riders collective july 2010 1 ’ ’ ’ ’ riders collective ’ We use bicycles in countless...

riders collective

©Aggrezine™ Publishing LLC. All material used with permission and © original sources. Cover photo ©Junior Soledade

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a cyclist’s sampling of some of the Web’s best blogs, ride reports, tips, videos, reviews, and photographs

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july 2010aggrezine

www.riderscollective.org july 2010 1

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We use bicycles in countless ways for enjoyment. Some choose to explore at leisure, taking it all in; others to compete by giving it their all. For some, the journey is the goal; for others, it’s how far or how fast can I go.

But there’s a fundamental dichotomy in cycling: choice versus necessity; pleasure versus livelihood.

Think about giving back some of what cycling has given to you. Support supplying bikes to those in need through groups like bikestorwanda.com, re-cycle.org, p4p.org; wheels4life.org, and worldbicyclerelief.org.

Paul S. Kramer,publisher, editor, designer, and cyclist r c ’

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introduction

Japan on an Oritatamijitensha

by Rob Ainsleywww.realcycling.co.uk


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apan on a folding bike. It seemed logical for

the country that gave us Walkmans, capsule hotels, folding beds, and origami.

Indeed, their word for ‘folding bike’ uses the same ‘ori’. It’s ‘oritatamijitensha’, which means rather prosaically ‘folding bike’. But then the Japanese language (spoken, easy; written, impossible) is rarely abstract. It’s largely concrete. Like the country.

Which was why I went to Shikoku. I’d been in Tokyo for two weeks and needed to breathe in.

My Brompton had proved ideal for getting round the capital, saturated as it is with train lines. I could clatter along pavements, accompanied by herds of schoolgirl cyclists in sailor suits, weaving among

suited salarymen. Then, at the impeccably clean station ticket hall, my collapsible-horse magic. So you can fold a piece of paper into a crane? That’s nothing! Watch as my bicycle turns into a satchel-sized modern sculpture! See the wheels nestle together like the eyes on a Picasso!

Passers-by cooed as my bike melted into its carrybag. Folders are uncommon in Japan; everyone has a bike, but they’re cheap clunky shoppers. Surprisingly, in a land where petty crime is as rare as an anorexic sumo wrestler or delayed train, unlocked bikes (and umbrellas) get ‘borrowed’, like unattended newspapers on a London tube. So I took my Brompton everywhere with me. It fitted snugly in

crammed commuter trains, car boots, cable cars, phone boxes. It was so small it even fitted—

incredible, but true—inside Japanese apartments.

Tokyo had been exhilarating: sushi restaurants down secret lanes, futurama monorails, kaleidoscopic neon, Bond-gadget electronics shops. But the only green thing I’d seen so far had been the dollop of wasabi mustard on my sushi. In the kiosk-sized bars, everyone told me that Shikoku was the place to go, a quiet untouristed rural haven. The smallest of Japan’s four main islands, it was over the water from Osaka, 300km away. So I packed my Brompton and hopped on a bus, thinking I would head to the edge of Tokyo, and cycle to Shikoku from there.

Snag 1. When got to the edge of Tokyo we WERE in Osaka. Even then I couldn’t get cycling. The new Akashi bridge to

Shikoku doesn’t allow bikes, which meant

another bus. A shame: it’s the world’s longest single-span suspension bridge, overlooking dramatic

whirlpools, and would be a terrific cycling experience. (The previous record-holder was the Humber Bridge, which of course does allow bikes and is indeed a terrific cycling experience. And dull as the Humber’s dog-brown waters look down there underneath you, they’re actually the second most dangerous shipping lane in the world after the Orinoco. Which is all irrelevant, but then irrelevance is OK in Japanese writing, so long as it feels appropriate.)

Snag 2. I had too much luggage—a big rucksack of camping gear. The

J


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eoritatamijitensha

Brompton’s back rack wouldn’t take it: Put the bike under too much pressure and it folds. I can’t complain. I’m the same. So I dispatched most of my luggage back to Tokyo (it cost £8 - which was absurdly cheap, in a land where a bottle of house wine costs £50) and travelled super-light, with just a loaf-sized daypack bungeed to the rack.

