Turbulent flows
July 31, 2007"But," said the woman with a smile, an index finger raised, looking up at the gypsy cyclist. "There are places in our infinite universe where there are no constants from day to day: where the sun does not rise or set in any place you would expect, and the stars achieve a new configuration in the sky everyday; where flowers and leaves flit randomly from color to color, where all living things are forever changing their form - gestating, growing, and dying at unpredictable rates. If you were human there and could measure rates of change, you might be born in three weeks, grow to be a man in three years, and die at five. But you see, in such a place time does not exist, because there are no constants, and no way to measure them.
"Our world," she continued, "is set by the rhythm of the sun, and everything you know and understand is wrought and tempered in the context of its incessant beat, as it rises and falls from day to day.
"Ah," she said, gazing deeply into his eyes. "We have only just met, but because you remain before me now, willing to listen, I believe you have considered these things before."
The gypsy cyclist nodded, entranced by the woman's words. By happenstance they found themselves facing one another, nearly having collided as he strolled his bicycle centrally along a downtown sidewalk adjacent a street called Broadway, dense with walkers. There is a Broadway in every major city: it is the universal street, he'd concluded. But unlike many of his pedestrian counterparts, the gypsy cyclist was unhurried, and so, apparently, was the woman. Seemingly compelled to respond by the reflection of the sky in her liquid eyes, he said, soporifically, "Yes, I think I understand - at least about the rhythms of the sun. But I must say I'm not so sure about these other strange places you talk about."
The woman continued, almost unaware of the passing of the crowds or of the unusual nature of their encounter. But theirs was a mutual sensation, and they stood like boulders in the middle of a stream, around which the turbulent waters of humanity swirled and eddied in its passing.
She said, "if you are a subject of the sun and its rhythms, how could you ever know that there are places so different from your experience? Are you worried about the physics of it all? This is not a matter of faith, young man. There are scientists who say ours is but one region of an infinite multiverse in which all the constants of our universe are very different in other universes. If it is infinite, then there is a place, too, where there are no constants at all - it is a foregone conclusion."
The gypsy cyclist replied, "That seems to make sense, I suppose. But what is the point of speculating on things we will never know to be true?"
"Silly boy!" exclaimed the woman, her smile dissipating. "Never believe we will not have the tools to fathom the nature of the universe! It is true, some things we can never know - they are proven to be excluded from our experience. But you have met me here, I believe, so that I may teach you to consider the differences between faith and curiosity; between proof and superstition. I know that this is so because of the question you have asked of me. Go past me now, my boy, into the river and may you think on these subtleties."
The gypsy cyclist looked away, and moved past the woman, and became part of the eddy that swirled around her. There were shallows and deeps, and fast currents and slow currents. The gypsy cyclist looked back: she too had become part of the river.
31 07 07 22:52 | Hugh | 
Oak Bay Masters Criterium
Monday, July 30, 2007After the hard race on Saturday and the somewhat obliterated state of my body as a result, I wasn't convinced of the wisdom of doing the Oak Bay criterium on Sunday. Originally I thought I wouldn't do it and, even as I donned my gear on Sunday morning and felt my legs shout out in distress for the very short and easy ride up Yates street before the road leveled and descended into Oak Bay, I was muttering to myself, wondering what I was doing in directing myself toward the race course.
Strangely, however, as much as I felt surges of acid in my quads on even the shallowest of inclines, I had a bit of punch on the flats. And, as I neared Oak Bay, I decided that it was a low pressure event, and that I might as well get a few more hard miles in before the weekend was out. Even if I felt crappy, I should be able to hang in for a Masters criterium, I reasoned. There are many strong guys over the age of thirty, make no mistake, and when the Worsfold twins, Don Gilmore, Bob Cameron, Dave Mcleod, Vaughn Hildebrand, Jon Watkin, and several other very strong riders appeared, I realized it was set to be a fast race.
The course is something slightly less than a km, I think, around Windsor park in Oak Bay, and for the 30-44 yr group, our race was 50mins plus 5 laps, about the distance of a regular Cat 1,2 race. For the older group, their race was 40mins plus 5 laps.
After several warm up loops and some additional riding on the roads, I was definitely still somewhat tight and sore from the day before, but aerobically I knew I was ready to handle another hard race. So away the race went, and after getting comfortable for a few laps, I made my way to the front for some hard pulls, a few attacks, a few bridges to other breaks and some time spent pulling breaks back. At one point, shortly after pulling Don Gilmour back from a breakaway he was on, I slipped away for a solo breakaway of my own for about 3 laps before I saw Vaughn H attempting to bridge across. After slowing up a bit to allow him to catch me, the two of us went for a couple more laps before the group hauled us back. The race was nearing completion by then, and while I made a few more half hearted attempts to get clear, the ten or twelve guys that remained from the original pack of about 20 was not letting anything go.
Not being noted as a sprinter, when the final lap came I let myself slip toward the back and watch from that position as Don Gilmore took the sprint and Chris Worsfeld took second. A fun race, and I was happy to have had the strength at least to attempt a breakaway. For me, as a non-sprinter, breaking away is the only way to place decently in a race like that. I've certainly managed it before, but in flat criteriums, it is a relatively rare occurrence for me. I am generally much more suited to hilly circuit races, such as the course on Saturday.
