By Uncle Chad

Ooohhh boy-oh-boy I tell ya. I was just at Interbike 09. Sometimes what happens in Vegas should definitely stay in Vegas, and some should come with you home in a ditty bag. Used to be the show was expensive to get to, and your bike was cheap. Now the show is cheap, and the bikes ya cant afford!! (sweatball,,,, you know the rest).

Granted the bikes are cool, the people are cool, the place is cool and the show is cool. The wheels weigh nothing, the bikes weigh nothing, and the models wear nothing. The products range from bikes to small gadgets. From hand warmers, to secret vitamins, to headbands to keep the sweat out of your eyes, (complete with a demo of the head of a mannequin with blue goo oozing out of his forehead – I kid you not!). And the carbon! Ohhhh the carbon! The greatest over-rated plastic to ever be invented. Monocoque, lugged, vacuum sealed, inflated, and who knows where they are all really made. Italian is made in Taiwan, Taiwan is made in China, China is made in Korea, Korea is made in Taiwan. Who the crap knows! High modulous, high resistance, nano super-duper technology! Can you make it any more expensive? Yes please!! Decked out in crazy paint schemes, natural weave, two-tone, raw, flat black, and even neon!! Sounds like a friggen bag of plastic fishing worms!! Shwing!! Should put them expensive things on a wall and have them sing like a Big Mouth Billy Bass!

Ah an idea. What if bass fishermen built bikes? They would be the most bad-ass bike out there. All the bikes would come jacked up with oversized tires and chrome bumpers with a winch on front. Instead of a Bentobox, there would be a chaw-tin of Cytomax. The rear parts bag would have a silhouette of a hot female cyclist. The seat-tube would be an extendable fishing rod, with a removable crankset for the fishing real. Colors of bikes would have names like “chartreuse”, “rootbeer”, and “new penny”. Bike stands would be made out of cinder blocks, and Craftsman would be the tool choice over Park and Pedros. The life of the rider would be fantastic! Although he wouldn’t really ride, but just lean against his bike in his parent’s driveway.

Oops. Back to the show. For retailers and bike stores that is. Yeah right. If that place was filled with only retailers, the companies would make a fortune. Fortunately, it’s eye candy for all who can venture to Vegas. Posers, Wannabees, and Can-I-haves, all scurrying around for a water bottle here, poster there, autograph of someone there. Then the mad dash for a beer before they are all sucked up. Good interbike goers will map out who is having a keg brought to their booths and what time at end of day. A poor interbiker times it too well, and is a stutterin, mutterin fool and can barely stand by 5:30pm. Geekamaina flows afterwards with evening crits and cyclocross races that will bore a boar.

Fortunately, the show is more than bikes. Venture to the east side, and you slowly morphisize into the grunge section of single speeds and bmx’rs. It’s like you are in a different world, searching for that lost roach in your 78 Camaro’s ashtray, to pop into the Graphic you lost back in college. A little north, and its big drop bikes. Little of one group ventures into each other’s section.

Just like rival clubs, interbike has its’ melting pot of people. Your stupid single speeders, crossbike sissys, dumb mountain bikers, f-in roadies, and yes, worm tossin bass fisherman.

34° 4’49.91″N 118°39’44.92″W

Few riding locations on the planet earth are as elemental as Piuma Rd. Located between the primal landscape of Malibu and the majestic peaks of Topanga, the wind-lashed, sun-drenched, ever-chaging landscape continues to be shaped by the elements, like the bulldozers digging swimming pools for the weekend homes of plastic surgeons, for instance.

PIUMA

Only the most fashionably vintage technical wear can survive these streets, which is why Ritte Van Vlaanderen products are designed to excel in even the most stereotypical of Southern California environments. And like the wealthy people who choose to live here, Ritte is as comfortable on the Malibu Canyon highways as it is in the trendiest of Redondo Beach Starbucks.

PIUMA RD.
LOCATION: 34° 4’49.91″N 118°39’44.92″W
ELEVATION GAIN: 700M
MAXIMUM GRADIENT: 10%
MAILBOXES: 31
REPUTATION: Nice cut through to PCH.

