Typical Week

Monday--Did Parker's spin class. Watched an inspirational video. Thought about pizza.

Tuesday--Don't even remember this day. Probably ate pizza.

Wednesday--Rode with Sally so early that the only thing I remember is her saying something about leaving me to move to VA Beach. Something about a good deal on a townhouse. All I could think is how this would mess up my early morning ride routine. Ate Cogan's pizza. Glad to have the half without artichokes.

Thursday--Spent considerable time in an email conversation about how fast (or not) winter rides should be. Went to a planning meeting for Conte's Classic, scheduled for April 9. Ate Red Dog Saloon pizza. Learned that "cheese pizza" is redundant.

Friday--Rode with Sally again, this time in wind chill that froze my hands and core. Saw a huge ice patch on Hampton Blvd but did nothing to avoid it. Fishtailed like crazy, somehow stayed upright, then felt like I had been jolted out of a complicated dream. Felt so grateful to not be on the ground, clipped into fixed gear rotation, that I congratulated Sally on her new home. Ate Dominio's pizza for lunch. Thought about how pepperoni is the same yesterday today and forever.

Saturday--Did nondescript 55 miles with the group. Ate plain pancakes.

Sunday--Practiced rotating paceline and hill repeats on training ride. Watched Carol's demo of team tactics in which magnetic checkers served as racers. Nice touch to stack checkers to indicate strong opponents. Made banana pancakes.

Cross is the new black

(at left Elite A men cross racers negotiate the spongy switchbacks. Photo by John)

Build it off road and they will come. Trashmore Cross race attracted a curious mix of racers yesterday. Of course there were the cross experts (Team CSK men). Also, mainstays for any racing genre like Pam and Dave showed. Josh split from marathon training for the day to reacquaint himself with the bike. There were pure mountain bikers like Mike and Dan who live in town but can only be spotted on backwoods trails 3 hours outside of town. I saw 2 single speed types, including Wes and some guy wearing a Shenandoah Bicycle Club jersey. Triathletes Eddie and Laura emerged back on the scene after hiding in UT and CA for the past few years working on PhD’s. Closest local racer: 3 minutes from event. Longest drive home: Washington DC.

Best part of the course was top of the first mountain (elevation 50 feet), where the temp was colder than below, where the wind was battering the course tape, and where spectators’ voices were carried off the same way it happens on plateaus thousands of feet higher. I rediscovered the joy of being atop Mt Trashmore, Va Beach’s much joked but much beloved landfill.

The season's first snowfall dusted the course later that night, entombing our collective tire tracks. (All race day photos by John Blaszczak.)

Less said says more

Movie week. I saw a great film Gerry on Sundance Channel the other night. Two hikers lost in the desert search for water and the highway (not necessarily in that order) while having infrequent and alarmingly ordinary conversations. The gaps of silence may confound film critics, but all mountain bike viewers understand. Silence allows time to check out all the rideable desert landscapes in Death Valley and to imagine being lost with a bike and Camelback out there. As the film winds down, you just know not to expect a miracle, and during the dismal epilogue you get off the couch to start a 48-hour hydration ritual. Four. (Photo source: sundancechannel.com)


Us cross hostelers and guests gathered for opening night of Hostel at Pembroke Friday. From the second row I watched a movie that thankfully bore little resemblance to our own hostel experience. A Quentin T without the trademark clever twist, "Hostel" shows the mechanics of torture without inducing the fear or mystery found in good horror. It seems to point out sick greedy human nature but uses way too much stock dialogue among unlikable characters to do so. Hosang’s fantasies about what stood behind the forbidden doors at Ironmaster’s Hostel scare me more. One point five. (Photo source: bloody-disgusting.com)