Life - Night Pressure

I felt that familiar pressure, worming its way into my consciousness. Even though it was Dark O'Clock, I had to deal with it, the consequences too great to ignore.

Lilly, the matron feline of the household, wasn't helping any, laying on me just the wrong way. I stirred, moved my right arm, and she glanced at me languidly, then eased herself off me.

I knew I couldn't move my right leg - it lay propped on two pillows, to drain it of the excess blood pooling there during the day.

I could use my left leg, though, and I thought about how to use it to get my right leg over the side.

Ah.

I used my left toes to walk my left leg over, slowly pushing my right leg off the pillows.

It felt like one of thone iPhone apps, you know, like "Get The Wounded Cyclist Off The Bed". In this case the Wounded Cyclist has a bum right shoulder and limited movement in a bum right leg. Okay, bum hip, but the result is a bum right leg.

How would you get the Wounded Cyclist off the bed?

With my Left Foot Toe Wiggle steadily pushing my right leg to the right, it finally dropped down to the bed. I pushed the pillows out of the way with my good leg.

I shifted my legs right, towards the right edge of the bed, using my Left Foot Toe Wiggle. As my right leg approached the right edge of the bed, though, I stopped.

If my leg dropped down towards the floor and pulled sideways in my hip, I'd probably scream in agony. That is, if I stayed conscious long enough to scream. I knew I couldn't exert lateral pressure on the right leg-hip, no lifting either.

Out of deference to the missus, I wanted to avoid any unecessary screaming and such.

I needed to turn my body a bit so that my legs would drop down off the bed relatively straight. I couldn't lift my torso though, because when I tried to sit up even a bit, hot pain bathed both my shoulder and hip.

I contemplated waking the missus, but I couldn't give up just yet. That initial pressure never left, though, and actually increased by the minute.

I started getting a bit desperate.

After laying there for a few minutes, I used my neck in as a last resort, arching it so I created a bridge with my head and my left shoulder. I could shift my body sideways just a touch by doing this shuffle.

This had some promise.

By inchworming my body in a circle using the Neck Bridge Shuffle, I managed to get my torso rotated about 60 or 70 degrees. I used the Left Foot Toe Wiggle to get my legs to keep in alignment with my torso.

Lined up like a (slightly crooked) luger getting ready for a run, I felt like I could slide my legs down to the floor. Once my feet got there, my torso would follow down the side of the bed, ending upright. My head would stay vertical, basically in a vertical crouch. Then I'd be able to stand.

My toes touched some sharp, edgy stuff - my little bedside bookrack. I thought that maybe I should move over a bit so I don't end up trying to stand on some sharp, painful wood.

But gravity started taking over my torso, and out of control, I started sliding down into the abyss.

I started to make contingency plans - if I fell to the right, I'd headbutt the wall to keep my (hurt) right shoulder from hitting it. If I fell to the left, I could extend my left arm, try to fall onto my left side and back. If I fell left and started rolling right, I'd try and do a Rotating Neck Bridge to keep pressure off the right shoulder.

My torso accelerated, my feet hit the floor, I prepared for a sideways topple...

And I was still, essentially in a squat, my back against the bed.

I leaned forward, putting my weight over my knees and feet, and straightened up. My right shoulder protested when my arm swung forward a touch, so I quickly stabilized it with my good arm.

I stood, tottering a bit.

I Toe Wiggled to turn my body to the side a touch, just enough so I could grab the cane. I used this chance to put on my glasses as well - things were now sharply dark, not blurry and dark.

Properly armed, I started to hobble to my goal. It takes me a few steps to relearn exactly how to walk, the shooting pains in my hip vivid reminders on what not to do.

Hal, the white male, meowed in anticipation as I walked towards the goal, knowing that I usually find time to scritch him when I go there.

Hobbling done, a slight sheen of sweat the only evidence of effort, I messed around with my PJs. Once clear of my wounded hip, they went freely.

Hal meowed.

I turned around, grabbed the newly installed grab bar (thanks SOC), and lowered myself down.

I had to ignore Hal for a moment because I could finally relieve that doggone pressure.

I peed.

That done, I could pay attention to Hal. He put his paws on my knees, meowed. I scritched, and he started to purr loudly.

Once he rolled onto the floor and out of reach, I stopped. He'd get back up and repeated the process, wondering why I wasn't scritching him when he lay down.

The third time he rolled himself onto the floor, he stayed there, kneading the rug.

Bella, the slender female tabby, walked in right on cue, her tail up, quivering, curled at the tip.

She stopped to let me scritch her back, also rolling onto the floor. After a minute or two, she lay on the floor too, purring contentedly.

I took this moment to get up. I knew I couldn't get back into bed without the missus's help, so I hobbled out to the kitchen table.

I started reading one of the bike magazines a friend dropped off last night.

Estelle wandered around my shins. After a few brushes of her back, she scampered back to her spot on the stairs.

Mike ran up, a worried look on his face, my oddness (wound smells, cane, wheelchair, etc.) making me a stranger. He sniffed my bandaged ankle and scurried off. Obviously I wasn't me.

Tiger also approached, wary, but after confirming I was just sitting there, he trotted off.

Riley, normally shy, kept her distance, her nose twtching furiously. She kept her spot on the stairs, one that lets her (gently) bat at Estelle.

Then I heard the missus stirring. She appeared, a bit dishevled, and asked if I was okay.

"I'm fine. I just had to pee. And I couldn't get back into bed by myself."

"Want me to help you?"

"Yeah, would you?"

I got up and shuffled towards the bedroom.

Life - Starting The Recovery

First off, thank you everyone who's sent me well wishes. I haven't been able to respond to everyone, and I'm trying to figure out how to get in touch with some, but the support, even just in font, helps a lot. I really appreciate everyone's thoughts, and I thank you for them.

As far as what's happened here so far...

Things have been moving along on the health front. I realized that I had to get some relatively routine exams done so that the doc could say, "You need some more tests". I'm still jumping through hoops, with an MRI scheduled for Monday. The orthopedist, one that's gotten good reviews from a couple patients I know, said that surgery may be possible for the shoulder.

During this process I thought of my mom frequently, when she visited me in to the US in 2000, complaining of severe abdominal pain. A close family friend, a surgeon, actually met us at the hospital that evening, after he learned my mom had landed (she'd let him know of her discomfort before she flew here).

It was Friday, Labor Day weekend. He said that my mom would be undergoing a number of tests, later admitting that they had to do all the tests so that the insurance company would cover the expenses.

He meant to start right then and there.

He must have called in a few decades worth of favors because by the end of the holiday weekend, I'd made something like a half dozen trips to various doctors. A couple times my mom would get some lab samples drawn and we'd literally drive to the next appointment to wait for the results to come in.

Even lunkhead me was starting to realize that the ultimate goal was surgery, and within a few days my mom was cleared for an operation. The doc knew all along what was wrong, but for insurance to cover the costs, he had to take all the intermediary steps. You can't skip to Step 6, you have to do Steps 1-5 first. Unfortunately he was correct in his initial assessment - my mom was in the most advanced stages of colon cancer.

I appreciate how much effort our family friend surgeon put into my mom's care because my doctor, as great as she is, had to wait a weekend to be able to schedule an MRI. In fact, it'll be six days since the crash.

To be fair she scheduled x-rays for "right now" on Thursday afternoon, meaning we drove from her office to the beautiful radiology building (it resembled our honeymoon hotel in its trappings, very nice place). Once they took the x-rays, the tech said that she was having someone read them "stat" (the first time I've heard that word uttered in this whole escapade - it's not bandied about like on TV, to my great disappointment), and about ten minutes later they told us my pelvis had two breaks.

After the shocking news, a couple calls to frantic relatives, the missus took us on a whirlwind tour or the area, picking up food, a wheelchair (with footrests, $30 extra), tegaderm (the large patches cost $130 for 20, and I used two of them at one time for a while), and some miscellaneous supplies.