RITTE TECH FLEECE JERSEY
INSULATION: Brushed fleece Thermonuclearturbotech fabric.
COMFORT: Maximum.
FEATURES: A zipper and some pockets.
REPUTATION: Comfy in temps below 20C, soy latte stain resistant.

(photography by David Pountain www.davidpountain.com)

So Aaron, you obviously have a thing for long, drawn-out self-torture. What’s wrong with your brain? Too much glue-huffing as a kid?

It’s the voices in my head.

Have you been formally diagnosed with any neurosis?

I have three sisters. Does that count?

Sisters do count. Tell me about Everest Challenge this year. You won a stage. What kind of training were you doing to pull off that kind of result?

I was riding about 250 to 300 miles a week with at least 10,000’ of climbing. There was one day that I left the house at 4:30 am and rode thirty miles to meet Alan Zarembo for a training ride at 6:00 am.

I heard about your 200 mile day. How’d that happen?

I headed north on Pacific Coast Highway. Eventually I decided that I should turn around. By that time I was almost to Santa Barbara. When I got home I was at about 185. I figured I might never be so close to 200 again, so I put on my lights and rode around Hollywood for 15 more miles.

What’s your favorite LA-area ride?

I love to ride up Angeles Crest to Mt. Wilson.

So you went to film school. Is that where your Kubrick beard came from?

I did study film at CalArts, but the beard came a couple years later to tone down my boyish good looks. Plus the ladies dig the Al-Qaeda look… it makes me seem more dangerous.

And I bet airport check-ins are more eventful too.

As a fellow facial hair sporter, what’s your opinion of Terry Crouse’s mustache? Is it more LA cop, or Village People Cop?

Village People, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

(Aaron and Terry show us how to wear the facial hair.)

In your expert opinion, what’s the best cycling film of all-time and why?

“Hell on Wheels”. Pink jerseys and EPO kick ass.

They do kick ass, Aaron. They do.

Speaking of films, Bicycle.net will be hosting Ritte’s sure-to-be-classic cycling bits next year. Would you rather direct, DP, write or act?

I trained as a cinematographer, but who does not want to be a movie star? Although I may have to learn how to speak first.

At the Mt. Hood Stage Race next year, you an Alan Zarembo will undoubtedly be finishing alone together at the top of the 20-mile climb to the Mt. Hood Ski Resort. Will you hold hands as you cross the line, not caring who finishes first, or will you duke it out?

I hope to cross the finish line riding on Alan’s handlebars.

So you’re a Vegan? What did meat ever do to you?

Well, I …

If you were trapped on an island and you could only eat one thing for a year, would you choose:
a) Tofurkey
b) Steak
c) Lettuce

Those are shitty choices.

Wrong. The correct answer is Steak. Speaking of meat. In an Alive-type situation, which one of your teammates would you eat first?

Eat the domestiques.

But then who will bring you the bidons?

What flavor Prolong do you think would go best with human flesh? Blueberry or Lemon Lime?

Blueberry.

If you were born in Flanders, what would your name have been?

Van der Goat.

Ah, I see what you did there with the “goat,” good one. Very clever.

Thanks, Aaron.

Saturday morning I took a step that was far from monumental, but certainly not a trivial one on life’s forced march.  To be specific, I showed up for the Saturday morning shop ride in my new town, not knowing a soul.

For the record, I’m not a particularly shy person.  Okay, I’m not exactly Zig Zigler, but I can work a crowd when need be.  I’ve gotten on stage in front of a lot of people and said what needed to be said.  As part of my job, there isn’t a week that goes by that doesn’t have me shaking some new hands.  Most of the time I enjoy it, and when I don’t, it’s usually because someone has passed the threshold of tolerable.  Which is all to say that I don’t shudder at plopping myself into a new group and seeing what happens, unless, of course, those people are fellow cyclists and I have reason that they may be hard core ones, at that.

So, Saturday at 5:45 am, I’m wide awake.  My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, and actually won’t for another 13 hours, because I’ve fat-fingered it to wake me at 6:45 PM for the shop ride that starts at 8:00 — in the morning.  Doesn’t matter.  I’m awake.  I’m awake because of the shop ride starting in a couple of hours.  The one that appears to be the polar-opposite of the coffee-ride.  The one that is described as warming up for the first ten miles at a pace around twenty, and then getting ‘sporty’ for the next 35 or so, before cooling down on the way back to the shop.  For the record, I don’t usually warm up at twenty miles per hour.