In any event, I need to figure out how to be properly rested for the BC Cup #7 Kelowna stage race this weekend. The race consists of four stages - a hill climb on Friday, a road race on Saturday morning of 132km and then a time trial in the evening, and a criterium on Sunday. I'm not quite sure yet, but it should begin with a good nights sleep tonight, I hope...
BC Masters Metchosin Road Race
July 28, 2007
This afternoon was the BC Masters Metchosin race, and I also understand it was the designated championship road race for the BC Masters Association. Ordinarily the format for Masters races is an Australian Pursuit, where the oldest age group start first, with the youngest groups going last. The idea being for each group to catch the group ahead, and the first person to the line wins, regardless of age group, although there are also category awards.
For the race today it was not an Australian pursuit format, and there were two groups only - ages 30-44 in one group, and ages 44 to 79 in the next group, although awards were still given for each sub-category, as for the Australian pursuit.
There were about 20 in our 30-44 group. The course was 6 laps of a 10.5km course, with some difficult climbing up Rocky Point road, and onto Liberty, lots of false flats and just generally a very hard course. It is the same course used for the Provincials Road Race several years ago when I finished was 4th behind Roland Green, Jeff Kabush and a fellow from back east whose name escapes me. Then the race was 160km, rather than 60 today. Even so it is a hard course, and 60km on it seems like a very hard day in the saddle.
I felt fairly fatigued from the racing last weekend in Delta and, when Demian, Roger and I rode out together to Metchosin, meeting up with Derek Tripp along the way, there was some unpleasant burning in my legs. Even so, I have finally developed some very good intrinsic fitness, on which I can rely even when tired or when my legs are feeling a bit knackered. So when the race started, by the time we hit the Liberty climb, I was pushing the pace. The group stayed mostly together until the second time up the Rocky Point climb I started to push the pace again and, when we hit Liberty again, I took Demian and Jamie Falk with me. Jamie had some trouble on the false flat, and it was down to Demian and I for a two-up.
Demian was recently sick and after taking some time off was feeling a bit flat himself today, but he took more of the pulls on the descents, while I took the pulls on the uphill - this was more advantageous to me, since the energy savings for me was greater while he was pulling downhill. With about two laps to go, Demian dropped his chain up Rocky Point road - he told me to keep going, which at first I thought I would do, and then decided to slow up and wait for him. It didn't seem fair that I would beat him because he dropped his chain. As it turned out, I was able to escape at the top of Liberty in any event, and solo'd the last lap and a half for home, while Demian came in about a minute behind me. Jamie was third while Menno Jongsma was fourth.
All in all, I was happy with how it went. It was nice that even feeling a bit fatigued I could draw on the well of fitness I've now accumulated.
Brett had come out to watch the end of the race after he'd put about 220km on the bike, and he, Roger and Demian and I made the trek home, for about 120km of riding on the day for us (a heck of lot more for Brett of course).
Sanguine River
July 26, 2007A sanguine river ran, serpentine and, from the hill top, as he followed along its length with his eyes, the gypsy cyclist could see its fingerlike, delta separations spread shallow, lingering with the dark glassy sand upon which birds of every color chuckled uproariously in all the pitches of the flute and clarinet while they danced, lifted and landed again.
But the river was silty red, and the shallow banks were all of sand, and the ocean, where the river and the saltwater joined, was green where mangrove trees showed their roots in the water, even from far off in the distance where the gypsy cyclist stood.
"There was once a thriving city here," said the voice of a woman behind the gypsy cyclist. "Did you know?"
The gypsy cyclist turned to see a couple walking toward him. They had parked their car on the roadside and were walking up the hill to share the gypsy cyclist's vantage point.
"No," replied the gypsy cyclist. "I would never have guessed. How do you know?"
"It was millenia ago. I myself was involved in a study several years ago to unearth the remains of a great settlement here. I am an anthropologist. We found evidence that the city was only for old people. Unusual, yes, but we did not find any evidence of young people here."
"Oh well, very interesting," said the gypsy cyclist.
The woman continued, while her partner surveyed the landscape. "You see," she said, "their gravesites were distributed seemingly at random throughout the settlement. We tried to find a pattern to the locations of the gravesites, and there were many theories as to what it meant, but they are all only speculative. Are you sure you have not heard of this? There was much media attention, at least in this country, at the time, but the news was covered all around the world."
"Several years ago?" Asked the gypsy cyclist.
"About ten years ago. Have I got that right?" The woman looked to her partner.
"Yes, ten or eleven years ago," the man replied.
"Well, I do have a vague recollection, maybe." Said the gypsy cyclist. "But if it were big news where I'm from, I'm sure I would remember it more clearly. What came of the study?"
"No worries," continued the woman. "My husband keeps reminding me that my memory is bad too..." She and the man laughed, and the gypsy cyclist smiled. "Well, we abandoned the study when the river flooded the delta one year after months of heavy rains. Most of the remains of the settlement are under water, and have been for centuries, but parts were accessible when the water was more shallow. For one year this whole valley was flooded and the water was thirty feet higher than it is now."
"So, where did all the old people in the city come from?" asked the gypsy cyclist. "Were they banished to the city?"
"I've given many tours of this site, and everyone wants to know the answer to that question. It is actually a great mystery. There were other human settlements in the region, so we can speculate that the elderly were sent to this city. We have no documentation of how and when this would have occurred.