But now I was free. For two weeks I roamed Shikoku’s towns, villages and countryside. Some days I cycled 80km, others 80m to the bus stop. I biked along riverside lanes and over mountain passes. I took little-known trains and buses up to distant temples to pray. Invariably I would pray to not have an accident as I freewheeled back down.

From the saddle you see some mighty odd things in Japan. For instance, at the head of Iyakei’s huge, breathtaking valley was a statue clearly modelled on

Brussels’ mannekin pis:

a beaming, self-satisfied little boy enjoying an endless wee hundreds of metres down into the vast gorge.

Then there are the inscrutable roadside advertising hoardings in English. One said confidently ‘YES. AMENITY IN HUMAN LIFE’, a sentiment I’d thoroughly agree with if I knew what it meant. (It was for financial services, so made no less sense than their British counterparts’ ads.) A common road sign advises you to beware of monkeys. I found only one example of graffiti: several well-drawn

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ewww.riderscollective.org july 2010 4

Disney characters festively decorating an underpass. Which all goes to show that, by western standards, Japanese vandalism really is Mickey Mouse.

Outside Tokushima I saw a mountain of discarded but perfectly usable cycles by the side of the road. The Japanese like throwing things away. When bikes are no longer wanted (maybe they’ve got a

puncture, the back wheel squeaks, or they need the space in the flat because someone’s coming to tea) they simply chuck them. But— according to an unfathomable cultural rule—taking one of these bikes is BAD, as bad as being late for work. It’s stealing, as opposed to taking one from a station bike park, which is borrowing.

But travel in any country isn’t about seeing sights, it’s about meeting locals, and I certainly did. Which is why cycling off the beaten track is so good. In two weeks I saw one non-Japanese (an American in Kochi who directed me to an Internet café. Wrongly.). Otherwise I was the only ‘gaijin’ in a parallel universe, a curiosity trick-cyclist, in contrast to Tokyo where I’d been just another damn Westerner complaining about the cost of house wine.

When it rained or got hilly I condensed the bike and hitched an instant lift. I got rides in open-top sports cars, luxury saloons, and ancient vans with dead speedos. I met dental hygienists and doctors and plumbers and benignly mad women. I was invited to go kayaking and to stay at people’s houses.

Dawdling

through a remote fishing village, I saw three men at their picnic lunch, dressed in extraordinary clothes. They carried staffs and bells. They wore lampshade hats, and white robes emblazoned with Chinese characters. And Reebok trainers and North Face rucksacks.

I stopped to talk. They were henrosha—pilgrims doing the 88-temple circuit of Shikoku, a historic trail which atones for the 88 earthly sins. (What are the other 81? Clearly the Japanese are not as strait-laced as many people think.) It takes weeks to do on foot, though I was to run into people doing it by bike, public transport, motorbike, and car.

When the Japanese do


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oritatamijitensha

something, they do it properly. For around £120, shops on the trail sell the pilgrim’s full monty: hat, staff, robes and bell, plus a large book where you collect the name of each temple

visited. Its name is inscribed by the

priest in artful calligraphy, done so skillfully it is totally illegible even to very

educated Japanese. Smarter than those felt-pen-coloured stamps you collect in your YHA booklet.

In fact, many temples on the circuit are youth hostels too. I knew this from one of the three pilgrims I’d stopped to talk to. He was a

Technical Support manager for Smith and Nephew back in polluted Tokyo. Like me, he was here for the country air. We ate the traditional henrosha fare, a melon-sized citrus fruit which is half grapefruit, half orange, and half pith. At his suggestion I stayed at Iwamotoji temple, an afternoon’s cycle away. I was the only foreigner there, the only non-henrosha, the only one without a lampshade hat, and the only one who slept with his mode of transport. I think everyone was relieved that at least the crazy gaijin wasn’t travelling by horse.

It wasn’t like an English hostel. We slept on tatami, eight to a Japanese-style room, our folding beds (and bikes) crammed up against each other as on a Tokyo rush-hour train. We dined on rice and fish and seaweed, with chopsticks from little bowls on a lacquer tray. We ambled ’round the temple buildings, made the huge bell boom, lit incense, and prayed for peace and

prosperity and recovery for the Japanese stock market, and to get lucky with that student from Nagasaki we all fancied—and no punctures.

We bathed together in the scalding hot communal bath and I fainted. Partly it was the cold douche. Mostly it was my prior patronising of the beer vending machine in the hostel lobby. Yes, the good news for cyclists is that beer vending machines are everywhere—city streets, tiny villages, hostels and temples— always working and unvandalised. To me that’s a country that has got it right.