Anyway, since I moved to Texas I’ve been in need of an adjustment.

See, in St. Louis, where I’ve been riding for the past three years, racing is often like a barroom knife-fight.  First there’s beer, then there’s music, and everybody’s having a fine old time, until somebody throws down and somebody else brings out a blade, and things get complicated.  In cycling parlance, you roll out in a group start and everybody behaves themselves for the first few miles until the legs are warmed up and people have picked their desired spot in the peloton, and then some angry hill jumps in your way and it’s nothing but double-digit grades for a quarter mile, or maybe a half, and any civility is quickly lost.  A few slashes of the pedals later, the peloton is a joke, blasted to pieces, while every rider is trying to get back under max heart rate while looking for a grupetto to work in with for the long slog home.  All the while, you’re wondering exactly which gear-ring you should have brought: 26? Maybe even 27.  But you’ve got a 25 and your quads have been slashed.  Good luck.

Texas, on the other hand, is a different matter altogether.  First, we’re talking about North Texas, about 3 hours removed from Hill Country, where Lance lives, and where the hills are quite respectable.  But that’s there, and there isn’t here.  Here, we’ve got flats, and we’ve got rollers.  And the rollers are relatively flat.  Sounds easy, huh?  Well, it isn’t — because it’s just faster.  At the Hotter’n Hell Hundred in August, the Cat 4 race averaged 25 mph.  In St. Louis, we’d been happy notching a 5 hour century in a relatively flat area.  In Texas, you shave an hour off of that.

So I arrive at Mad Duck Cycles in Grapevine, Texas at 7:40 and there are a handful of cars, with guys going through the motions of getting the gear ready.  I parked near them and did the same, eyeballing sideways gauge what kind of intensity the workout was likely to be.  I was immediately intimidated at the apparent talent.

On the one hand, I told myself, as a Cat 4 racer I shouldn’t be too worried about embarrassing myself on a shop ride.  On the other hand, the small group that had assembled thus far lacked a single leisure-suit-Larry rider.  Everybody looked lean and experienced.  As I prepped the bike, pumped the tires, and worried, additional cars rolled in, and the group-size swelled modestly.  Once I’d buttoned things up, I introduced myself around, and was at least comforted that people were open and welcoming to the Newbie.

On the other hand, I quickly learned that the group would be led out by at least one Pro 1/2 rider, and a nice gentleman who just happened to finish second in the 45+ Master’s category at last week’s Texas State Championship races.  He mentioned he’d gone down there needing to pick up 7 more points for the season, and did it.  I didn’t mention that I couldn’t recall ever having won any points.  Then there was the gentleman who said he didn’t race, ever, but he was a personal sports trainer and regularly notched 10,ooo miles a year.  And so on.

Cutting to the chase, I got all the workout I wanted, and then some.  I came back sore after throwing in a shortened 35-mile loop, due to family commitments. And, encouragingly, I found the shop ride that’s virtually guaranteed to get me used to the Texas tempo and take my racing to a higher level.

And maybe that’s where it all starts.  The “why” of cycling.

The answer, for me, is the timelessness of it.  The fact that for a guy moving from his mid 40s to his late ones, I don’t face the prospect of having to slow down.  This year I rode better than the one before, and I can say that for each year for the past several.  Next year, I fully expect to be a better racer at 48 than I was at 47.  And this continual progression wasn’t built on a lifetime of participation in the sport.  In fact, it wasn’t until my mid 30s that I started cycling, and that was on a $200 Raleigh hybrid with a baby-seat mounted on the back.  Eventually I trashed that rig riding trails, to the point that one day the baby seat came loose and dragged behind me as I rode.  Fortunately, the baby wasn’t onboard.  Nowadays, I can get thoroughly pasted in a good race or a tough shop-ride, but it isn’t lost on me that when I’m just rolling around putting in solo miles, I’m almost never passed by another rider.  Once you’ve gotten to the point where you’re buying annual USACycling licenses, even at the entry-level, you’re already riding more and faster than 95% of people who put their butt on a bike seat.  Catting up just raises that percentage.