"We do know that they were a fantastically artistic people, as there were many remains of paintings and sculpture and crafts, but most of what remained when we were finding it was lost after the flood. It is interesting that in the other settlements, the populations were not nearly as artistic, so we think the old folk were provided for very well in their old age. But there is essentially nothing left for us to retrieve, and even most of the gravesites were eroded away beneath the turbulence of the rising waters. We were lucky to discover and document even what we were able to.
"You know what is so interesting though?" She asked. "We did manage to plot the locations of all the gravesites we found and, when we published the relative locations, we had many elderly people tell us they would like to set their gravesites in similar relative locations to each other. In fact that is why we are here today. My husband, Allen, here has decided to do the same."
The man nodded. "I'm not dying yet," he said. "But I will be soon enough!"
"There was a particular gravesite that I showed to him," the woman continued, "And we wanted to double check its location. We won't find it, but we just wanted to reference our site map to see how it sits in relation to a number of others. As much as we do not know with certainty the meaning of the configuration of the sites, we do believe that it meant something."
"Yes," said the man. "We can't know, for sure, but there was a pattern - we just don't know what it was. There are patterns to our lives as we live them and the connections established between people everywhere. Scientists are just now beginning to understand them. Often we can't know what they are. But by planning to be buried in this way, I am excited and aware of the existence of these patterns in life, and in fact it has changed entirely the way I see the world and the universe full of things that interact.
"To me these people, in their death, are a symbol of the great patterns among all that is living. I do not know if that's what they intended, but that is what they have given me."
"That is interesting," said the gypsy cyclist, gazing at the birds as they danced, lifted and landed upon the delta over which the sanguine river ran and where the estuary was green and the roots of the mangrove trees could be seen. The man and woman bid him good day as they walked down into the valley, hand in hand. He watched for a time longer, and set on his way.
A few notes
Monday, July 23, 2007Here are a few brief follow up notes to the race yesterday: I was 39th in the end, with a finish time about five seconds from the winner of the bunch sprint. Notably, our group was only about 15 seconds behind the breakaway group of three by the finish in a time of 3:20 and change for 140km. 54 riders finished and about 45 dropped out, including a lot of very strong riders - many of whom may have been quite tired from a week's worth of racing, including the criterium the day before, although only 43 finished that race as well. The Navigators Insurance team from the States had a noticeably bad race as all their riders, save one, dropped out. Results are here:
Also of note is that for preparation during the week, I didn't ride at all last Monday after the White Rock RR (the 110km I was in it for and the 1/3 of the criterium I finished the day before), did an easy ride on Tuesday of just over an hour, and a hard 3 hour ride on Wednesday that included Munn Road backward (from Millstream road) and then a ride out to Triangle Mountain in Metchosin for a jaunt up the steep part, down the backside and then up again from there, and then a few efforts on some of the other roads at the top before descending and returning home. I felt really strong on this ride, and could tell I was rested from the weekend. Thursday I didn't ride, while on Friday I rode for about an hour with a few short efforts. Saturday, instead of the criterium in the rain, I rode Brett's wind trainer for half an hour before dinner. This was nearly perfect preparation for the road race on Sunday.
_________________
On another note altogether, an article in the this month's National Geographic, called Swarm Theory, happily for me, helps to popularize one of my favourite subjects. The photograph of starlings in collective motion is astounding, and I have seen film footage of starling swarms which is nothing short of breathtaking. Today, while reviewing the second last unit of my stats course from one of the local Starbucks, I found myself observing the movements of starlings as they flew in their collectives back and forth between trees, or in group "jumps and landings" on a single tree. Given that I was engaged with numbers and statistics at the time, I couldn't help but consider how one might go about quantifying these collective movements and discerning what patterns may exist.
These are the factors I've come up with so far:
Firstly for single tree movements (ie. when birds have landed on a tree and alternate between sitting on the tree without flying, and then flying collectively above the tree briefly before landing again):
- Number of birds moving simultaneously (N)
- Average maximum heights (H) of N above tree top during a "collective jump" (cj) before landing again (Hcj)
- Time between Hcj (T_Hcj)
- N (as above)
- Number of birds moving from tree "x" to tree "y", or tree "y" to tree "x" or any combination of trees (Nx to Ny)
- Time between Nx to Ny movements (T_nx to ny) - possibly best taken as an average of the time between the landing of the first bird and the last bird in a group.
Some food for thought.
Tour of Delta
Sunday July 21, 2007This was a very different weekend from last. Brett Boniface and I made the trek over this weekend for the Tour of Delta, for the criterium and the road race portions of it, but skipping the short hill climb on Friday. Both Brett and I bailed on the criterium after witnessing no less than four major crashes in the Cat 3/4 race that went before our Pro/cat 1/2 race. It was pouring rain and one corner was very slick, and neither of us considered it worth the risk. This morning, we had heard from Bruce Tonkin, one of the commissaires, that "only 9 or 10 riders" went down in one crash in the criterium yesterday, which we didn't stick around to watch. Although it wasn't the carnage of the 3/4 race that saw one guy taken to hospital, it made Brett and I both feel relieved that we hadn't done that race.
The wet weather did not bode well for the road race either, but I am happy to finally report that I finished the 140km race and finished somewhere around 30th in the group sprint at the finish. I actually felt incredibly strong, and I can tell the training to date is finally paying off in some good strength. The course consisted of 4.5 loops of an 8km circuit in North Delta before about 20km or so out point-to-point for 10 more loops of another 8km or so circuit through Tswassen. On both the circuits there were some decent climbs, and an especially hard one on the second circuit, but nothing of the pack shattering intensity of White Rock last week. So, of the 110 riders that started, about 60 or so finished, substantially more than in White Rock.
