now, I've got to get back to work. There's a bunch of stuff to finish before I can take off for Kentucky on a two week climbing trip. I just hope that when I'm down in the South, scaling some of the best sandstone sport climbing in the country, that my belayer doesn't take the opportunity to yell "Poser!" at me as I clip the rope into a draw.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Round 2, Finally
Sorry to go so long between posts, but I've been busy traveling to New Jersey for a funeral. On the brighter side, this unexpected trip got me out to see my girlfriend's family, always a blast. While I was hanging in The Garden State, I got another round of suggestions for the blog, and I'm trying to figure out how to weave them all together. I know it's possible. Alchemists turn lead into gold, and Chinese doctors can turn the odd tiger penis into a cure for baldness. I've got to be able to turn breakfast, St. Patty's day, yard sports and naps into a blog. Let's roll on this Bad Oscar.
I should start things on an entirely unrelated note. Thievery Corporation is coming to Denver on Thursday, and even though my credit card bill is a bit unruly at this juncture, I'm really considering picking up an overpriced ticket. Keep in mind, my buddies Rob and Jim are going with a big bag of mushrooms, and anytime those three are involved, the possibilities are endless. The last time we went to a show, I saw Christopher Lawrence at a renovated church, and ended up meeting Mr. Gay Leather Colorado at an after party. That was literally how he introduced himself, and you can imagine my giddiness. How many times can you say you've shaken mitts with Mr. Anything?
Back to the matter at hand. The sandwich. Recently, my friend Brian has been calling me The Sand Man, out of homage to my love of stacked goodness between sliced, toasted bread. He and I were at Snarf's the other night after a climbing session, and I devoured an 8 inch sub filled with chicken salad and roasted peppers faster than you can say, "What the hell is Snarf's?" Snarf's, my friend, is a Colorado culinary specialty.
So far as I know, they started purveying their delights in Boulder, raking in cash from stoned students and rock climbers alike. Snarf's just opened a new location down in Denver, about 5 blocks from the home of Abaluba's own resident celebrity, Hans. The H Dog was thinking about moving to a new, cheaper apartment until he found out that Snarf's was coming to town. This has led him to abandon all plans for saving money on rent, and in fact has forced him to take out a personal line of credit that'll be used to finance his daily dose of Snarf's sammys. His favorite? The pro sized Turkey with all the fixin's. Good choice, my man. And at 9.24%, a good business decision, too!
Bear in mind, I'm not called the Sand Man due to my affinity for Snarf's alone. There's a place here in Dirty Jerz that has me salivating with equal anticipation. I'm sure you've all heard of the Sloppy Joe, a piled high mess of hamburger and ragu that looks and tastes like sadness. I want to dispell such silliness from your minds, and instead beg you to realize that a Sloppy Joe, at least as produced by the Milburn Deli, is a creation that rivals the internet and Pam Anderson as one of god's finest. Two slices of rye bread (rumored to be buttered) stand as the bookends. Between lie a stack of meat, swiss cheese, another slice of rye, cole slaw and russian dressing. Oh holy Christ. I'll have two.
I asked Will Swayne what he thought of this incredible food creation, but he was much more impressed by the delight that is breakfast. Fine, William, breakfast it it.
We've taken care of lunch with the sandwich combo of Snarf's and a proper Sloppy Joe. Breakfast is best handled in a bowl. Preferrably, there's cereal of some sort, and a lactose counterpart, either milk or yogurt. I know some people who claim Berry Berry Kix as the pinnacle start to their day. I've heard some claim that Cinnamon Toast Crunch stands atop Mount Morning, and Dr. Blackburn is a Frosted Mini Wheat man. And it's true that all of these entries leave a flavorful stew at the end of the meal. So tasty, in fact, that I remember wondering if Cinnamon Toast Crunch Milk was a marketable concoction. But for my money, I prefer something I gleaned from a trip to El Paso, TX.
My friend Nuno was living in a place named "The House of Doom" during a winter climbing season in Hueco Tanks. Four guys all split a house for a 6 month lease back in 2006 or so. Oddly, this was exactly the kind of place that landed the American economy in the stinker, just like the kid in Slumdog Millionaire. A newly built, cookie cutter McMansion on the outskirts of town, but that's exactly why the boys loved it. This particular subdivision was about as close as you could get to the climbing while still being within spitting distance of civilization, and allowed the Doomers unfettered access to The Tanks. AND, The place was big enough to allow for guests. I took Nuno up on the offer.