And it’s not hard to find examples of guys and gals still hitting new personal-bests into their 50s. French Pro Jeannie Longo regularly trounces young ladies her daughter’s age.  Dave Wiens plays to the spoiler each year to Lance Armstrong in the Leadville 100, notwithstanding Wiens’ almost a decade and a half higher age.  I find these folks just as heroic, and even more inspiring, than all those twenty-somethings sitting on wheels in the pro peloton.

So next Saturday I’ll probably wake up early and nervous, but less so than last week, and I’ll cruise down to the shop and get ready for another loop at the edge of my capability, and I expect I’ll hang in just a little better than I did last time.

The 2010 TdF route was announced last week and, ou est la! It largely involves a long, hard bike ride around France.  Yes it has different features and towns and mountain passes, and yes it lacks a Team Time Trial and Mont Ventoux and so on, but if you step away from all the plusses and minuses, what’s clear is that winning next year’s Tour won’t be about the route.  Nor will it be about the bicycles or the other gear, because all the teams who get invited have the finest gadgets on the market.  So the question that remains, is whether it will be about who brings the best team, or who brings the best rider.

Let’s step back and look at Lance’s 7 consecutive wins.  Arguably he came each year with a great support team, and in a few years he had the absolutely indisputably best squad to serve his goals.  And that’s what they were there for.  The strategy was simple: It was all for one, not one for all. The fact that in seven years on only one occasion did a teammate of Lance’s win a single stage, shows clear evidence of that.  Anyway, it worked, and there’s nothing wrong or insidious about such a strategy.  Anyone who belly-aches about it has to be suffering from overwhelming pangs of jealousy.

But then a funny thing happened.

Just as Lance left the sport to chase around marathons and female celebrities, young Alberto Contador made his own spectacular debut by winning any and every major Tour he bothered to show up for.  He won the TdF and Giro the first time he’d entered either of them.  Then he won the Vuelta Espana to complete the hat trick.  His name and palmares starting climbing the record books faster than he rides uphill.

But then an even funnier thing happened.

Apparently Lance figured out there was no way he would catch the fastest people in the marathons, or maybe he got tired of so easily conquering starlettes, but for reasons we may never fully appreciate he decided he wanted to race bicycles again.  And, will ironies never cease, he plops himself down as the new head or co-head or presumed-head or honorary head or whatever, of the very squad that would otherwise be lead by Alberto Contador.

Now, we’ve written with unique laser-focused insight (for example, read this beauty or this one) about the interesting chemistry that played out as a result of conjoining these two very strong but polar opposite athletes and mixing them thoroughly with a batch of other very strong athletes, AKA the Astana Squad of 2009.  What the public saw was latent energy.  It was like watching a nuclear reactor.  You don’t see much more than clouds of white steam poring out the roof, but it scares you anyway.  What went on within the team, was probably not so unlike the inside of said reactor, with uranium rods (AKA, Lance) throwing off atoms so powerful they’re capable of producing temperatures found on the surface of the sun, and lead rods (AKA, Contador) absorbing such energy, more or less, but undoubtedly getting fried in the doing.

Forgetting all the fission taking place inside hotels and onboard the team bus, their interactions on the race course were even more interesting.  Lance quickly showed that he remains amazing fast on the bike, and even faster at sending out caustic Tweets about the shortcomings of his teammate.  Not once did he do so about other riders on the Astana squad, or riders on other squads.  In fact, he spoke to the press during the race about how people inside the peloton seemed to be playing more nicely with him than they did prior to his hiatus from the sport.  Oh yes, he was a veritable love machine toward 189 of the 190 starting riders, himself included.

But of course there was no love in store for Alberto Contador.

Now, many, or lets just say every, rider that has faced Lance’s focused scorn over the past decade, has found a way to promptly implode.  He gives them “The Look,” and they dutifully start riding for second place.  It’s been that simple.  And that’s because Lance is a master at sports psychology and playing mind-games that would make a waterboarding CIA interrogator claim “not fair!”