Unlike White Rock, the Delta races included the Health Net team from the States, and more guys from Jittery Joes team as well, both strong continental pro teams, so the pace was very fast. The first loops were wet and at first I was very cautious and hung basically right at the back. Brett crashed on the first loop, but got back up and, very impressively, managed to chase back on, though it took him about 35km to do it. Once I got comfortable I began moving up and continuously aiming for the front of the pack. This avoids crashes and ensures you stay with the front group on splits. A few times splits occurred, and I made the front group, as guys were continually dropping off the pace and whittling down the size of the pack. A couple of times I went up the climb on the second circuit right at the front, and even when the pace got very hard there, I was able to stick near the front. Around the corner was the feedzone, where Hicham was again providing fantastically well-time bottle handups. I haven't heard yet how Jaymie did.
In any event, while three guys were off on a breakaway including Andrew Pinfold from Symmetrics, who won in the end, Symmetrics was doing it's best to control the pace, while Doug Ollerenshaw from Health Net was also in the break, so Health Net weren't working much. This left Team Rubicon (I think from the States), and Navigators doing much of the chasing. The break gained three minutes at one point, before being whittled down to less than a minute at the end. By the last lap I was actually feeling strong enough to position myself to go for a placing in the bunch sprint, and even just before the last corner was in a decent position near the front. I took the last corner poorly, and lost my good position near the front as guys crowded by me, and so was out of the running for a top 20 placing. Still, it was somewhere around 30th, and I was elated for it.
Brett, after chasing for so long and then just missing another crash, ended up on his own a couple of minutes back of the main pack. After the race he and I had to ride back the 25k or so to the start, making for a total ride of 165k or so, easily my longest ride of the year. So, aside from the criterium, a good weekend in the end.
What story?
Thursday, July 19, 2007When evening shaded in the spaces between buildings only blocks from streets dense with revellers, the gypsy cyclist marvelled at how the region in which he found himself, in the midst of such an enormous city, could be so bereft of travellers. There were cubicle dwelling places, vacant alleys and commercial complexes, but everywhere was quiet and no fumes from cars clouded the air between the buildings or mingled with the reds and greys that flicked upward from the horizon.
But in a city one does not expect such moments to last, and no sooner did this cross his mind when a cry, just out of sight, thrust into his wonderment. The gypsy cyclist turned his head variously to locate the cry and, when it came again, he directed himself around the next corner. Curled in the gutter of the street lay a man in a pool of blood.
The gypsy cyclist proceeded to his side. "What happened? Can I get you help?" He asked.
The man groaned, and looked up at the gypsy cyclist. "It is too late, my friend. And please do not ask me how this happened, it does not matter."
"No," said the gypsy cyclist. "It can't be too late. I will find you help."
The man lifted an arm. As much as he could hardly move, his voice exuded vibrancy and confidence. “Look at me," he said. "I tell you it is too late. You can only stay with me now for the few minutes I have left."
The man continued. "Do I pain you to tell you that I am filled only with regrets? You, strange man, must bear the burden of hearing this from me, for I know you will not leave me now, alone, here at the roadside, the blood slipping from my veins and pooling in the gutter and running like a little stream. There, can you see it?” The old man turned his head slowly, and weakly pointed a finger toward the gutter without raising his arm. “It is thick where it mixes with the dust.”
“Look into my eyes, strange man,” he continued. “Can you not see how I was never driven by any passions of my own? Can you not see how my entire life passed in the cause of vengeance, hate, or love, and how what I thought were passions all disintegrated when their causes either crushed me or fled me? If I had time, I could tell you of a thousand things at which I excelled in the cause of vengeance; a thousand things at which I excelled in the cause of love or hate, but there are no stories of anything I achieved because I loved them for myself. And for that, there can be no blood that drains from empty vessels. See how it runs? I do not know from where it comes.
"I am dying. You can see. Do not call or leave me for help, it is too late for that. But I beg of you one thing. Hold me in your arms, strange man. Hold me in your arms, and tell me the story of a passion of your own. And if you do not have one, then you must invent one for me, because I am too weak now to dream of one. With all my might, I will cling to life until your story is done, but if I go before your last words, then even a beginning will do... Hold me, please.”
The gypsy cyclist hesitated only for a moment. Then, bending down, he pulled the old man into his arms. When blood covered the gypsy cyclist’s arms, he wondered momentarily what the police would think when they questioned him, but that, he decided, was a bridge he would cross when it came.
The old man, curled and unmoving in the gypsy cyclist’s arms, turned his eyes weakly to meet the gaze of the gypsy cyclist. “What story will you tell me, strange man?” he asked.
White Rock criterium/Road Race
July 15, 2007Well...there were some positive signs this weekend, but my suspicions were ultimately borne out; ie. I didn't finish either of the races.
On Saturday evening beginning at 6:30 was the criterium - 60km, or 60 laps of a 1km circuit with a gradual descent down by the finish line, and uphill on the far side. With a short warm up I could tell there was a certain soreness in my legs, indicative of too much intensity recently without sufficient base (so I'm theorizing). It's the way I was feeling about this time last year after racing too soon after the NB 1/2 Ironman relay, which led to being terribly flat for the duathlon Worlds at the end of July.