I went down over a long weekend in February, just short of the end of the season which can be felt around St. Patty's day. By then, the air down by Mexico starts to get too hot to allow fingers to stick to boulders, and the whole climbing crew visiting for the season of good temps head north for cooler crimping conditions. When I arrived at the house, another band of ruffians were visiting, and all told there were about 10 of us packed about. We'd all have breakfast together, talking about where we'd climb, which rangers were dicks, and who's skin felt the worst. I was only there for a few days, so I didn't have a food cache of my own, and left my guide Nuno to dictate the menu. He poured me a heaping bowl of granola, and tossed yogurt, peanut butter, sliced almonds, fruit, and milk on top. With that kind of calorie blast, I was ready to demolish any V2 in my way. (Mom, V2 boulder problems are for anemic Canadians. Things don't get hard until V7 or so.) That, amigos, got each day started right. Now if I only wasn't so goddamn weak!
From there, we'd go towards Hueco Tanks State Park, almost literally the backyard playground for the boys at the Doom Hut. Instead of the traditional bean bags or "corn hole," a terribly named but tremendously fun attraction featuring washers and a hole cut into plywood, we'd just stumble around a maze of building-sized stones with foam pads on our backs. Hoping not to need them, we'd drape the pads over the projected landing zone and motor upwards against gravity. Sadly for me, physics usually win. After three days of losing battles against Earth's inertia, I headed home for CO aboard an airplane, hoping and praying that this time, my luck would hold and I'd beat the unstoppable force, at least for the moment.
I don't know about you superhuman voeuyers, but after that many consecutive days of climbing, I need some rest. I think as I get older I start to enjoy a little down time. When I was younger, I told my parents, "No mo' nappus, never ever!" I also told them that I wanted to be a lion, so take it all with a grain of salt. Now that I've gotten more into climbing, though, I see it as a way to recuperate, and maybe grown some new fingers.
I've tried a new breakfast regime, and even added to my lunch menu. I'm hoping to figure out some way to get strong enough to maybe send a V3. If napping doesn't work, maybe I'll talk to some Asian doctor about a little tiger wang stew for dinner. Anything that helps, right?
I should start things on an entirely unrelated note. Thievery Corporation is coming to Denver on Thursday, and even though my credit card bill is a bit unruly at this juncture, I'm really considering picking up an overpriced ticket. Keep in mind, my buddies Rob and Jim are going with a big bag of mushrooms, and anytime those three are involved, the possibilities are endless. The last time we went to a show, I saw Christopher Lawrence at a renovated church, and ended up meeting Mr. Gay Leather Colorado at an after party. That was literally how he introduced himself, and you can imagine my giddiness. How many times can you say you've shaken mitts with Mr. Anything?
Back to the matter at hand. The sandwich. Recently, my friend Brian has been calling me The Sand Man, out of homage to my love of stacked goodness between sliced, toasted bread. He and I were at Snarf's the other night after a climbing session, and I devoured an 8 inch sub filled with chicken salad and roasted peppers faster than you can say, "What the hell is Snarf's?" Snarf's, my friend, is a Colorado culinary specialty.
So far as I know, they started purveying their delights in Boulder, raking in cash from stoned students and rock climbers alike. Snarf's just opened a new location down in Denver, about 5 blocks from the home of Abaluba's own resident celebrity, Hans. The H Dog was thinking about moving to a new, cheaper apartment until he found out that Snarf's was coming to town. This has led him to abandon all plans for saving money on rent, and in fact has forced him to take out a personal line of credit that'll be used to finance his daily dose of Snarf's sammys. His favorite? The pro sized Turkey with all the fixin's. Good choice, my man. And at 9.24%, a good business decision, too!
Bear in mind, I'm not called the Sand Man due to my affinity for Snarf's alone. There's a place here in Dirty Jerz that has me salivating with equal anticipation. I'm sure you've all heard of the Sloppy Joe, a piled high mess of hamburger and ragu that looks and tastes like sadness. I want to dispell such silliness from your minds, and instead beg you to realize that a Sloppy Joe, at least as produced by the Milburn Deli, is a creation that rivals the internet and Pam Anderson as one of god's finest. Two slices of rye bread (rumored to be buttered) stand as the bookends. Between lie a stack of meat, swiss cheese, another slice of rye, cole slaw and russian dressing. Oh holy Christ. I'll have two.
I asked Will Swayne what he thought of this incredible food creation, but he was much more impressed by the delight that is breakfast. Fine, William, breakfast it it.
We've taken care of lunch with the sandwich combo of Snarf's and a proper Sloppy Joe. Breakfast is best handled in a bowl. Preferrably, there's cereal of some sort, and a lactose counterpart, either milk or yogurt. I know some people who claim Berry Berry Kix as the pinnacle start to their day. I've heard some claim that Cinnamon Toast Crunch stands atop Mount Morning, and Dr. Blackburn is a Frosted Mini Wheat man. And it's true that all of these entries leave a flavorful stew at the end of the meal. So tasty, in fact, that I remember wondering if Cinnamon Toast Crunch Milk was a marketable concoction. But for my money, I prefer something I gleaned from a trip to El Paso, TX.