With a folding bike you acquire few tales of hardship, punishing distances or entertaining disasters. When it was time to return to Tokyo I’d collected only four temples, but lots of friends. Indeed, I came back from Japan with dozens of new entries for my address book. I just can’t read any of them.

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oritatamijitensha

gekkopacific

a-bikemontague

abio brompton hawk

fridaystrida

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we’re following an unfolding story...

ong ago there was a boy named Fedor Kossakoski. He lived in the

village where the old and homeless people often got affected by diseases.

One day he decided it was time for making the village a better place to live. With determination

he chose the destination he would go search for medication for the people of his village. He picked England and swiftly got ready for his destination. By tomorrow he was ready to go to England.

L

t was a long, hot day for Fedor because by the time he was first in

line, for the boat trip the Sun had gone down. He brought his pet, Lightning for company. Fedor said to Lightning “I wish everything was done.”

The next few weeks were intense because there were storms while he was on the ship. Waves were raging across the surface. The lightning broke off pieces of the ship. Then he asked a passenger near by “When will we reach England?” The passenger said We will reach England by tomorrow at one o’clock PM.

I

The Magical Bikeby Eric Horng, age 8

Chapter One:Fedor

Chapter Two:The Voyage


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he next day the ship reached

England at exactly one o’clock. The first thing he saw was an old hermit living on the side of the street. He saw he was hungry

so he gave him some food. The hermit said, ‘‘Thank you, for your generosity I’ll tell you about a magical bicycle that is in Africa that will grant you three wishes when you ride on it.”

T R ight after he met the hermit, he

asked a near by Boat Renter he said “Can I rent a boat?’’ The Boat Renter

said, “Its 50 cents then.” After that he headed to Africa where the wild animals roamed

the land. He took a jeep and drove to Afghanistan to find the magical bike. When he got there he saw a tall mound of dirt and uncovered it and found the Bike.

Chapter Three:The Search


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e wasn’t sure

that it was the magical bike so he tried it. Immediately the bike said “I’ll grant you three wishes. “ Fedor said “For my first wish I’ll want my villagers to be exuberant and healthy.”

The bike said “Abracadabra!” and the wish came true.

H W hen they came home he showed

his villagers the bike. He didn’t tell that it was a magical bike. While they

played together, Fedor thought of his second wish he thought “I want to be strong, Nah.” Then he said “I want to be your friend.” Then he said “Abracadabra!’’

Then his second wish came true. Then they continued playing their games. The Bike’s favorite name was to play cards. After a few weeks, Fedor named the Bike, Sally. The Bike loved its new name.

Chapter Four:The Second Wish


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T he last wish was hard to think of because there were lots of wishes

going through his mind. He couldn’t pick which one was the best because it was his last wish. Then Sally said ‘’Let’s go out and play.” Then he said “o.k. let’s play Basketball.” After that Fedor said “I have my last wish now, my wish is to let me be a magical bike like you. So Sally said ‘’Abracadabra!’’ and his wish came true. So both of them lived happily ever after.

Through education, advocacy and demonstration projects, the International Bicycle Fund's

mission is to encourage social attitudes, infrastructure and market development that promote the use of bicycles and other forms of sustainable transport for business and personal welfare. Priority is given to less affluent regions.

For many years, the Fund has sponsored an annual essay contest. This story was the 2003 winner for children under nine.

Chapter Five:The Last Wish

About this story:


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c y c l o c r o s s :

More Donner Party Than Dinner Party photographs by

chris thomas

by patrick o’grady

First appearing

in Bicycle

Retailer &

Industry News

CYCLO-CROSS. IT’S GOT A HYPHEN, as in full-blown, pain-filled and deep-freeze, double-jointed words no cyclist likes to con-template when paying good money to pin on a number and go round in circles for an hour. Any activity that requires two or more words joined at the hip to describe is bound to be painful and unpleasant: anaerobic-threshold intervals.

However, cyclo-crossers like it that way. “Looks like great weather for a race!” means one thing to a road toad and another thing altogether to a ‘crosser. The first is contemplating the expansion of his geek-tan by rolling up his sleeves and shorts, then sucking wheel until the final sprint. The second is contemplating using the driving sleet to mask his attempt to cut to the inside of a rider who is skittish about off-camber corners shot through with ruts, soupy mud and what may just be a deceased citizen racer.