In any event, with lap speeds in excess of 50km/hr - I think the fastest lap was done in about 55km/h or 1min 7sec, I actually held on for 17laps before finally being popped. Aerobically, I was handling the pace, but there was a fierce intensity to the burning in my legs that accumulated from lap to lap and, when there was nearly a crash in front of me and I had to put the brakes on and sprint back onto the back of the pack, I could give no more the next time up the climb. I rode around for a couple of laps with another guy before being lapped out of the race. I can take some comfort that I certainly wasn't the only one - about 75 riders of the total 110 on the start line finished.
So, this did not bode particularly well for the road race, and I had visions of barely making it up the first climb up Columbia, which is about 1200m at 8 percent, followed by a blazing descent, some rapid braking before a tight corksrew before some flat and then the climb up Magdellen, about 600m of 15 percent, and painful as daggers. There were 11 long laps of 10km each, and 6 at 3.8km. If you don't make it through to the short loops before the leaders make it about half way around the first short loop, the barriers are erected and you're out of the race.
But despite how the previous day went, I actually felt reasonably good on the day, especially on the climbs, and was keeping with the front group on all the splits except one for the first 6laps (but the group came back together), and even poked my nose at the front a couple of times - once up Magdallen on the second lap and once when the pace was slow on the flat. On the 7th lap, when the pack had already been whittled down to about 50, a significant split occurred at the top of Columbia and, along with several others, was not able to bridge the gap on the flat before Magdellen. About 30 made the selection ahead, while the small group I was in dawdled for a few minutes while recovering.
Still feeling strong on the climbs, the next time up Columbia I left the group I was in behind. So, for the next three laps I rode on my own, far from an ideal situation, catching a few others who had already given up and were just riding for a few extra miles. Even so, the last time around I did not make it through the barriers before the short laps, which was unfortunate, because in terms of actual time I was probably about 6 or 8 minutes behind, and fully felt good enough to finish. In a bike race, 7 or 8 minutes is a long way, especially when I lost all that time in the 40k between 70k and 110k, but even so, if I were to have ended up 10-12 minutes back at the finish, it is still a respectable finish over a 134km of a race that hard, and at least you would see on the results that I had finished the race. So, the result is disappointing in that respect, since the results will only show a dnf. About 25 riders made it through to the final circuit, and Symmetrics took three of the top four places (possibly the top three, but I didn't clearly see the result of the group sprint for third). That was against a strong contingent of Jittery Joe's, Navigators, other US based teams and a handful of other Canadian riders.
Regardless, it was encouraging for me - I came back from a very poor race the day before and proved that I was worthy of being in the race against a high caliber field, finishing more strongly than essentially everyone except for the 25 who made it to the final circuit. Definitely the lack of mileage and racing is costing me, but I know I'm not over the hill yet for bike racing - which is a nice feeling. My strength on the climbs was particularly encouraging - and on an older bike that I'm fairly sure weighs five pounds more than everyone else's in the peloton (!).
It was fantastic to have Hicham in the feed zone. Hicham was there with Jaymie, who competed in the women's races, and struggled among a very strong women's field. I would not have fared so well without the continous lap-to-lap feeds that Hicham provided. At one point, from the feed zone I heard someone shout out "Hugh Trenchard! I thought you were dead!" I learned later it was Jeremie Storie, a fellow competitor back in the 1990's, and who is now coaching and heavily involved in the Lower Mainland cycling scene.
Jaymie and Hicham will be back in Delta next week, so it will be great to have Hicham's help there too.
Overnight I stayed at the Hazlemere campground, a few km from the course. Although I slept in my car, the campground had washrooms and showers and a small corner store. It felt quite cozy, especially since the evening was warm. I actually slept quite well in the car. On the ferry over a teenage boy sang a song for me, while his friends gather round, oddly enough. On the return, I ran into Rachel and Jamie Falk, returning from holidays.
So next week is Delta, and perhaps I will finish one or more of the races!
update
Thursday, July 12, 2007As an update to my training/racing plans, this weekend I'll be heading over to White Rock for the Cat 1,2 Criterium on Saturday evening (60km) and the road race Sunday morning (134km). I'll skip the hill climb on Friday, which is part of the omnium, but not necessary to finish to do the other stages of the race.
At the moment I am not optimistic they will go well. On Tuesday I did the Sidney TT in what was likely my slowest time on the course ever - 25.40, or thereabout, for the 18km course. It was hot and windy, and I didn't use tri-bars, which certainly slowed the time, and most people noticed their times were slow on the day. Even so, back in the days when I was fit on the bike, I once did a 23.49 without bars or any special equipment at all, so if that's any indication then I can't use the absence of equipment as much of an excuse.
On the positive side, I felt good during a hard group ride on Saturday, but I think the whole training schedule has been a bit top heavy on intensity with insufficient bike mileage base, meaning I'm starting to hit the skids after several weeks of solid intensity but relatively low mileage. Also, because I haven't done much bike racing this year, and particularly nothing long or at the Cat 1,2 level, the reality is it will be something close to a miracle if I can finish either one of the races this weekend.