My friend Nuno was living in a place named "The House of Doom" during a winter climbing season in Hueco Tanks. Four guys all split a house for a 6 month lease back in 2006 or so. Oddly, this was exactly the kind of place that landed the American economy in the stinker, just like the kid in Slumdog Millionaire. A newly built, cookie cutter McMansion on the outskirts of town, but that's exactly why the boys loved it. This particular subdivision was about as close as you could get to the climbing while still being within spitting distance of civilization, and allowed the Doomers unfettered access to The Tanks. AND, The place was big enough to allow for guests. I took Nuno up on the offer.
I went down over a long weekend in February, just short of the end of the season which can be felt around St. Patty's day. By then, the air down by Mexico starts to get too hot to allow fingers to stick to boulders, and the whole climbing crew visiting for the season of good temps head north for cooler crimping conditions. When I arrived at the house, another band of ruffians were visiting, and all told there were about 10 of us packed about. We'd all have breakfast together, talking about where we'd climb, which rangers were dicks, and who's skin felt the worst. I was only there for a few days, so I didn't have a food cache of my own, and left my guide Nuno to dictate the menu. He poured me a heaping bowl of granola, and tossed yogurt, peanut butter, sliced almonds, fruit, and milk on top. With that kind of calorie blast, I was ready to demolish any V2 in my way. (Mom, V2 boulder problems are for anemic Canadians. Things don't get hard until V7 or so.) That, amigos, got each day started right. Now if I only wasn't so goddamn weak!
From there, we'd go towards Hueco Tanks State Park, almost literally the backyard playground for the boys at the Doom Hut. Instead of the traditional bean bags or "corn hole," a terribly named but tremendously fun attraction featuring washers and a hole cut into plywood, we'd just stumble around a maze of building-sized stones with foam pads on our backs. Hoping not to need them, we'd drape the pads over the projected landing zone and motor upwards against gravity. Sadly for me, physics usually win. After three days of losing battles against Earth's inertia, I headed home for CO aboard an airplane, hoping and praying that this time, my luck would hold and I'd beat the unstoppable force, at least for the moment.
I don't know about you superhuman voeuyers, but after that many consecutive days of climbing, I need some rest. I think as I get older I start to enjoy a little down time. When I was younger, I told my parents, "No mo' nappus, never ever!" I also told them that I wanted to be a lion, so take it all with a grain of salt. Now that I've gotten more into climbing, though, I see it as a way to recuperate, and maybe grown some new fingers.
I've tried a new breakfast regime, and even added to my lunch menu. I'm hoping to figure out some way to get strong enough to maybe send a V3. If napping doesn't work, maybe I'll talk to some Asian doctor about a little tiger wang stew for dinner. Anything that helps, right?
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Bikes
I have been in and out of the house a number of times this morning. That's what having a new puppy will do. Actually, that's what the fear of having your new puppy piss or crap on the floor will do. Either way, I've made the acquaintance of the front yard once an hour, and each time outside, have managed to look up at the blue sky and west toward the snow covered hill behind the house, and wonder at what a beautiful day it is.
The birds have been singing the praises since sun-up. The air temperature is warm enough to allow me to slide the window open for fresh air. In pours the oxygen, and the chirping of the jays, robins, and magpies. There are even bees swirling around the fresh, budding flowers of one of the trees in the corner of the yard. It looks like Spring is in the air.
It was hard to think about the coming season without reminiscing about my bike. I checked Velonews.com and caught up on some of the races going on this week, the Spring Classics, they're called. The Tour of Flanders, Ghent-Weveglem, and the famed Paris-Roubaix are all going on about now, and stand proud as Continental Europe's three pronged version of The Masters. These races always fall on this week of the calendar, and hopefully signal to an awaiting Flemish public that the leaves will soon bloom green.
These three races inspired one local bike promoter to come up with some races that Boulder could rightly call its own "Spring Classics." Chris Grealish owns and runs Denver-Boulder Couriers, a package delivery service that floods the streets of the two towns with an army of fixie riders, all carrying the unmistakable orange Chrome delivery bag over one shoulder. They dart into offices and shops with their packages, and when Chris isn't on the walkie talkie directing traffic, he's planning bike races.
When I was still racing bikes, I looked forward to Chris' races because they were something entirely different from the average office park criterium. Instead of doing 15 laps around a parking lot, sprinting to the next corner and then hitting the brakes, the Boulder Spring Classics were road races that would last for hours on open roads. The number of entrants would always be greater, the courses much more interesting and diverse, and the 50 plus miles in the saddle suited my preferrences better than a 45 minute race. My favorites were the Boulder-Roubaix, named after its French counterpart, and the Boulder Beer Race, sponsored by a local brewery (and much easier to say than, say, Weveglem.)