This is not so much a callous disregard for human life as a neigh-borly, albeit Darwinian attempt to help

Any activity that requires two or more words joined at the hip to

describe is bound to be painful.


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edonner party

CO-RIDER.com MID/FRONT-MOUNTED CHILD’S SEATS

the skittish rider improve his corner-ing skills. ‘Cross riders, unlike their counterparts on road, track and trail, are so delighted to see another sap in the soup that they will actually show you what you need to know in order to put them into the trees next time around. But you’ve got to be a quick learner, and an even quicker healer.

This emphasis on technique over technology is rare in a sport whose adherents have been known to spend thousands to shave a few grams off their bikes before a hill-climb time trial, then celebrate their impending victory by washing down a bucket of the Colonel’s best with a suitcase of Bud. Both will reappear in spectacular fashion at the finish line, while the timers are packing up their gear, but they won’t look nearly as appetizing. And the colors clash with brushed titanium.

‘Crossers also gobble grease and swill beer—but they can afford better, tastier grease and beer, and more of it, too, be-cause they don’t piss away the kid’s college fund using Unobtainium® spoke nipples to build a self-delusional Stairway to Heaven. What’s more, grease and beer are excel-lent internal lubricants, and all veteran ‘crossers know that a good dump in the morning will save you more weight than all the beryllium seat posts in the Colorado Cyclist catalog.

And this in an obscure cycling sub-sect where featherweight frippery can really make a difference in where you finish, or if. After all, you’re running around half the time, picking the bike up and putting it down like a bad novel with some good dirty parts; the sono-fabitch should pack less weight than a Clinton campaign promise.

You’re running around half the time,

picking the bike up and putting it down like

a bad novel with some good dirty parts

donner party

My name is

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What’s wrong with these people? Sniff a little too much

glue while sticking those knobby sew-ups on, did they?

Still, most ‘crossers build up their thousand-dollar framesets with prehistoric parts they find under the car seat, behind the couch or on five-dollar, yard-sale bikes: “Hey, check it out, man...a five-speed bar-con, and it’s friction, too!” Half-archae-ologist, half-broke and all-consumed with the thought of just getting out there and chasing other lunatics through the swamp, your average ‘crosser will build a 25-pound bike that is a bouillabaisse of Weinmann, Suntour and Ma-fac, then use it to kick your 19-pound, ErgoPowered ass up one hill and down the next

until all you can taste is the spiked sole of his Sidi.

Like prehistoric bar-end shifters and Lyotard ped-als with doubled steel toe clips and straps, anachro-nisms like wool jerseys are commonplace in ‘cross. Stiff nipples are one thing on, say, Demi Moore; however, you’re unlikely to see her pranc-ing around wearing a pair of those and a cyclo-cross bike. Unless it’s a platinum Merlin, she’s pregnant again, and the venue is the cover of “Vanity Fair.” ‘Crossers like to keep

their nipples toasty when they trip over a barricade and slide face-first down a muck-covered slope into a half-frozen pond. Note the hyphen: face-first.

What’s wrong with these people? Sniff a little too much glue while sticking those knobby sew-ups on, did they? Their races start with field sprints and end at car wash-es, and in between they’re all running around wearing per-fectly rideable bikes. It’s No-vember, for God’s sake. They

should be roasting turkeys, not acting like them.

But look at their faces; why, they appear to be having fun. Sure, the ones who are racing have that gut-shot look in their eyes (gut-shot), but that’s bike racing for you. If it don’t hurt, you ain’t trying. And sucking wheel in cyclo-cross gets you little more than a faceful of whatever happens to be on the ground at the time. Avoid

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donner party

courses at equestrian centers and stockyards, by the way.

It’s the racers who are done for the day that catch your eye. While roadies gen-erally heft the bike onto the roof rack, throw around a few “if-onlys” and goose the old Volvo toward the near-est cappuccino vendor, mud-spattered ‘crossers can be found standing around the course, shouting encourage-ment and friendly abuse, handing up water bottles and dispensing useful informa-tion about time and space:

“Dude, he’s right behind you, about five seconds back— you’d better try to ride that log this time around.” Picture mountain biking before MTV discovered it and you’ll get the idea. Watch the riders whose categories have yet to toe the line. They’re get-ting the feel of the course by running it or riding it on a backup bike, discussing its interesting gravitational anomalies, treacherous geo-graphical oddities and in-coming weather patterns, occasionally pausing to see how a goo-slathered

Sucking wheel in cyclo-cross gets you little more than a

faceful of whatever happens to be on the ground at the time.