My hope is that I may be better off for the following weekend in Delta, where the RR is apparently a tiny bit longer, but with fewer nasty climbs. I've done White Rock four times, twice not finished the road race, and twice finished - my best place being about 30th. This is a relatively big race, as Division III continental pro teams will be there, including our own BC pro team, Symmetrics; some of Navigators, Health-Net, Jelly-Belly, all US based. Apparently Gord Fraser, the winningest pro cyclist in North America - a fierce sprinter, but mediocre climber -- is coming out of retirement for the race. Victoria's Laz-y Boy team is also stacked with talent.
Both the criterium and the RR are going to be flat out the whole way - the crit will be done at average speeds of about 50km/hr, and the RR, even with all the brutal hills will be at least 40km/h for the leaders. Oh well, we will know in two days what the damage is, and at the moment the very thought of either of the races is a bit daunting. Cycling can actually be a very demoralizing sport if you aren't fit...more on that later - after the races...
Guided by moonlight
Sunday, July 8, 2007Guided only by the ubiquitous half-light of the moon, magnified as it lingered a few degrees above the horizon, at last there was one pedal stroke the more for the gypsy cyclist's legs at the crest of a hill, and one reverie the less for his mind as the moon faded behind trees and entranced him no more. How the broad moon emptied his mind and replaced all his thoughts with only the presence of dim light, purgatorial, semi-pale and colorless, sufficient for him to see the roadway ahead but insufficient to imply any more than all that was really neither dead nor alive.
But downward he sped, and the moon shifted its relative location and slipped behind trees, and sloughed off its hypnotic grasp. Then flooding his mind were intricate fleeting images: of crumbling architecture once viewed and yet to be viewed; of thin air and heavy air; of cold passages and withering heat; of the lines in faces still to meet and of those long passed; of thousands of hands of all human colors waving through the air, gesturing stories and entire lives for every trajectory and configuration of every motioned palm or pointed finger. For every gesticulation there was a birth, a few illumined images of passion, desperation, tragedy and happiness; there was a death and mourning and more passion, desperation and tragedy. And when it tapered and forebore there was silence, calm solitude and happiness again.
As he plummeted in the night, his breathing stabalized, his energy expenditure minimized, and all the light and shadows that betrayed their colorless exaltation of all that was neither living nor dead, shouted out to him, "take you passage here delicately lest one of either light or darkness, color or grey vacancy, life or death, should crystallize and displace the others, and you cannot know which. When you pass through here, be very certain that sunlight rises over moonlight when morning comes, and then you shall rest. Only then shall you rest."
The gypsy cyclist hit the bottom of the descent, felt his speed decline, and began to turn the pedals again, his heart-rate rapidly rising. There was plenty of moonlight to guide him until morning.
Weekend summary
Wednesday, July 4, 2007The weekend now veritably seems like a lifetime ago, and I can scarcely even remember what happened. But if I scratch my head just a little I can recall that on Saturday I began with about 100km of riding - up Munn Rd, up the back side of Mt. Finlayson, down Finlayson, up the Malahat, around Shawnigan Lake and backwards exactly the way I came, with the addition of a jaunt up the waterfront on the way home and a stop at the waterside near Beacon Hill to dip my legs in the cold water.
In the evening on Saturday, I nearly missed the start of the Sidney Twilight Criterium, organized by Adam Lawrence. The Cat 1,2,3 race -- a figure 8, 1km circuit that was to be 50 mins plus 5 laps -- was originally advertised to begin at 7:40, with the noted possibility that it could start at 7:30, or earlier. But I arrived at about 6:55 just as the riders were all at the start line, with only a few minutes to spare before it was to begin at 7:00.
Fortunately Adam was good enough to pin a number to my back while Gerry E put one on my bike for me, and with the one minute countdown I was ready to go. Good thing my legs still felt primed from the ride in the morning or, in the absence of a warm up, I would have been hooped from the start.
With Lazy-Boy team riders putting the hammer down right from the gun, I was hanging on the back. Riders were popping like flies in the first few laps, and I was happy to close a few gaps and stay in touch - for about 25minutes that is, until I myself eventually popped and rode with an Aviawest guy for another 15minutes until we were finally lapped. I was actually quite happy with how it went, being my first criterium in years, and being quite unsure how my legs would respond after the long ride in the morning. I'm not sure it would have made any diference to the result had I not ridden in the morning, and so I got a full training day out of it -- exactly the kind of training that makes you fit on the bike. The hope is to be more or less riding well for White Rock and Delta coming up on the 14th/15th, so if I haven't overcooked myself, I think I'm on track.
Sunday: the informal Hurricane Ridge challenge. This year, like last year (which ride I missed but went over later in the year), about 60 riders caught the 6:10am Coho to Port Angeles for the 17km boot to the top, measured from the ranger station, which is already 5km up the climb. I was definitely depleted from the efforts the day before, but simulating stage-racing is the best way to get fit.
I was surprised how many fit guys were out, and apparently there was more depth down the middle this year than last, although Max Plaxton (under 23 mountain bike world championship podium finisher) wasn't out this year. I suffered and was 8th or 9th on the day, up in just over 57minutes, while Mike Vine got Bruce Schlatter by half a wheel in mid 54 minutes, with the next few guys not far ahead of me. I recall going up last year in about 55 minutes, so I was definitely more tired this year (but not less fit, I don't think). Melanie McQuaid, three time world X-terra champion, was the top woman, coming in about 40 seconds or so behind me, with Judith Leroy and Pam (just forgot her last name - Mountford?) a few minutes further back.