But somehow Lance couldn’t figure out how to crack the shell of this so-called mama’s boy named Contador.  When harsh words and harsher looks failed, Lance divided the Astana squad into two parts:  those that would faithfully support Lance’s efforts to win, and those that wanted to find work outside the sport of cycling.  So young Alberto found himself sitting alone, while Lance and his gang of hangers-on heaped scorn and derision toward him.

Most of us would have wilted under this barrage.  Most of us would have begged to bow at the knee of Lance and be allowed to serve his majesty.  Most of us would have gotten in line, zipped our lips, and done as told.  What Alberto Contador said in response, he said with this legs.

Lance rode dazzlingly, and earned his way back onto the podium, which we wouldn’t have bet on.  It was just too big of an ask after too long of a sabbatical.  But he did it and we salute him.  Nevertheless, no matter how hard he rode, Alberto Contador rode harder.  Contador won in the mountains and he won in the individual time trials — both parts of the race that Lance dominated in his heyday.  As tellingly, Contador beat Lance without the support of the Astana squad, which cowered behind Lance.  Lance Tweeted about Contador such silly things as, “there’s no I in team,” to which we scoff because that’s all there ever was at Postal/Discovery, and he scoffed about apparent tactical blunders by his teammate — but Contador proved that he could sustain himself against Lance’s legs, Lance’s mouth, and Lance’s Astana-clad goons.

Now We Look Forward to The 2010 Tour

Even before the 2009 race was concluded, Lance started licking his wounds and plotting the next battle.  His first move was to announce that he and his goons would start a new squad and virtually everybody at Astana would be invited in.  However, suffice it to say that Spanish will not be spoken on the team bus, and anyone who can read Espanol would have noted on the invitation that they weren’t invited.

On the face of it, that leaves Alberto almost singlehandedly riding in 2010 against Lance and Astana.   As we described above, there would be nothing particularly new about that arrangement.  And while Alberto’s situation at Astana, a team that is only vaguely defined at this time, is less than ideal, it is almost certain he’ll arrive in France in July with a much friendlier and more supportive squad than he had around him in 2009.

As such, Alberto uniquely brings the mental toughness to win the Tour again, notwithstanding all the rocks and bombs Sir Lance may cast his way.  It should be an extraordinary event and a wonderful battle to watch, and we’re already looking forward to July 2010.

Please post your comments below.

No matter how epic the conditions, the plain black or clear rain cape is ubiquitous in the pro field. Why? Because it works just fine. Cost: $40-$80.

Of course, no matter how dismal the world’s economy becomes, cycling prices still seem to rise on a exponential curve. Who are the people fueling this? Is it the guy here in LA who straps his BMC to the back of his Lamborghini? Seriously. A Lamborghini with a trunk rack. I am not shitting you. (on a related note: if anybody out there can think of a way for me to escape LA please let me know.)

Unlike a mind-numbingly nonsensical $600 jacket, some of these stratospherically priced toys do leave me a little moist. Like just about any hoops designed by Lew. For example, the new Reynolds RZR.

Drop 5K on a pair of these 800gram wheels and your whole ride will no doubt change for the better. Of course, the emotional stress of riding them on the Pacific Coast Highway will also take years off your life.
But I guess if you’re willing to trade that many working hours for a bike wheel, then maybe you’re willing to trade a little life? I dunno.

In my book you’re a little messed up in the head either way.

Oooh. Then there’s the Javelin Cortina. I saw this baby at Interbike and wanted to strip off all my clothes and mud wrestle with it in a seedy Tijuana bar. The Javelin rep showed me a cross section of the frame. The tube’s wall is about a quarter inch thick, and is a layer of Kevlar honeycomb sandwiched between two thin carbon sheets. The bike is unbelievable beautiful. The frame alone is also $11,000. But is there really a market for this eye-candy? Sure they’ve got to sell one or two. But the Javelin rep also told me that no dealers in SoCal will carry their brand. They just don’t see the market for it.

Rocket 7 is another good example. They’re the hand-made, all-custom shoes that are also wonderfully ugly. Used to be you could drop a whopping $800 for a pair. Now they start at $1,475. The rumor is that they’re also going out of business.