I got to sit in the car the whole time, avoiding the painful process of getting in and out of the car. (Note to self - wheelchair ramps and elevators are not just things to take advantage of insurance - they are necessary for many people.)

We had some food, started getting used to some of the routines, and rested. It's exhausting being injured. And more so to take care of an injured person.

A couple days after the x-ray, I feel like my pelvis is making good progress. Well, that or all the pain medications are masking the moderate pain. If I lift just right, it no longer feels like someone is slowly ripping my right leg off, one tendon at a time. Instead it just feels like someone is tugging mighty hard, but the tendons aren't snapping, just stretching.

Big improvement, right?

(If I move the leg wrong, though, it's game over while I try not to cry out in pain - it's like Jaws is ripping my leg off.)

The kind doc wrote a prescription for a cane, which I may be able to get today, if not, tomorrow. Okay, I'm not getting it, the missus is, but you get the gist. I immediately thought that it would be uber-cool to have a cane with a sword in it, but I figure folks like the TSA would have something to say about that. I'll settle for a carbon fiber... okay, maybe a titanium... well, fine, I think an aluminum cane would be fine.

With a hollowcore shaft that doubles as a blowgun?

Maybe?

Whatever my cane, I hope to be hobbling around in the next week - I can technically hobble now but it's so painful and slow that the missus would rather have me sit in the wheelchair and push me around.

My shoulder is becoming more of a concern. It's extremely painful if I, say, cough. Or sneeze. Or lean over. Or do virtually any movement you think has nothing to do with your right shoulder (but it really does).

Any flex at all and the pain, totally un-phased by my phalanx of pain meds, ricochets through my body, paralyzing me like I just stuck my finger in an electric socket. I've learned to keep my shoulder relaxed as possible, even if, say, my legs are trembling with effort. I'm even continuing with my allergy medicine to avoid sneezing or coughing.

Friday SOC and Mrs SOC made a long trip up with the intent on helping the missus deal with some heavy lifting stuff. For example, a couple of our heavier pieces of furniture sat close to the wheelchair's path, so they helped move them away. They took down the bathroom door since the wheels kept getting hung up on the edges. They ate dinner with us.

And SOC installed a grab bar (good for up to 300 pounds) so I can lift myself off the toilet.

You know, it's those little things in life that count.

We also looked at my bike. SOC assembled it gingerly under my watchful eye (Note to self - I don't know how Sir Frank Williams runs his F1 team from a wheelchair). The bike looked relative unscathed, with the obvious damage to the hoods, a nick in the downtube, and a couple minor scrapes on protruding edges (saddle, derailleur). But overall it seemed okay (pictures to follow at some point).

As they say, "Flesh heals, Campy doesn't."

Saturday I tried to explore some limits. The missus had to go run errands so I had the house to myself for maybe an hour, maybe a bit more. I used this unsupervised time to make a solo foray to the bathroom (from the kitchen table - probably 50-60 feet each way).

I prepped like I was going on a trip - and I was, because I had no idea how long it'd take. So I packed a home phone and my cellphone in my sling (note to self: chair needs pockets for things like that), retrieved my temporary cane (a broomstick), and started on the long trip.

When I started moving the chair, all the cats scattered like the doorbell just rang. (Note to self - need pocket with cat treats so cats will approach me in wheelchair.)

The deep rug presented the first challenge since the wheelchair didn't roll too well through the mud-like surface (note to self - tank treads would work better, right?). I briefly contemplated trying to walk, but the excruciating pain (and a tottering close call) quickly convinced me to stick to the chair.

I finally managed to get out of the rug quagmire by pushing with my toes and using the broomstick like a Venice boat pole. And grabbing solid furniture with my one good limb, my left arm.

Once on the hardwood floor (note to self - hardwood is good when in wheelchair), things went a lot quicker.

I had a hard time negotiating the hall by the top of the basement stairs due to some tight corners. And, of course, whenever I look down the stairs while sitting in the wheelchair, I think of the movie Naked Gun, OJ in a wheelchair barreling down the stadium steps and over the edge.

And I have to smile.

I couldn't roll into the bathroom (one arm pushing didn't get me over the lip) so I abandoned the chair (phones still in sling, just in case) and hobbled to the toilet using the broomstick cane. I managed to stand, aim, fire.

Score!

Bonus: the phones in the sling didn't drop into the toilet.

Yay!

Since I was already there, I also brushed my teeth, thanking myself for just having recharged the batteries for the whirly-gig toothbrush I use (note to self - whirly-gig toothbrushes are much easier to use than a manual one, especially if only one hand works).

Rinsed with mouthwash.

Ahhhhh.

Then I had to get back. I made the trip back to the kitchen table in time to catch my breath and settle down before the missus came back.

I proudly told her I went pee by myself. Felt like a two year old. Grinned.

She said some appropriate like, "You did? That's great!"

And grinned back.

Equipment - New Ride

My new ride. I don't look too keen. Note wrecked kit on floor behind me.

Yeah, yeah, I know all the jokes. Four wheels should keep me upright. 9 spokes must be faster than 3 spokes. No saddle sores.

Yada, yada, yada.

The missus dragged me to work this morning, seeing as I couldn't stand up on my own, nor go to the bathroom, not even put on a pair of pants.

We struggled out to the car, no tears this time, just the standard 3 or 4 mosquito bites. We packed the main laptop so I could entertain myself in the office, stopped by Dunkin Donuts to grab some eats, and headed for the office.

Elaine, the missus's co-worker and a favorite of mine, helped drag me from the car to the office. We used a rolly office chair, and once I got situated, the missus declared that we'd be renting one. It's much quicker to roll me around, versus the quivering, shaky, lean-on-the-missus-like-I'm-trying-to-crush-her-through-the-floor, shuffle-toe, heel dragging, agonizingly slow gait I now have.

We rolled out to the car for the doctor's appointment (after the missus took me to the bathroom, something I can't do on my own). I guess the agony on my face convinced the doctor that, yeah, he should have an x-ray.

Right now.

We went around the corner to an x-ray place as soon as we got in the car. Matt happened to show up, my call to cancel a request for help missed in the hubbub. We said hi real quick and jetted off to the radiology place.

The missus helped me out of the car, our goal a bench about 20 feet away. We both looked over at it for a long second.

Then se looked at me, I looked at her, we both did some mental math, and she asked if I could wait while she got me a loaner wheelchair.

That would certainly beat the 15 minute walk to the bench.

A few minutes later, with no missus in sight, I started to worry. A slight breeze picked up, and wit no ability to lift my feet, I couldn't adjust my stance to deal with the different wind directions. Just as I started to plan which way to fall (to the left, left arm out, and let legs crumble so I lower easily to the ground), the missus appeared with a wheelchair.

Apparently the receptionist didn't realize I was standing outside and started in on all the paperwork. When the semi-frantic missus broke in and asked when she could get me, the receptionist realized and let the missus rescue me.

Once registered, a tall young lady helped us out, even lending a hand when the missus struggled with my dense mass, lowering me to the x-ray table. I cracked some quip about faking all this so I could get all this attention, but the joke didn't fly very far.

The tech shooed the missus out and took a few pictures of my pelvic area. I don't think I did anything offensive to her (like staring at her chest), but she still made me do a somewhat painful pose, leg splayed out or some such thing.

"Good job," she told me.

I smiled a grimace.

Then back to the nice dressing room. We waited in the waiting room (no kidding, what else would we do there, right). I fell into a drug and fatigue induced stupor. I heard something, looked up, and the tall tech was there.

She told us my doctor was on the phone.

And she wanted to speak with me. Or the missus, as she was up in a flash.

"Uh-huh."
"Yeah."
"Uh-huh."
"OH MY GOD!"

That woke me up.

I looked at the tech.

"I wasn't faking it, was I?"

She shook her head. "No, you really did a very good job in there."

Prognosis: Pelvic bone broken in two places. Yeah, that's why it hurt to walk! Nothing to do, no surgery, no cast. Just wait for it to stitch.