I decided not to take the option of riding another 80km to Sequim and back, and chose to come back on the faster ferry with Roger and Bruce instead. The intensity of the two days was sufficient training for me, as I was feeling quite exhausted. Monday I rode for only 1.5 hours easily, and the plan is to take three days with no riding Tues/Wed/Thurs, and to do easy-ish stuff through the weekend, and a couple of days of intensity next Tues/Wed before a couple of days easy leading to the White Rock criterium and RR that weekend.
The Dhelsium Grove
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
A grove of bushes of multi-hued flowers, thirty feet high, raised up as the gypsy cyclist approached them. Such an exotic collection of broad-plumed golds and reds, flecked with blues and purples, and strokes of greens he had never seen, particularly on bushes that stretched so high. The sky was cloudless; the air humid and warm and every exotic petal and leaf seemed saturated with moisture, nearly bursting with puffs of steam, shimmering in vibrant time to every wave of warm air, that, like the rising and falling of a sleeping lover's breast, gently lifted and fell across every living thing and every patch of rich black soil or rocky interruption.
The gypsy cyclist ceased his pedaling, placed a foot to the ground, and paused to behold it all. There was rustling beneath the bushes, and momentarily a woman and a baby, suckling at her breast, appeared, crouching at first to navigate her way through a space in the flower grove, and rising upon her exit. Her hair was bleached almost white by the sun, while her skin was coffee, clothed in a serape of green and white stripes. "Oh, look, babychild," she said. "There is a stranger here. Perhaps he knows where your father has gone. We will ask him."
She looked up at the gypsy cyclist. "Kind stranger," she said, "Have you seen where Totsoulos has gone? He was supposed to have returned three days ago. We have been waiting here, among the Dhelsium grove, and I am sick with worry that he has abandoned us. I only hope that something has detained him, and that he is trying his best to return."
"No," replied the gypsy cyclist. "I have not seen Totsoulos. I only saw this fantastic grove of flowers and thought to stop and look at them more closely. I hope you are all right."
"Oh yes," she said, rather sadly. "On the other side of the Dhelsium grove, where you cannot see, is a grove of Glume Pears and Honey Apples, an enormous Wilnut bush and a creek of flowing clear water, and an eddy where Ulama fish sometimes become trapped. I could raise my son here and we would never go hungry."
"Where did Totsolous say he was going?" Asked the gypsy cyclist, with curiosity.
"He told me his father was dying and needed to see him, far off in the village. But he said he would come back the next day by horseback with news of his father. My mother, too, is in the village, and he would bring her back with him."
"But why did you not go with him?" Asked the gypsy cyclist.
"You see, my son was born the day that Totsolous left. It was only by great fortune that we arrived at the Dhelsium grove when I was in labor. Of course, I was too weak to go into the village, and our son too soon from the womb. But I lay by the creek and picked fruit nuts from the Wilnut bush until I gained my strength, and nursed my babychild... Today I picked fruit from the Glume pear bush."
"Well," considered the gypsy cyclist. "Perhaps Totsolous' father has died, and he is in mourning, and will return when his grief has been relieved enough for him to travel."
"Perhaps that is true," said the woman. "Could you ride your bicycle into the village, and find Totsolous for me, and return with news of him? The village is that way." She pointed to a road that forked east from the one he was on. "It isn't far, perhaps twenty miles. It is a small village, and if you ask around, you will discover that everyone knows Totsolous and his family, so you will learn quickly what has happened to him. And please tell them where I am."
The gypsy cyclist agreed, and rode off on the dusty road toward the village, arriving in less than two hours. There were grass huts and cubicle square dwelling places, and there was a market place and people all around. "Do you know Totsolous," the gypsy cyclist asked the first stranger he saw.
"Totsolous?" Replied the man. "How do you know Totsolous?"
"His wife and child are waiting for him in the Dhelsium grove...that way," replied the gypsy cyclist.
Said the man, "The Dhelsium grove? We must go to her immediately and remove her from there and bring her and her baby back safely!" The man began calling out to neighbours, informing them of the location of the woman and her baby.
"Thank you, kind sir, for telling me, " continued the man. "How fortunate you are to have found me. I am Totsolous' father. It grieves my heart immensely to tell you that Totsolous has died. His body was found two days ago, not one mile from the village. We think he consumed of the poisonous Glume Pear bush, but the bushes are everywhere...And we do not understand why he would take of it. We are all taught when we first begin to crawl of the dangers of the Glume Pear bush."
"You are his father?" Asked the gypsy cyclist. "But Totsolous' wife said that you were dying...And she herself talked of the Glume Pear bush, but did not say that it was poisonous."
"Dying? The Glume Pear bush...not poisonous?" The man replied. The man considered the words as his face grew pale. He began to shudder.
"Oh," he said solemnly. "There are always secrets, even for all the words exchanged between father and son, and husband and wife, and mother and stranger. Totsolous had cancer; I do not."
The gypsy cyclist perceived in instantaneous accumulation all the magnitude of the gravity beneath him, the intensity of the sun and the heat of the air. "Oh!" He cried. "His wife said she also ate of the Glume pear bush!"