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edonner party

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racer handles them: “Whoa, I’ll bet that hurt—I’m run-ning that one. Anybody got a tourniquet?”

Perhaps the best yardstick for judging cyclo-cross is the way its acolytes handle neophytes. Newbies on road and trail often find them-selves ignored like a bad smell, or vilified outright—hooked, hollered at and finally, hammered. A first-time ‘crosser’s timid ques-tions about componentry or technique is likely to be answered by a chorus of voices, and even a quick demonstration or impromptu clinic. He’s still going to get beaten like a tom-tom once the gun goes off—but it won’t hurt as much.

Emotionally, that is. In the smörgasbord that is cycling, ‘cross is and will remain more Donner party than dinner party. But there’s always another seat at the table.

patrick o’grady has covered, cartooned and commented upon bicycling for more than two de-cades. A regular contributor to VeloNews, Ve-loNews.com and the trade journal Bicycle Retailer and Industry News, he lives in Colorado Springs, Colo., with his wife, Shannon, and two cats, Turkenstein the Terrible and Miss Mia Sopai-pilla. He owns six cyclo-cross bikes—and yes, one of them has toe clips and straps.

Picture mountain biking before MTV

discovered it and you’ll get the idea.

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True Grit MOLLY CAMERON

IS ONE TOUGH

LADY. During cyclocross race season she wakes up at 7 a.m., gets in a four- or five-hour ride daily, and then spends her weekends flying to compete in ’cross races around the country. Oh yeah, and in her free time she runs two Portland businesses.

To make it all the more difficult, Cameron competes in the men’s division. Though she’s always been tough, ever since she was born a man, she hasn’t been your typical lady.

In 2008, Cameron flew to Europe to battle the elites in the cyclocross world cup. The American racers, as usual, got whupped.

“I definitely felt like I was a little girl getting beat up by a bunch of strong dudes,” says Cameron, a 33-year-old whose cherubic blonde hair, bright

by Sarah MirkPortland Mercurywww.portlandmercury.com


true grit

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Though she’s always been tough,

ever since she was

born a man, she hasn’t been your

typical lady.

blue eyes, and silver lip ring contrast her lean muscles. “I’m probably the only trans racer to ever be in the world cup.”

Cameron moved to Portland and started racing in 2002, but before that she was (in chronological order): an Air Force brat from Texas, a skateboarder, a punk drummer in East Coast hardcore bands, a riot grrl, a San Francisco punk on food stamps who got fired from Kinko’s for giving thousands of free copies to political groups and exploiting the company van to drive to good napping spots, a bike mechanic, messenger, and finally, owner

of unfortunately-named bicycle courier company Steel Monkey.

During most of those years, whether as a copy clerk or drummer for Yaphet Kotto, something hadn’t clicked.

“I just thought I was queer, but I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. I’d play these shows with, like, Bikini Kill and feel like, ‘This is where I belong.’”

But by the time she moved to Portland, fresh from San Francisco’s supportive queer scene and intimidating bike scene, she was Molly Cameron. And she couldn’t get a job.

Her résumé spurned by every bike store in town, Cameron scrounged together $1,000 to open her own tiny repair place on NE MLK. Six years later, Cameron’s Veloshop has downtown digs and three employees. “When I first started the shop, it was about living, about paying the rent. But then I got obsessed,” says Cameron.

Her gender didn’t seem like that big of a deal when she started racing locally, perhaps because she wasn’t very good. But when she had been around

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true grit

“Some older lady got up in my face,

shouting, ‘You’re

not a fucking

woman!’”

Portland for a year and started placing first in women’s races, the complaints started.