Since I try and look on the bright side, I asked the missus to retake the picture above - it was just a little too sad. I distracted the missus by asking her to get some more secure glasses. While she went to get them, I quickly put on what I'd already spotted.

Dude! Mapei-FlexpointCaps rock WheelchairsWithNineSpokeWheels! Arrrg! And watch out for PinkBedpanLiquidShield!

The missus laughed.

And all was better.

- - -

Note: thanks to Rich and Julie for the Mapei part of my fun picture (the Brikos), CVC and the Keith Berger Crit for the cap.

And I'm sorry but my beautiful IB jersey, a gift, got shredded in the crash. It's on the floor in the first picture. I may take some pictures later.

Racing - Crash, Or Learning How To Suffer

So, last night was supposed to be a test, a test of the 170s, my pedal stroke, my willingness to push the pain threshold during hard efforts.

And, by my reckoning, things went well in those areas. I had a less than ideal warm-up, but my legs had that swollen "I'm ready for an effort" feel. Usually when I get that feeling I do an effort or two to shed some of the fluids in my legs (or that's what it feels like anyway), to get some fast feelings in my legs, but last night I contented myself with just loosening up a touch.

The race started off at a much easier pace than prior weeks, but things ramped up quickly. Although I found myself at the back every now and then, I tried to respond to all the field surges. Sometimes t took me a few seconds to convince my body that it could make another dig, but each time it responded willingly, readily.

Worried about cramps, I drank some icy Gatorade, but as the race progressed, I swapped bottles so that the plain water sat in my primary spot. I'd stopped worrying about cramping, started thinking about keeping blood in my legs, not processing sugar and electrolytes.

That boded well for me.

Over the weeks I've watched the one regular woman in the A race, a Kenda rider. She sometimes gets gapped a bit, but at the end of the night, she seems to be there, night after night. I figured she'd be a good wheel to follow because she obviously paces herself better than I do. Although she waved me by after she couldn't quite close a gap, my idea seemed to work okay - my efforts seemed a bit more consistent when I gauged them off of her. Even when I closed that particular gap, she'd been pulling for a bit, so I had plenty of reserves to finish the job for her.

The promoters had decided to add 5 more minutes to the race this week, so I felt a bit anxious about making the distance. At some point I started listening for the "5 laps to go" to come out.

Finally it did, or to be precise, someone announced it on a bullhorn.

With the relatively compact field, maybe 25 or so riders left, I didn't immediately move up. But I knew that with the short, 1/2 mile laps, the finish sneaks up on you quickly, kind of like it does on the track.

So with two laps to go, the bullhorn telling us that semi-magical number (I'd say the bell is a bit more magical, no offense to the number two), I moved up a bit. We approached the line, expecting the bell, but instead we heard, emphatically, "TWO laps to go, TWO laps to go!"

Apparently the lap cards (I never saw them myself) and verbal cues didn't match.

Somewhat balked by this unexpected turn of events, everyone backed off a touch. I floundered tactically, unsure on how to read the race, but I knew that moving up on the last lap could be nigh impossible. So, on the short backstretch, I burned one of my maybe three matches I had left in my quiver (I need at least two more to handle a sprint).

I moved relatively hard up the outside of the field (no finessing at all), slotting into perhaps 4th wheel. Everyone seemed okay with the status quo so we hit the line, one lap to go, in that order.

That's when things started to go bit awry.

A guy moved up on the right, trying to lead out his teammate, and we swept into the second turn as he did that. The rider at the front of affairs, Aidan, one of the local leg-breaking pros, went to the right curb, maintaining pace. Another guy sat to his left, working hard. I sat on the left rider's wheel.

And the leadout teammate, moving up on the right side, found himself boxed in. With the riders not really moving relative to each other, the tactical scenario seemed clear to me. In such a static moment, riders would have to wait until the next tactical situation before making a move. That 'next situation' could be a number of things - one rider eases out of the way, there's a surge, or, mostly likely, we'd hit the last turn and there'd naturally be some gaps.

I felt fine with this because I was sitting second wheel, and I planned on making my next move after the last turn.

However, the leadout rider had yet another option, one that I didn't think about - he changed the tactical situation prematurely. Initially he jabbed his elbow a number of times into the guy to his left (whose wheel I sat on), jerking the bike sideways a little each time. To that rider's credit, he maintained his position, at some point giving a somewhat bewildered glance at the elbow jabber.

Then Elbow Jabber yelled at Aidan. I didn't catch what he said, but according to someone just behind this little event, he said something like, "If you don't get out of the way, I'm going around you."

If I'd heard that, I'd have a clue as to what would happen next.

I didn't hear the actual words, though, because I'd been trying to keep aware of any movement up the left side (apparently there was a surge coming up), trying to figure out if the guy in front of me was about to blow, stuff like that.

Suddenly, Elbow Jabber swerved left a few feet, swept out my front wheel from under me, and the next thing I knew I was slamming my helmet into the ground, a guy slammed into me, and I was tumbling on the pavement. I saw at least one guy go down on the right, and I also saw guys that made it past me.

Then, for a brief moment, it was still.

I think I'm the one that broke the silence because I started screaming in pain as both my calves cramped. I couldn't straighten my legs, I couldn't lift myself up, and my legs hurt.

I lay back, resigned to the pain bath, but at some point someone asked if they could help, and I screamed (I think I was screaming) to straighten my legs. The helpful soul did, and my cramps subsided.

At some point I broke down and started crying.

A couple racers showed up, EMTs by trade (who knew?). Then the Kenda girl was there, looking intently into my eyes, speaking in a firm, low tone. I immediately got the feeling she knew what was what, and I started answering her questions as best I could.

To my surprise, I learned later that she's an ER resident. Whatever, she started checking my neck, shoulder, collarbone. She gingerly moved my shoulder, which hurt, but the movement gave me hope that things would be okay. Then, when the ambulance arrived (don't believe a racer that claims he doesn't need an ambulance if he doesn't get up right away), she told the crew what she found.

She also recommended that I go to the UCONN Medical something in Farmington, since that was closer to home.

I got lifted onto a stretcher and floated into the ambulance (you know how the wheels fold up under the stretcher - feels like they levitate you into the ambulance if you're the one on the stretcher). The EMT in there did a few tricks to help deal with my calves - ends up he's a triathlete, so he knew how to stretch my legs.

He commented on my helmet as the back part was smashed. He told me that if the Kenda girl (i.e. doctor) wasn't there to say that my head and neck appeared okay, he'd have put me on a backboard based on the extensive damage to the helmet.

We chatted a bit and I learned that a hospital elsewhere was being evacuated due to fire, and that as soon as they dropped me off, they were heading down there. I felt lucky that they still had ambulances up our way.

Once at the Medical Center I waited until first SOC arrived, then the missus and Mrs SOC (neither of the missuses were at the race that night). We talked about the crash, the vehicle logistics (four cars, three drivers), commented on how busy it was there, and the hospital staff's good, positive attitude.

On the vehicle logistics, I have to mention that last week one of SOC's teammates pulled up to me at a light and asked how he could get a car like my blue one, the fun, fast one. We laughed, told him, and we drove off - I even let him in front of me when the road narrowed.

Well last night he drove my car to the hospital. So you can add, "Get someone to crash the owner in a bike race and then offer to help by driving said car."

Also, that same evening, we all realized that I'd never given SOC a ride in the same car. Well, he drove it to our house. After the missus ran back and showed him how to shift it into reverse.

I realized this was all just a big plot to get a chance to drive the car. I hope you guys enjoed it :)

Anyways, back at the hospital, at some point a pretty blonde woman rolled me away to get some x-rays. When standing in front of the target thing for the x-ray (I didn't want to lie down because it hurt so much to get up or down), I'd keep closing my eyes in pain. She asked me to keep my eyes open to avoid getting dizzy and falling over. So, my head tilting down, teeth showing through my grimace, I complied, opening my eyes.

And found myself staring at her chest.