The man slumped, and began to sob. "Oh no," he said. "Then it is too late. Perhaps he told her, though he swore to me he never would. What else has he told her?" He looked up at the gypsy cyclist. "Leave me here, strange man, there is nothing more you can tell me that can satisfy the questions I have. And if I said anything more to you, you would know of the thousand lies every one in this village has told beneath the Dhelsium groves and before the pristine flowing streams. You cannot begin to imagine. That baby is my child. We have everything we need, and nothing better to do... Please, please leave me, sir."
To the gypsy cyclist the sun seemed in an instant to radiate tenfold more brightly, and then to shrink again. And in that instant, every petal and leaf on every stem seemed to straighten and fall limply; and all the colors on the Dhelsium tree grew vastly more colorful and paled, and the thick air bore clouds from which a rebuking rain seemed to fall. The gypsy cyclist set on his way.
____________________
Tomorrow I'll update my weekend's activities!
Jungle Roads
Sunday, July 1, 2007One dusty road diverged into two dusty roads, and at the crux of the divergence was a thicket of thorny bushes and a man who sat in front of them, clothed only in a sarong to cover his waist. The gypsy cyclist carried no map, and he hesitated as he approached the fork in the road. It was not unusual for him to hesitate, but never once had he encountered a man sitting in such a fashion at the junction of the place of his hesitation.
The gypsy cyclist applied his brakes, his rear wheel locking, causing him to skid slightly on the dusty road. "Can you tell me what is down each of these roads?" asked the gypsy cyclist.
The man, with a mass of grey hair and black skin, sat on his knees holding a gnarled ivory cane in his hand. He tried to stand with the assistance of his cane, but failed in his attempt and collapsed, returning to his kneeling position. His pale grey eyes looked up, but did not meet the gaze of the gypsy cyclist. The gypsy cyclist surmised that the man was blind.
The man replied with a weak and rasping voice, gazing generally in the direction of the gypsy cyclist. "You are the first person to come so far down this road since I have been here. No, I cannot tell you what is down these roads behind me. I have never been along them. I can tell you what is on the road upon which you have just travelled, but that is all. Even then I can only describe how the road appeared ten years ago, when I still could see."
"Why are you here?" asked the gypsy cyclist. "Here at this juncture - where do you live?"
"I have been left to perish by my sons and daughters. You see, I cannot stand anymore, my hands are arthritic and I am blind. I can tell from your voice that you are a stranger here. For my people, when you are like this, there is no purpose left for you but to be taken by the jaguar and to provide for its nourishment and the nourishment of its offspring. But I have been waiting for three days and the jaguar has not come."
"Yes," said the gypsy cyclist. "I am a stranger here. But for me that would be a terrible way to go. Has your family no compassion?"
"Compassion?" retorted the man, finding strength for his voice. "It's been two years since I could do anything more than to be fed by the hands of my children and my grandchildren. To be helpless - these years are the cruelest I have lived. It is true, though, that my children believed my ailments could be healed; that for a short time they sought assistance from people with voices like yours. But there was no hope.
"When you are like me, you will know that it is the greatest compassion to be left for the jaguar. Besides, only Ullu, my youngest granddaughter, cried when they left me here. Such a pity that she should be sad, since it is a time of great rejoicing, and I thanked them all deeply with a smile they had not seen for two years. 'Sing for your grandfather,' said Bhuppa, my son, to Ullu when she wept. 'Sing this song with me,' and together all my family sang as they were pulled away on their oxen carts.
"But my throat is parched, and where is the jaguar? My family did not leave me here to die of thirst. There is no dignity in that. And so, you, stranger, are here and uncertain of which road to take. That is your quandary, but there is none for me. And so I must ask you if will take this cane from my hand and beat me until I am dead."
The gypsy cyclist stared at the man; the man held his gaze generally in the direction of the gypsy cyclist.
Momentarily confused, the gypsy cyclist was uncertain of how to respond. Perhaps when he was younger he would simply have ignored the man and kept on his way, but what, in fifty years of life, had he learned if he could not find the strength to respond? He said, "But there is no quandary for me that I absolutely cannot do that for you, old man." The gypsy cyclist dismounted his bicycle, took the two bottles of water from cages on his bicycle, and one from his jersey pocket. "Here, drink all of the water from these bottles and the food in these pouches. When you are done with them, I'll return on this road and will find more water and food for you. I think I passed a stream forty miles ago, or so. I will return every two days until the jaguar has taken you. When that has happened, then I will decide which of these two roads to take."
The man tried again to stand, collapsing a second time. "Don't be a fool, young man!" His voice rising. "What if the jaguar never comes? There is no shame in ending the misery of others." He paused, shifting his weight on his knees.
"Besides," he continued. "Can you not understand that I do not ask you to kill me? That is my demand, but that is not what I want. Comply with the last demands of a powerless man, and there lies the greatest act of kindness. Therefore, listen to me, strange man: I demand that you take my cane."
The gypsy cyclist was resolute. "In that case, old man," he replied. "I can take neither of the two roads beside you, and I must turn back on this road. You may keep my water."
The gypsy cyclist mounted his bicycle, and turned in the direction from which he had come. Behind him, in the distance the old blind man shouted at him, until finally the gypsy cyclist could hear him no more. Evening began to descend upon the land around him while myriad strange bird and insect calls rose in their own jungle cacaphony. Somewhere amid the calls there were jaguars and families, and clouds and stars, and a universe that turned. The gypsy cyclist switched on the headlight mounted on his handlebars and decided to travel through the night.