Perhaps if someday I’m ever rich as sin I’ll change my mind about all this. But right now I must declare to be a-holes all people who fuel this steady proliferation of outrageously priced gear. Go ahead and buy a $160 cycling jacket, or a $2000 set of wheels, or a $5000 frame. Crap. Isn’t that expensive enough for you? I guarantee that those already very expensive items will perform just as well as the even more expensive stuff. And I’m doing you a favor because if they see you wearing any “Record 11 Series” gear they will likely think you’re an a-hole. And they will likely be right.

Party,
Lanolin.

By Uncle Chad

Ooohhh boy-oh-boy I tell ya. I was just at Interbike 09. Sometimes what happens in Vegas should definitely stay in Vegas, and some should come with you home in a ditty bag. Used to be the show was expensive to get to, and your bike was cheap. Now the show is cheap, and the bikes ya cant afford!! (sweatball,,,, you know the rest).

Granted the bikes are cool, the people are cool, the place is cool and the show is cool. The wheels weigh nothing, the bikes weigh nothing, and the models wear nothing. The products range from bikes to small gadgets. From hand warmers, to secret vitamins, to headbands to keep the sweat out of your eyes, (complete with a demo of the head of a mannequin with blue goo oozing out of his forehead – I kid you not!). And the carbon! Ohhhh the carbon! The greatest over-rated plastic to ever be invented. Monocoque, lugged, vacuum sealed, inflated, and who knows where they are all really made. Italian is made in Taiwan, Taiwan is made in China, China is made in Korea, Korea is made in Taiwan. Who the crap knows! High modulous, high resistance, nano super-duper technology! Can you make it any more expensive? Yes please!! Decked out in crazy paint schemes, natural weave, two-tone, raw, flat black, and even neon!! Sounds like a friggen bag of plastic fishing worms!! Shwing!! Should put them expensive things on a wall and have them sing like a Big Mouth Billy Bass!

Ah an idea. What if bass fishermen built bikes? They would be the most bad-ass bike out there. All the bikes would come jacked up with oversized tires and chrome bumpers with a winch on front. Instead of a Bentobox, there would be a chaw-tin of Cytomax. The rear parts bag would have a silhouette of a hot female cyclist. The seat-tube would be an extendable fishing rod, with a removable crankset for the fishing real. Colors of bikes would have names like “chartreuse”, “rootbeer”, and “new penny”. Bike stands would be made out of cinder blocks, and Craftsman would be the tool choice over Park and Pedros. The life of the rider would be fantastic! Although he wouldn’t really ride, but just lean against his bike in his parent’s driveway.

Oops. Back to the show. For retailers and bike stores that is. Yeah right. If that place was filled with only retailers, the companies would make a fortune. Fortunately, it’s eye candy for all who can venture to Vegas. Posers, Wannabees, and Can-I-haves, all scurrying around for a water bottle here, poster there, autograph of someone there. Then the mad dash for a beer before they are all sucked up. Good interbike goers will map out who is having a keg brought to their booths and what time at end of day. A poor interbiker times it too well, and is a stutterin, mutterin fool and can barely stand by 5:30pm. Geekamaina flows afterwards with evening crits and cyclocross races that will bore a boar.

Fortunately, the show is more than bikes. Venture to the east side, and you slowly morphisize into the grunge section of single speeds and bmx’rs. It’s like you are in a different world, searching for that lost roach in your 78 Camaro’s ashtray, to pop into the Graphic you lost back in college. A little north, and its big drop bikes. Little of one group ventures into each other’s section.

Just like rival clubs, interbike has its’ melting pot of people. Your stupid single speeders, crossbike sissys, dumb mountain bikers, f-in roadies, and yes, worm tossin bass fisherman.

Now sports teams are expensive, you have your athlete salaries to pay, you have your back room staff to pay, you have to pay for medical assistance, you have to bribe officials and employ a good driver to help you make you escape when the testers turn up. But whatever the cost the dream of owning a team is the one that persists.

You get to pick the riders, you get to ask that one guy you really, really hate to fly half way round the world on the promise of a multi million Euro pay packet only to tell him, ‘Sorry, no spaces left’. You get to spend hours planning your lead out train, days picking you climbers and no time at all picking the director sportif, because that’s going to be you.