I noticed her tan in that area, various different freckles, the intact collarbone... Um, I better stop there. Let's just say that I didn't get dizzy and I didn't fall over. And when I realized what I was doing, I tried to look elsewhere.

I told the missus this on the way home - the tech probably thought I was a total scuzball for staring with my wife just down the hall. Or not, because she didn't make me assume contorted positions with my arm for the x-rays, like "Okay, scuzzball, now I need you to reach your arm up and around your head.. can't do it? Lemme help you."

And then you hear a bloodcurdling scream.

Anyway, she was very nice, got the x-rays. I even got an extra when she initially found no broken bones, and I had to lay down because and then I had to raise my arm and...

Waitaminute...

Anyway, she had me wheeled back to the crew waiting in the hallway.

The doc set me up with loads of Tegaderm, other wound supplies, some extremely potent painkiller (I took one when a nurse fed it to me, but to be honest only the road rash felt any better), and a prescription for Percocet. Since I'm afraid of those drugs I read about in addiction type articles I've been trying to stick with just Advil.

However, when I was reduced to tears after a 20 minute walk from the bathroom (a 20 foot walk, and it would have taken me twice as long if I hadn't been leaning so hard on the missus), the equally teary missus made me take some.

After a solid night's rest, and some naps today, I have a bit more mental clarity.

Seems that I can't lift my right arm. Okay, technically I can't move my upper arm in any direction, elbow down is fine. The arm is straightforward, my shoulder is hurt. Nothing broken but apparently some tissue damage. I'm typing with one hand (using the right for just the shift key), but if it was just that arm, I'd be reasonably mobile.

But I hurt my legs too. Specifically the ability to lift them.

This latter problem is more worrisome to me because I can't even pick up my foot off the ground. I can shuffle-walk by leaning one way or another and swinging my over an inch or so. Then, after I catch my breath, I repeat the process.

I'm using a broom as a cane, but I'm all leftie so it doesn't work that well. Meaning, normally if your right leg is hurt, you use the cane on the right side (the cane replaces the leg). But with my right arm also hurt, I have to use the cane (or broom) with my left arm. Ugh.

Re-creating the accident, looking at the impacts and damage on my body, I figure this is what happened:

- With my bike swept out from right to left, the bike's front wheel went left, bike leaned right, dumping me off the bike over the right side.
- I instinctively tucked my head (thanks Mom and Dad for insisting I take Judo), landing on my right forearm, right shoulder, and the back of my head.
- My body stopped much quicker than my still-airborne legs, so my head ended up between my knees, the backs of my legs facing the rest of the now-panicking field.
- Some poor victim slammed into my right hamstring, leaving a perfect imprint of a tire on the back of my leg. I think it was Jeff of IRS Medic, because I saw him standing with road rash like he'd done a Superman slide on the pavement.
- The impact on my leg rolled me over on my left side, scraping up my left shoulder, then, as I tumbled onto my right side, slid me on my right thigh, ankle, and probably my whatever else little bumps and scrapes I have.
- I ended up on my side and my calves cramped.

The least offensive picture. 700c23 clincher? Or 700x21 tubular?

I want to thank Doug, Matt, and Rebecca for their help at the scene. The guy in the ambulance that helped me with my calves. And all the friendly and helpful staff at the UCONN Health Center in Farmington.

Thanks, too, to SOC and Mrs SOC for their help and support (literally, since I can't walk unaided) until the wee hours of the morning. SOC lent his support and got me in and out of the car, drove my precious blue car home. Then they stayed until past 2 AM, helping the missus dress my wounds. They only left when all the remaining wounds were under my shorts.

And, finally, I have to thank the missus for all her care and love. As I'm virtually immobile, she's done everything from litter to DSL to getting the laptop to everything else that a walking person takes for granted.

Now to sleep. I hope that things get better quickly.

Training - Pedal Stroke

You know that saying about the old guy that's forgotten more than you'll ever know?

Well, I've working hard on the "forgotten" part.

That is to say that although I may not know much about the actual pedaling of the bike (training and such), I know that I forgot one thing:

How to pedal.

Oh, come on, you say, how could you forget how to pedal? It's just push down, push down, push.. or wait, do you pull up also? Or do you just let your foot get elevated? Do you pull back? How about at the top of the pedal stroke? And when you want to go harder, what do you do?

I may criticize single speeds privately (as one industry person said, "a single speed means you have a 95% chance of being in the wrong gear"), but not being able to shift does have an advantage - you can't hide behind a poor pedal stroke.

A prime example - me!

Over the years I've lamented my lack of top end speed, the slow but sure deterioration of my sprint. From what seems like absolutely fantastic (as in fantasy numbers) speeds, my sprint has become, well, mediocre. I get beat regularly, and I mean regularly.

I've also managed to document some of my races, both on video as well as in data (PowerTap and SRM). This concrete evidence seems to agree with one thing - my jump is awfully peaky, as in less than a second, and I hit my top speeds at painfully low rpms.

Someone posted something somewhere about world class kilo riders, the guys that do that 60 second, from a standing start, one kilometer time trial. The best guys average 60 kph - that's about 37 mph, and from a standing start (!).

It's the epitome of pain, with a typical world class start hitting 1800-2000 watts. The racer will typically average about 1000 watts in that minute, but they'll be down to 400 watts and 25 mph at the finish. A guy that finished 4th in the Worlds could do, allegedly, 2600 watts for 6 seconds (!!).

I mention this because if you multiply those wattage numbers by about, oh, say, 60%, those are my wattage numbers. Reduce the elapsed time by, oh, let's say another 67%, from 60 seconds to 20 seconds, and what do you have?

My typical sprint.

So... what happened to my fast sprint? Why can't I go bananas like I used to go?

I don't have all the answers. I mean, if I did, I'd be going faster than I am now. But I got an inkling in the past two days.

See, last week, as I've mentioned in prior posts, I swapped my road cranks back to a 170mm size. I did this because the track bike illustrated, vividly, my pathetic excuse for a pedal stroke.

Then a little glimmer appeared at the back of my mind, a haunting voice if you will.

Pedal stroke.

The message caught and tugged at my brain. Ah, yes. Pedal stroke. I have forgotten how to pedal. I must rectify that situation.

So, on my bachelor weekend (that was last Saturday and Sunday), I did one major thing related to pedal stroke - I fixed my rollers for my track bike.

Hm. I should go take some pictures. But it's a really clunky solution so I'll reserve pictures for another day. But suffice it to say that I reduced the minimum wheelbase by 1 1/4 inches. Yes, over an inch.

Then, because clunky solutions beg for a test ride, I got on the rollers and tried them out.

The fact that I'm here typing means the thing actually worked. But, man, that first session on the rollers felt painful. I struggled to keep from bouncing, I couldn't reach 40 mph (152 rpm - my max was closer to about 150 rpm), and I felt totally awkward on the bike, like a 15 year old on a date.

Tonight, with the temps really high, I decided to forgo the group ride and focus on my pathetic pedal stroke. So I got back on the clunky rollers and gave it another go.

I immediately fell off. Meaning I couldn't even clip into the pedals when I slipped sideways off the rollers. I didn't fall per se, but I had to put a foot down and used my elbow on the wall to keep from doing just that.

After that inauspicious start, things started looking better.

I wanted to average over 101 rpm, so that was my first goal. My next goal was to break 40 mph. And finally I wanted to be smoother than I was the night before.

Okay, I averaged 102 rpm. But that's getting ahead of myself.

I was also smoother than last night. A lot smoother. I forgot how quickly rollers will smooth out a pedal stroke. Just go faster than comfortable, slow up a bit, and suddenly "comfortable" becomes a lot faster.

I found myself "resting" at 104-105 rpms, and, after recovering some mental strength from my initial "almost went through the wall" stumble, I did a spin-up, a low-wattage high-rpm effort.

39 mph, 150 rpm.

I spun down, slowed way down, below 102 rpm.

After spinning fast enough, long enough, to bring the average back up to 102 rpm, I did another spin up, a little more motivated, one spin-up smoother than before.