A few years ago, I would have been doing something entirely different on a day such as this. Instead of staying at home, working (thinking about climbing) and tending to the mutt, I'd have been on the bike for at least a couple of hours. I'd have ridden around the roads north of town, perhaps chattering along the washboard of the dirt farm roads that the Boulder-Roubaix race would feature. I'd have come home, exhausted and covered in dust, and have been excited at the prospect that this extra training would mean I wouldn't get shelled. Not that it ever mattered much. It seems like I was always far from winning.
So far from winning, in fact, that racing lost its appeal. Knowing that if I didn't train a bunch more, I'd never cross the line at the front, and this left me with a decision to make. I could either sacrifice an enormous amount of time, energy and trade-off for a few silly wins around town, or I could give up on racing and pick something else. I never loved the racing, more the training and the spring air, so the decision wasn't too tough.
The one remaining race bike I still own is in the shop. Instead of having it tuned and readied for a spring of racing, I'm converting it into a city commuter bike. The handle bars are being changed to straight, comfortable grips, and the tires are going to be housed in fenders. I'm putting on a chain guard to save my pants from the ravages of grease and store runs, and adding a rack that will carry those very groceries back from Ideal Market. I've given up on the idea of speeding around in a group of 50 men with shaved legs, all clad in professional looking lycra emblazened with logos and shop names across the chests and asses. Now, I just want to speed around town.
Today would be a great day to hit the road on that newly tuned machine, but alas, it's still in the shop. When it's back, I'll be glad at the trade. Dacks is learning how to fetch, and a bottle of wine and a fresh baguette are going to fit perfectly in the basket.
The birds have been singing the praises since sun-up. The air temperature is warm enough to allow me to slide the window open for fresh air. In pours the oxygen, and the chirping of the jays, robins, and magpies. There are even bees swirling around the fresh, budding flowers of one of the trees in the corner of the yard. It looks like Spring is in the air.
It was hard to think about the coming season without reminiscing about my bike. I checked Velonews.com and caught up on some of the races going on this week, the Spring Classics, they're called. The Tour of Flanders, Ghent-Weveglem, and the famed Paris-Roubaix are all going on about now, and stand proud as Continental Europe's three pronged version of The Masters. These races always fall on this week of the calendar, and hopefully signal to an awaiting Flemish public that the leaves will soon bloom green.
These three races inspired one local bike promoter to come up with some races that Boulder could rightly call its own "Spring Classics." Chris Grealish owns and runs Denver-Boulder Couriers, a package delivery service that floods the streets of the two towns with an army of fixie riders, all carrying the unmistakable orange Chrome delivery bag over one shoulder. They dart into offices and shops with their packages, and when Chris isn't on the walkie talkie directing traffic, he's planning bike races.
When I was still racing bikes, I looked forward to Chris' races because they were something entirely different from the average office park criterium. Instead of doing 15 laps around a parking lot, sprinting to the next corner and then hitting the brakes, the Boulder Spring Classics were road races that would last for hours on open roads. The number of entrants would always be greater, the courses much more interesting and diverse, and the 50 plus miles in the saddle suited my preferrences better than a 45 minute race. My favorites were the Boulder-Roubaix, named after its French counterpart, and the Boulder Beer Race, sponsored by a local brewery (and much easier to say than, say, Weveglem.)
A few years ago, I would have been doing something entirely different on a day such as this. Instead of staying at home, working (thinking about climbing) and tending to the mutt, I'd have been on the bike for at least a couple of hours. I'd have ridden around the roads north of town, perhaps chattering along the washboard of the dirt farm roads that the Boulder-Roubaix race would feature. I'd have come home, exhausted and covered in dust, and have been excited at the prospect that this extra training would mean I wouldn't get shelled. Not that it ever mattered much. It seems like I was always far from winning.
So far from winning, in fact, that racing lost its appeal. Knowing that if I didn't train a bunch more, I'd never cross the line at the front, and this left me with a decision to make. I could either sacrifice an enormous amount of time, energy and trade-off for a few silly wins around town, or I could give up on racing and pick something else. I never loved the racing, more the training and the spring air, so the decision wasn't too tough.
The one remaining race bike I still own is in the shop. Instead of having it tuned and readied for a spring of racing, I'm converting it into a city commuter bike. The handle bars are being changed to straight, comfortable grips, and the tires are going to be housed in fenders. I'm putting on a chain guard to save my pants from the ravages of grease and store runs, and adding a rack that will carry those very groceries back from Ideal Market. I've given up on the idea of speeding around in a group of 50 men with shaved legs, all clad in professional looking lycra emblazened with logos and shop names across the chests and asses. Now, I just want to speed around town.
Today would be a great day to hit the road on that newly tuned machine, but alas, it's still in the shop. When it's back, I'll be glad at the trade. Dacks is learning how to fetch, and a bottle of wine and a fresh baguette are going to fit perfectly in the basket.
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