This year there are big new teams on the block, Armstrong has found a small corner shop that needs a little local publicity, the money’s not great but you get all the batteries you can carry. And across the pond Big Dave Brailsford has managed to open the bank account of one of the worlds biggest media organizations and is according to rumor driving around Europe with a suitcase of used notes looking for someone to ease his burden . And since the announcement the internet has been awash with rumor, counter rumor and counter counter rumor. One of the enjoyable things about the transfer season is that until the contracts are inked we can all play ‘Man what the hell are they signing that fool for’, ‘they need a sprinter, not another skinny climber’ , ‘time trialists, time trialists, where are the bloody time trialists?’ On and on it goes, there has hardly been a rider that hasn’t been linked to either The Shack or The Sky often riders get linked to both only to sign for some crazy left field outfit.

There has never been a year like it, well OK there hasn’t been a year like it for speculation since 1909. Suddenly a sport that was supposed to be on the ropes is coming out fighting and looking good for a victory.
And then there’s Cav. Cav of course has said that he’s more than happy at Columbia and intends to stay there cos he loves his team, he loves his team mates, he loves his manager, he loves his mechanic, he loves his saddle, he loves the air in his tyres and he loves winning. In fact have you ever heard a Columbia race winner not pouring undying love on his team mates, what are the odds of a Columbia rider winning and saying ‘My team were crap, none of them wash, they all smell and I hate them’ pretty low, still if you’re a betting person, I’m more than will to help a sucker and his money part, sorry, offer you good odds. The rumors on Cav go like this, Cav talks to Armstrong so he’s going to sign to The Shack, Cav’s a Brit and Rod Ellingworth is his coach, so he’s gonna sign for Team Sky, Cav used power tools, so he’s going to sign for Skill, Cav once bought a lottery ticket so he’s off to Belgium. I guess that speculating about the Royal Cavster is a good excuse to avoid that training session.

So, you buy that lottery ticket and 24 hours later you’re the proud owner of 150 million Euros, what then? Do you have a team of your hero’s, or a team of riders you’d like to slap with a brick? Do you have a team of winners or a team whose only reason to finish on the podium is to get ‘close and personal’ to the presentation girls? A team that knows what they are doing on the road or a team that will follow every one of your clearly insane instructions come race day – ‘If a break goes only chase if there’s a guy called Jan in it’, ‘When you get to the first climb attack whilst singing Copacabana’, ‘At the feed get off your bike and demand a big Mac’. With that sort of money you could have a lot of fun, with that sort of money you could become a media celebrity, a social outcast and a team manager all at the same time.

One of the most annoying things with living in a big city like Los Angeles is all the trash just thrown on the streets. Walk down Robertson Blvd., just one block from my house and you would be amazed at the kind of litter that people threw out of their cars. Slurpee cups, fast food bags, used condoms, busted up cell phones, and even a used needle once.

So when I head to the hills I expect, and I am now demanding, that I get to escape the litter of the city. So on the ride mentioned above I was horrible let down. I hold us cyclists up to a higher standard than your beer drinking late night canyon racer type. Cyclists have no reason to litter, and I mean none.

So as I started to head up the Latigo climb I noticed a gel packet at the base of the climb. I stopped; I bent over, and picked it up and put it in my jersey pocket. No big deal, someone dropped it by accident I guessed. Once riding again I decided to see if that gel packet was a one off, or some kind of great cyclist screw up. Well, the latter turned out to be true.

I stopped twenty nine times to pick up a gel packet, twice for bar wrappers, and three times for CO2 cartridges. That is 34 pieces of trash that cyclists threw out onto the road and totally messed with my mind. I was completely pissed off. I mean I was PISSED OFF dam it. How in the hell can anyone just toss their trash onto my Santa Monica Mountain paradise?

I am sure that more screwed up in the brain bone heads have already started a new collection of discarded energy product packets and wrappers onto Latigo, and I can only hope that cycling karma kicks them to the asphalt and gives them really bad road rash they gets infected.

STOP TOSSING YOUR TRASH ONTO THE ROAD.

Your cycling jersey has those damned pockets for a reason. Want to know what they are for? So you can store your crap in them. And once you shove that crap into you pie hole, you can put the damned wrappers back in the pocket until you get home to throw it out. Got it? Then live it!

Even my 3 year old son knows not to litter.