39 mph, 150 rpm.

Repeat.

40 mph, 152 rpm.

Yeah!

I realized I clenched my torso to stabilize it during these efforts, so I focused on doing that again. And by not dropping too far below 102 rpm when I eased, I spent less time chasing the average cadence number. Shortly, I did another spin up.

41 mph, 157 rpm.

Now we're talking!

I actually hit just 40, but by redoubling my effort, I bumped it up again.

I decided that because I broke 40 while on the tops (it's easier on the tops), I should give it a go on the drops. I mean, that's where I'll be when I'm racing, so that's where I should hone some form.

I'd been doing mid-efforts on the drops, but not the high rpm ones. So although not foreign, the drops, for the high effort, would be a bit more rough. Bracing myself, focusing on the fan in front of the rollers (so I don't go veering off into the wall or the bins holding up the laptop), I spun up the pedals, about 30 seconds into whatever minute.

After 5 seconds, I checked the cyclometer. 42.7 mph, 160 rpm.

I gritted my teeth and tried to hang on. My feet spun relentlessly, my torso core base tight, my elbows flayed out a bit. I tried to smooth out my stroke, faster, rounder.

Finally, I started to ease, glancing at the cyclometer as I did.

I was still over 40 mph. At 58 seconds after that minute. About 20 to 25 seconds at speed, at 152+ rpm.

Alright!

My average rpm bumped up a notch, but by the time I eased, it'd returned to my goal, 102 rpm.

Tuesday night, if it rains, I'll be on the rollers again. Otherwise I'll be groveling at Rentschler Field, spinning my 170s.

Then Wednesday... Keirin Race #2.

I wonder if I should pack the 53...

Racing - 170s At East Hartford

Tuesday night (I know, it's a bit out of order) the missus and I trekked down to Rentschler Field for the E-Haw races.

I sipped a protein shake on the way down there in lieu of a proper dinner. The missus gave me one of those looks.

"Won't you feel sick racing right after drinking that stuff?"
"I should be fine."

Famous last words, right?

This was the first time since early February 2009 that I've gotten on the bike with 170s, the idea being I'll be able to translate my efforts to the track bike and vice versa. I hadn't ridden the bike since the crank swap so I tried to get in a decent warm-up. My legs seemed stiff and unresponsive, but I chalked it up to lack of efforts. I figured after the first big effort I'd recover and be okay.

The race started a little more tamely than other weeks, with a two man attack. But when they got caught on about the third lap, two CCNS guys launched an insanely hard counter. Taking advantage of the work everyone just did, they totally drilled it. They kept the pace up for at least three laps, gaps appearing everywhere.

I actually don't know how long they kept it up because at about three laps into the attack (or surge), I got pummeled by feelings of queasiness, exploding legs, and wheezing lungs.

Yep, I got shelled.

So much for the more speed thing.

I had told the missus that I'd work on working harder, so I recovered for a bit, letting them lap me a couple times, and then jumped back in. I focused on responding immediately to any surges, standing out of the last turn (on 170s I stand more it seems), and trying to stay low when maintaining higher speeds.

A short time later I exploded again, sat up.

Repeat several times.

Once I got on just as they rang the bell for a prime. I figured I'd lead out whoever got on my wheel. One guy saw the opportunity, jumped on, and I dragged him halfway down the last curving straight. He declined to come around me too hard, and I realized that he was lapped too!

I dropped off one final time, circled the course, looking for an opening. I figured I would do one sprint, try to get the legs going fast. A couple times I had to put off my sprint because I'd have interfered with the actual race, but finally I had a clear shot.

I launched hard in a low gear, shifted nicely one click at a time, but on the last shift I hit the shifter a bit exuberantly, resulting in a double upshift. I decided to grind it out, but I started hitting wind and bogged down as I got to the line.

That last effort put paid to my night so I turned around and joined the missus and Mrs SOC. We watched the finish (SOC did another great race), and the missus and I packed up to go have some dinner with SOC and Mrs SOC.

While packing the car (and before, too), I had to pause multiple times to rest. I felt queasy, a bit nauseous, light-headed, just all around bad. Then I realized something, because this sensation, unpleasant as it felt, seemed familiar to me.

And it dawned on me.

I used to feel like this every single time I did the Tuesday Night Sprints at SUNY Purchase.

I'd push myself to the limit, grovel in recovery, and then do it again. Over and over, 10 or 15 or more times in a couple hours, until I could barely focus.

I haven't done any efforts like that since.

I mean, yeah, I go hard in a race, but never 100%, except at the end. And then I'm done for the race. And on training rides, I go hard here and there, but again, never 100%. Even my sprints and such are minor efforts, just 300-400 meters at a time, not a mile full-out culminating in a artery-threatening sprint.

But at East Hartford, I could make such efforts. I could go until I virtually collapsed, collect myself, and do it again. And again. And again.

I mentioned this to the missus, and pointed out that it took a few months of SUNY Purchases before I felt "fast", like 3-4 months.

With only three more East Hartfords, I don't think I'll be too much faster than I am now, but I hope to put a dent in my speed deficit.

And at some point I hope to have some kind of a regular ride where I can replicate those SUNY Purchase sprint efforts, for a couple-few hours.

Wouldn't that be a blast.

Dateline: 20:33, 5 August 2009

Ah, yes, the rest stop. I didn't need to stop today because I had the (mis?)fortune of pulling onto the Mass Pike directly behind a state trooper. This let me work on my gas mileage instead of rate of travel, so I arrived here averaging just 63 mph but getting 30 mpg (in a car rated 21/26). I'm not an ultra-mileage nut but it doesn't mean I can't do a few basic things while I drive.

Unfortunately there are only a few more weeks before the season closes on the track, so I need to make the most of the remaining sessions.

Fortunately, I can say that I fulfilled that need today. Tonight we did the first of the Goodales Keirin races, along with the standard Scratch race, a Handicap, and a Miss N Out.

I joked with some of the guys about bringing a monster gear for the Keirin because I always seem to be spinning my brains out as we finish, and I am really rough on the track, so a big gear would be useful. Sort of. Jokingly so.

But secretly I decided I really would bring a monster gear - a 53T to be precise, giving me a huge 95" gear (most riders run 88-90", and I'm running a 90"). I'd experiment since I stink at the Keirin anyway, so playing around wouldn't be a bad thing.

However I did do one thing earlier this week - move back to 170 cranks on the road bike. I felt that moving from 175s I use on the road bike (on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday) to the 170s on the Wednesday track bike killed my pedal stroke on the track bike.

Therefore I changed the cranks on the road bike.

I could have changed the track cranks to 175s, but since track emphasizes pedal suppleness, and you can't coast through the bends, I figured that 175s for the track would be a bad idea.

So, yesterday, I race at East Hartford on 170s.

And got totally destroyed.

I wasn't sure if I'd done the right thing, but there was only one way to find out - race on the track.

I got to track in semi-record time so had plenty of time to warm up. I told myself that, like yesterday, I had to learn to suffer once again. I haven't been suffering enough, giving up too easily. Track racing really demands digging deep because the races are so short that everyone goes anaerobic at the end, for longer than comfortable. It's the guys that can fight through it that do well. I'm not used to that because whenever I go uncomfortably anaerobic, I just coast. Or sit up a bit. Or drift back through the field.

I don't dig deep.

I did make a change to the track bike, but it had nothing to do with cranks. I installed the sensors for the cyclometer on the bars (it was just for show for the last month). Curious about how fast we go in a sprint, I tootled around at 17-22 mph for a while (kind of slow in a 50x15, but about as fast as I could go without feeling like I was racing).

Then, with a few minutes left before the first race, I did a flying 200. Well, I did it, but no one was timing me, so it was really just a sprint.

I felt a bit bouncy when I was standing to accelerate, sat through the final bend (that was smoother), and stood up to try and get some oomph to the line (bouncy).

33.1 mph.

That's really not very fast, considering my leadouts on the road bike go 35-38 mph.

However, in one gear, with no shifting, no coasting, and trying to stay in the sprinter's lane... 33 mph is sort of okay. Not great, but not that bad.

Mike T, a sprinter type, pointed out something useful.

"Look, if you're going 33, then the guys behind you have to go 35 or something to pass you."

True.

The bad thing is that both my calves and both my hamstrings threatened to cramp when I jumped. I actually almost cramped when I got off the bike, so I spent the next 10 minutes wondering if I'd just wasted a drive up here. I stretched my calves (they were particularly twingy), praying they'd ease a bit before we raced.

Luckily the As went first, a long 25 lap Scratch race. That was good, more time to stretch, but it implied that we'd be doing a longer than 12 lap scratch race.

"Great", I thought. "A long race on crampy calves."

We Bs lined up afterwards and took to the line for a 15 lap Scratch race. Dick Ring announced that I was the pacer (took me by surprise, I have to admit), so I obliged and rolled us out at some reasonable speed. I did the neutral lap and the first lap, but then guys got impatient and started going.

I think I pulled through for half a lap at some point, making my total 2 1/2 laps, but I was started to worry when we passed the lap cards and they said 11 to go. I had been tailgunning the group, sitting at the back for a couple laps, but 11 to go seemed, well, long. I could have sworn we'd done more than 4 laps, maybe like 8 or 9.

Whatever, I am not too confident in my lap counting abilites so I decided to tailgun a bit more.

Next lap it said 4 to go.

Oh.

I remember counting 6 laps total where I sat at the back, trying to build some reserves. Unfortunately I didn't move up in any kind of expedited fashion, so I was still 4 or 5 back on the backstretch of the last lap.

I tried to move up and spotted a chancy hole just above the sprint lane as we flew into the final turn. Two guys were down low, one guy up high, and I figured I could blast through that gap. But the guy who'd pulled uptrack (usually means he's giving up) seemed to waver up there, and I didn't want to chance a collision.

I went even further uptrack around him.

Usually this means disaster because you lose 1-2 lengths just going up to the blue line, and I was way over that. I didn't stand because I couldn't, so I just tried to goose the bike forward while remaining seated.

It goosed. Like for real. Like I didn't expect.

Not enough, but a good fight. I can't remember if I got third or fourth, but I was up there for the sprint.

I realized two things immediately, before I even crossed the line:
1. Now I know what the trackies mean when they say they can move up a gear. The 90" gear is good but I couldn't quite spin it up like I felt I should be able to. It's too big for me.
2. I can stay seated and do these spurt efforts, accelerating the bike hard without too much body language.

Now, as far as #1 goes, I can't spin well still so even an 88" gear would get me shelled before the finish. I simply can't go fast enough yet. So the 90" stays. But I want to be able to really spin it out.

#2... well, I decided I'd keep that in mind when I jumped for whatever the next race was.

Ends up it was the Keirin, the first heat.

The As went first, and it was really cool to watch. They're so fast, so consistent, and just when you think they have it all out on the track, they go even faster. Crazy.

Anyway, I got so enthralled watching the As that I totally forgot about my 53T secret weapon. It would have to wait. I hoped my seated jump, the practice going around the bends (the first Keirin I almost ended up in the woods), and some pedal suppleness would help me "survive" with the 90" gear, the 50x15.

We lined up, the moto went by, and we took off. I got third wheel behind the aforementioned Mike T, another sprinter type. I didn't know if guys let me get the ideal spot so I was on guard.

I felt that achiness you get when you get on the bike after watching a race (and not spinning around keeping the legs warm). I dug deeper, tried to get through the pain.

The moto accelerated gently for the next few laps, and after 4 1/2 laps it peeled off, leaving us with 1 1/2 laps of racing. By the time the moto peeled off my legs were back to normal, and the lead guy, with a slight gap, took off.

(Incidentally I'd totally forgotten about the crampy calves and remembered it only when I sat down to type this post. Weird.)

I stuck to Mike like glue through the first curve, and I knew we'd get swarmed on the backstretch. The lead guy would blow (that's the "I don't want to race" position, or the "I want to lead everyone out", so whoever gets there usually ends up fried, at least in the Bs).

I tried to counter the swarm before it ever happened. I moved up track just a touch and did my seated jump as we hit the backstretch. Guys did swarm, but I got clear of them and headed into the finishing stretch in the lead. Crossed the line, fighting off someone on my outside.

Yay!

Okay, not a wasted drive.

But that was just the heat. The final would be next, after the As did another race or two.

I decided to stay with the 50x15, forget about the 53, and focus on getting a good position, the seated jump, and blasting out onto the final straight.

Scotty, he of the other TriSpoke front wheel, won the repechage (a race for the non-placers - the top finishers get to ride the final) the hard way, going from the front and, incredibly, winning it.

He was so spent that they held an A Handicap race to give him some time to breathe.

After that we lined up for the Keirin final. Scotty seemed surprised when someone motioned for him to get on his bike. He was still semi-delirious from his oxygen-deficit effort and it took a good 10 seconds for him to realize that, yes, he was racing. And it was a Keirin. The Final in fact.

I decided I'd be in front of him when we got going.

In fact, once we hit out, I found myself in front of everyone except Scotty's teammate. A little too far forward, actually. I started hoping that Scotty's teammate would be able to do a good effort, a long effort, because whoever was on my wheel would be waiting to pounce on the backstretch.

Scotty's teammate spun the roller on the moto a couple times, so that gave me some hope. He was obviously a lot more comfy behind the moto than me.

The moto accelerated like normal and with 1 1/2 laps to go, he peeled off. Scotty's teammate was already out of the saddle and accelerating when the moto left, and we went ballistic to the bell, everyone glued to our wheels.

I did a jump to end all jumps to try and decide the race on the backstretch. I blasted into the last turn and, thought I had it, and suddenly there was someone to the outside, going really fast.

I lunged at the line and managed to hold the lead by a hair.

Yay!

I turned and looked. It was Sam, the guy that destroyed me in the Match Sprints last time I was here. Apparently he was on my outside on the first heat too.

Max speed in both Keirins: 33 mph. Hm. I think the cyclometer was a good idea. I guess the crank thing was a good idea too, at least for the track.

We did the Handicap race next, where we start out around the track for a 6 lap race. I'm not that strong so I was given a sort of forward position (i.e. the strongest riders start at the back, about a third of a lap behind me). Scotty lined up with me, and his teammate was in front of us.

We launched, Scotty quickly bridged to his teammate, me glued to his wheel, and we went really, really fast for a couple laps. Then we all got tired, we regrouped, and everyone started hammering.

I had to ease. I hadn't been shirking my pulls, and after I pulled off at 2 to go, I realized I had gone pretty deep into my reserves. I came off a lap later.

Fifth, behind a solo winner (we never caught her) and the three guys that shelled me on the last lap. Max speed - an amazing 34 mph.

Okay, not as "Yay!" as the Keirin, but promising. I pulled, I could go reasonably fast at the front, and I didn't give up until I was actually off the back.

This was good.

The last race was a Miss N Out, where the last rider is pulled each lap until three remain. Then they do a 2 lap Match Sprint. Historically I am horrible at this race and I've never made it to the final.

Tonight, because it was getting dark quickly, they decided that instead of doing a couple recovery laps, the last three racers would simply race an extra two laps for the finishing order.

Being very, very clever (heh), I counted the number of riders in the group before we set off.

Eight.

Minus three for the final 2 laps meant five riders would get pulled.

A strong guy went to the front and pulled for a while. He plugged away for a few laps. I think two, maybe three riders got pulled.

Then, spontaneously, with no planning, no forethought (apparently I used up my cleverness when I counted to eight), I launched a pretty serious attack. Actually I surged a bit to make sure I was third, but when I realized that I'd be passing the second guy, I decided to keep going and launch off the front.

I went pretty hard, focused on turning well in the turns, head tilted, drive the bar down, turn from the hip (I learned that today from another new guy on the track who, unlike me, actually bothered to learn something about track racing before trying it), and made a go of it for a lap.

I looked back and almost fell off my bike. I was actually clear of the field, like majorly clear.

This was like an A race attack!

That seemed promising, but then I remembered something. Usually the early break gets caught, and the group smashes said attacker into the ground.

Oh boy.

I tried to keep my form good, tried to remember that even if I slowed a bit, the guys behind had to close that gap, and no one was "resting" because you can't coast on a track bike, and they were still fighting amongst themselves to stay in the race.

"33 means 35 to pass", so I tried to go fast enough so that guys would have to really hurt to catch me.

I heard Dick Ring announce the last of the racers had been pulled, and it was two to go when we hit the line. I got around the final turn and looked up.

Two to go.

Holy smokes, I was dying.

My vision was going grey... or maybe it was the fact that I was wearing sunglasses at night, but whatever, I was just dyyying.

I made it for a lap but I started getting weird on the bike. I couldn't stay low, nor smooth, and I couldn't breathe enough air. I eased, hoping it would help, but it didn't.

The strong guy, who pulled for the first few laps, blew by me. I pedaled lamely. The other guy blew by me. I crawled to the line.

Third.

Yay! Sort of. I mean, yeah, it was an inspired effort, totally unlike my character. I thought of Abdujaporov winning a mountain stage in the Tour, that kind of mismatch.

I realized something afterwards: If I didn't ease up, it would have hurt exactly the same.

Therefore, next time, I won't sit up.

I got invited into the clubhouse after the races, snagged my prizes (more martinis! Yay!), chilled with the crowd for a few minutes, and split.

Man, I really want to work on turning over that 50x15 really fast now.

Heh.

Equipment - Ring Around The Rosie... Crankarms, Take 3

Take 3 on the Cannondale with crank arms.

Meaning I'm back on 170mm crankarms again.

"Oh Lord", you think, "Won't you buy me, a Mer... Um... Will you just make up your mind?"

This all relates to some thoughts I had on pedal speed and trying to get my heart rate up a bit higher.

I have two compelling reasons to move back to the 170s. First, last year, I rode better in flat races on them - Harlem, East Hartford, races not like Bethel or Hartford. Okay, I was a bit more fit, but I think I'm relatively fit now. With four flat East Hartfords, a few track days left, as well as one or two other flat races, I figure now is the time to move back to 170s.

Second, my track bike has 170s, and I really, really, really need to work on my pedal stroke on that bike. Pedaling 175s on Monday and Tuesday and then trying to spin 170s on Wednesday doesn't cut it. By putting the same size cranks on my road bike, I'll have a more consistent pedal stroke experience.

A centimeter (5mm x 2) pedal circle difference in diameter may not seem like much, but try, say, raising your seat a centimeter. Even just half that distance.

Yeah. Suddenly it seems like a lot.

Anyway, last night I skipped the group ride to do some bike maintenance work, namely making that 170 crank switch. I almost stripped my beloved Cannondale SI 175s when I tried to use the wrong part of the tool to remove the arms, but luckily I was too weak and I couldn't ruin my cranks properly. Instead, after switching to my demonic yellow glasses (they don't fall down my face as soon as I peer down like my temporary full time Oakley glasses - my regular pair are too scratched to use), I realized that I'd been trying to remove the crank with the piece that the remover uses as a base.

Oops.

Basically I was trying to strip the threads of the crank arm.

Once I figured that out and turned the remover instead of the piece it should push on, the arms popped off like magic. If only square taper cranks came off that quickly.

I went back upstairs in the middle of my crank work to see if I could pick up a track disk wheel for $150 off eBay (not! - price went up about $100 in the last 15 seconds so the seller must be happy), then went back down to finish the install of the 170s. That went quickly although I spent a few minutes trying to clean the frame around the BB shell (I rarely clean that area properly).

Then I tried out a new... okay, I'll post about it elsewhere after I test it. But basically I'm using renewable resources to hold on my SRM wires and such. I hope that this works because electrical tape eventually moves and zip ties seem so aggressive. And my bike was a mess so I really needed to clean it up.

Bike looked pretty good when I finished, at least slightly presentable. Joe Parkin would be embarrassed I think, and normally I would be, but I was tired and hot and really wanted to go to sleep.

Before I went to bed I weighed myself to see if I've lost any weight. It seems that I'm about 1 pound lighter than a couple weeks ago. So, no, I haven't, not really. I'll count it as "losing weight" when I'm five pounds lighter. I figure that's beyond the scale's margin of error (well, after the 10 pounds it already subtracts).

For the record I saw 169 pounds. That means I'm 179.

I figured I'd ride this morning, spin on the rollers, but I was too tired when I woke up. Knowing I have the race tonight, I decided that I'd spin during the warm-up. I ate some food in the morning instead, drank coffee, and thought about how I'd schedule everything so I could get to the race just a touch earlier than normal.

I think I'll just drive faster.

Racing - 2009 Nutmeg State Games Update

I got an email from Secondo (or here he is in action) a day or two after the races at Nutmeg State Games on June 13th (he's in there too, in orange - he's the one that made the move just before the bell) ended. He congratulated me on my race there, said he liked the helmet cam clip, and then, after a pause, asked me a whopper of a question.

"So how come you didn't get the Gold?"

Whadaya mean how come I didn't get the Gold? Did you see that last lap?! Did you see me move up?! Holy smolies what more could you ask for? Okay, fine, I sat up in the sprint, gave up, never really got my sprint going, jumped on the wrong side, still frickin' kicking myself, after all that work on the last lap, but still, you gotta give me credit for trying. I mean, seriously, how much more can you expect me to...

Oh.

He didn't mean it that way.

He meant, in a non-hysterical and most logical way, "The way I see it, the guys in front of you were all from out of state. So how come you didn't get the gold medal?" He helpfully included a list of the results with states in them (I don't know where he got that).

I had to look for myself. I went to USAC, checked the results. Looked at the names, the teams.

Couldn't tell.

Right click on each name, "Open in new tab" (which, incidentally, I think is an awesome feature in a browser), and did that for every name above me on the results.

No CT (at least not when I checked).

I felt that maybe Secondo had something going there. I contacted the promoter of the race, a guy that's been a part of the CT scene for forever, good guy, always trying to help out cycling. Well, I think I say that about pretty much any promoter, but anyway, I contacted him via email.

His email reply was a bit anticlimactic:

"I thought you picked it all up."

Or something to that effect.

Ends up that one guy lives in one place for part of the year, another for another, and he registered in the "other" state. And his license reflects that. Kind of like RTC, who would have medaled twice had he updated his registration information online (and yes, he's still kicking himself).

Anyway, Rick promised to see what he could do to correct things.

Skip forward one week.

I saw him (or rather, he saw me) at the East Hartford race. Told me he had some stuff for me after the race. Then, as promised, he called me over as I rode back to the car. Took out....

No, Hal wasn't there.

A jersey.

A medal.

Dude, you rock!

This is what happens when you have a lot of cats in the house and you put something on the floor... Riley is busy sniffing something, but Hal, Bella, and Tiger (clockwise from top right) are all looking at me.

So, officially, I ought to change the helmet cam clip. Officially I won the gold medal. Officially I won the jersey.

But it feels kind of anticlimactic. I didn't get to be all hyper at the race. Let the missus be happy for me. Share with all my friends there. Stand on the podium. Do all that stuff.

Instead... Well, let's just say that I feel for Pereiro. It's even a bit worse because it's a technicality, technically speaking. My goal has always been to win the race outright, but it didn't happen that way.

On the plus side I should point out that the missus, my friend SOC, and his missus were there at the race (where Rick gave me the medal and jersey), chatting while walking to our cars. I beat them there by rolling over on the bike, then, holding the jersey and medal behind my back, I walked over to the missus with a big grin on my face.

I showed her my catch for the day and her eyes almost popped out of her head. She didn't realize that Rick was there, and therefore that he'd given me the jersey and the medal. And like me, she hadn't been counting her chickens before they hatched.

So at least she got to be happy for me. And so did SOC and Mrs SOC.

With the light drizzle that caused the premature end to the race, the normally pesky mosquitoes seemed to have gone to ground so we chatted a bit more, taking our time packing up. Before we got out of there I had two guys pull up to me.

The first asked about my car, the blue one. Apparently he had had one too, and like me he didn't drive it in the winter. He ultimately traded it in for a "winterable" car (but, in his defense, he also has a van - like me - and some motorcycles - not like me). We traded some "never tell your kids" stories about driving our respective (un-winterable) cars. Let's just say that he has more cajones than I do.

The second one rolled up, friend and teammate of SOC. We all talked a bit, it ended up that he and I had had words earlier in the season (not necessarily angry ones, but they certainly weren't complimentary). A race incident, totally erased from my mind. It came up in conversation and, well, we both laughed at it.

Then we talked about moms, ours specifically. He mentioned the clips I made for her, and asked me something about them. He lost his mom to cancer a few years after I lost mine, and therefore he really appreciated the clips I'd made about the races (this and this) I did to fulfill a promise I made my mom.

We started talking about this year's Nutmeg Games. He pointed out that, well, I got Silver and he got Bronze.

My mind whirred and clicked.

"Wait. You got Bronze? I have some news for you. I was upgraded from Silver to Gold. And that means... You got Silver!"

"No way! What happened? How did you.. wait, where do I get my Silver?"

I thought about it for a millisecond.

"I didn't bring the medal tonight, but next week I'll bring it. It's sitting in my living room right now."

"And what about the Bronze, who gets that?"

I told him who it was, a good guy that I tried to help out a couple times, usually without his prior knowledge. I think you may know who it is.

Mister Newly-Minted Silver sort of knew who it was, and he said that he'd give it to one of that guy's teammates. The Z one (so keep an eye out for that). Or, if he shows up at the Rent (E-Haw, which understandably hasn't caught on as a substitute for "The Rent"), we'll get it to him directly.

Thanks Secondo! And don't expect to see me jumping after you any time soon.

Training - Crank Speed and a Two Month Goal

I've been thinking about this idea that I haven't been upping my working threshold this year. Meaning I haven't gone to a race and raced it harder than before. As I pointed out in that post, I've plateaued in fitness, or at least in usable power. I need to change that.

One of the things I've learned (the hard way, I might add) is that I lack pedal speed.

Specifically, I lack the ability to turn high rpms at high power after a few minutes of above threshold riding (or racing). It becomes extremely apparent on the track because I can't just click up a gear and slow down my pedaling.

On the track I use a 50x15 gear, a 90" gear. I use it because, frankly, I don't have any other usable gears. I have a 48x15 (86") but I got ridden right off the back of the group within a few laps the one time I used it. I couldn't pedal fast enough.

That should have been a hint.

But with most racers using a 49x15 (88" - 2 gear inches really does make a difference, although it's hard to believe that when riding a 20 speed road bike), I kind of faked it with the 50x15. I could pedal a bit slower, be a little less supple, and still make it to the end of a bunch of races.

Then, suddenly, the races got serious - they actually counted for the Cambridge Bike Omnium Series.

And guys turned on the power.

I was distinctly thrashed by a particular guy in what I considered to be my best event, the Match Sprint. He not only nullified my jump, he actually rode away from me while I was sprinting (?!).

I mean, whoa, talk about feeling like a Cat 4 (no Cat 5s on the track, you start at 4). And that's in my sprint, my strong point.

My only point.

So, yeah, I realized that I lack pedal speed.

The fact that I started thinking about buying a 51, or even looking for a 130 BCD 53, meant that, like always, I was trying to find a technical way out of the problem. Gear up a bit, use my jump to accommodate the slower acceleration, and have a much, much bigger gear (92" or even 95") for the fast part of the race.

But like any other part of bike racing, buying stuff only gets you so far. You can't buy speed if you can't pedal the bike. Case in point - the Human Derny (as I call him) used a 48x16 initially (an 86"!), and is now using a "big" 49x15, and he smokes the A fields.

I mean he kills it. And he makes it look easy.

So I haven't bought a bigger ring. Or a 14T cog (98" gear anyone? 100"?).

Instead, I've decided I need to train to turn gears faster.

Ultimately my problem consists of an inability to turn pedals quickly, smoothly. Therefore I need to work on that.

I'll do that by riding rollers more, by using the track bike on the trainer and trying to hit new high speeds, and by doing "distance" time trials on the trainer. This will involve some modifications because both my trainer and my rollers don't work very well with the track bike. I'll work on fixing that this week and hopefully have something better by next weekend.

The other thing is that I decided I am simply not fit enough.

When I lamented my poor showing in the Match Sprint, Tony reassured me by telling me that I'm being beat by kids. And that I'm old. Kind of.

Not really reassuring right? Other than being called old, that is. I mean, if Pat Gellineau can kick butt at 57 years of age, I should be able to do the same at almost a career's worth of years less.

Pat kicks butt because he's talented (former Olympian) but he's also fit. Like really fit. Like he looks the same as he did 20 years ago when I first saw him kick butt.

Consistent with this I have some new goals. Goals are good because they motivate me. They give me distinct metrics that I can see, feel, and touch. And by keeping an eye on the long term, the short term stuff is a bit easier.

So my goals are as follows:
1. More Speed, specifically more pedal speed. Adding 2-4 mph top speed would be nice too.
2. More Smoothness, meaning being more efficient.
3. Less Belly. I've always had one, but the missus pointed out that, well, I'm a bit "wider" than I was when we first met. It wasn't that long ago so I know I can return to a "less wide" state.
4. More Fit. Meaning being able to ride at higher heart rates. This would translate to not getting dropped when it gets fast on the track, and it would also make it possible to race better.

I'll work on #1 by doing the following:
1. Put 170s back on the Cannondale. Same length as the track bike, more pedal speed, consistent muscle memory. Seat on Cannondale like on the track bike (lower) to emphasize speed while seated. 170s means a higher seat, so I may end up with the seat in the same position, just shorter cranks.
2. Get trainer and rollers track bike compatible.
3. Do lots of fixed gear work on rollers to get back suppleness.

#2's approach:
1. Spin when on group rides.
2. Watch electrolyte intake - I cramp extremely easily, sometimes within minutes of getting on the bike, and electrolytes seem to help. Spinning exacerbates this, and is one of the main reasons I prefer not to spin.

#3 will involve:
1. Diet. Not a pro "starvation" diet, but focusing on more natural foods. Not a baked sweet good every morning, or candy bars, or whatever other junk I tend to eat when working.
2. Some non-cycling efforts. Minor lifting, core exercises. Short, simple, sweet. Easy to do, easy to maintain. More muscles to support means more calories burned by default.
3. Ride on my normal off days (Thu, Fri, Sat). Even an hour is a few hundred calories, and if I can burn 500 calories a day without increasing my intake, I'll be losing a pound a week. If I decrease my intake by 500 calories a day (unlikely, but possible), I can lose another pound. I joked that at 2 pounds a week, I'll be at about a buck twenty at Bethel. I'll fly up that hill!

And #4's plan:
1. Focus when doing higher efforts, especially at East Hartford (only four left). Dig deep, don't sit up, focus on pedaling, smoothness, efficiency. Try and finish a blasted race.
2. Focus on every race at the track. When I think I can't do well, I won't, but I surprised myself by almost doing well at a couple events where I'd normally be horrible. So I'll dig deep for each event.
3. Focus on riding efficiently, in the drops, whenever possible. Think aero and fast.
4. Ride sometimes with just heartrate. This should encourage me to go harder, since my heartrate seems low compared to my percieved effort.

It's kind of odd, writing this stuff out in August. I guess that I haven't thought about this stuff too much recently (meaning the last few years), but I really want to be better in the next month or two. Therefore I need to pick up the pace, so to speak.

We'll see how it goes.

And now I gotta get on the bike.