“I was up at the Mount Tabor race, signing up for Women’s, and some older lady got up in my face, shouting, ‘You’re not a fucking woman!’” says Cameron. “I got some shitty emails, I lost some friendships. I’m not one to ram my politics down someone’s throat, but I wanted to race my fuckin’ bike! I was just some poor punk kid who wanted to race my bike and I was not stoked on racing with the men. I was just gonna do my typical, ‘I’m

gonna do whatever I want’ thing.”Not surprisingly, the Oregon

Bicycle Racing Association (OBRA), the group that oversees competitive bike racing in the state, did not know quite what to do with Cameron. They’re more focused on enforcing rules about multiple finishes than multiple genders. Eventually, after the controversy did not fade, OBRA consulted international racing groups and came up with a policy: If a male cyclist has gender-reassignment surgery, he can race in his new gender’s category.

Though Cameron had been taking female hormones for years, she didn’t

want her decision to get gender surgery to be based entirely on racing rules. That’s a much more complicated choice that she’s still working through.

In the meantime, she’s gotta race like a man. A man whose blood courses with estrogen.

That hasn’t stopped her from making good, though. Her top race rankings snagged sponsorship from Shimano, Chris King, and Castelli.

“When I was first racing,

888.732.7030 www.wabicycles.com

“Most trans

women don’t want shit

to do with the

world.

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true grit

’

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I was just thinking, ‘Don’t fuck up.’ But now I’m pretty analytical when I ride.” Her training secret is simple: Ride a course as often as you can

before you race it. Oh, and kick ass.

Just inside the door of her Northeast Portland bike-

fitting shop, Portland Bicycle Studio, is a stack of glossy baseball-card-like handouts that ’cross racers call “hero cards.” Instead of a photo of her face, above Cameron’s name on the card is a representation of her as a friendly, blonde-haired purple dolphin holding a bike wheel. The dolphin has a lip ring.

Cameron says when she races, her mind is clear.“Most trans women don’t want shit to do with

the world. You get so much shit just for going out your door. I’m so privileged to live in Portland, where I can do what I love.”

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The Original ’Crossers

Before cyclo-cross made it a sport, cyclotourists took on nature’s worst roads in stride.

All photos courtesy of cyclocamping.com >cambodi

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>mohave

>laos

>turkey

>tibet

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the original ’crossers

>croatia

>tibet

>syria

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the original ’crossers

Determined on the Mount

by Alison Chaiken

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For practically everyone, cycling eight miles to the top of the Northeast’s highest peak would be

a tremendous challenge. For the 600 starters in the Mt. Washington Auto Road Bicycle Hillclimb,

the challenge isn’t just making it, it’s getting there first.

n The Complete Guide to Climb-ing (By Bike), author John Summerson wrote about the Mount Washington Auto Road Bicycle Hillclimb:

“The most difficult road bike hill climb in the U.S. and per-haps the world, this road is only open to bikes during the annual hill climb race, usually held in August, and at times for several hours for a practice ride shortly before the race. No concession to gradient was made as it starts out steep and never lets up all the way to the top.”

Woot! I had to try it. That meant getting up at 4:45 AM on February 1st, 2009, as the regis-tration opened at 8 AM Eastern Time. In 2008, the 600-person field filled in 7 minutes. The fact that my family lives near Mt. Washington in northern New Hampshire meant that the race could be part of a longer vaca-tion. A friend of my father’s told him that the gradient was so steep that cyclists had to stand the entire way. As a Low-Key Hillclimber and veteran of many Almaden Cycle Touring Club “billygoat” hills of gradient greater than 20%, I knew that I would not have to stand for

much of an average-12% climb. Nonetheless, the 4725' elevation gain over 7.4 miles was a bit scary, especially when paired with the 22% finish, reminiscent of our local Mt. Diablo’s 16% fin-ish. You do have to wonder about an event where the win-ningest riders in both the men’s and women’s categories are un-der long-term ban by the World Anti-Doping Agency.

According to Summerson, Mt. Washington has the toughest 5-mile climb in the U.S., with an average 12.1% slope over that distance. The Angliru featured in the Vuelta a Espana goes up at an average gradient of 10.1% over 7.8 miles, while the infa-mous L’Alpe d’Huez of the Tour de France rises up 8.4% over 8.1 miles. By comparison, local lung-buster Alba climbs 2050' over 3.9 miles for an average 10% grade, with the fearsome Bohl-mann-On Orbit rising 2337' over 4.7 miles for a similar 10%. Mt. Washington thus has about twice the elevation gain of Bohl-mann-On Orbit over signifi-cantly less than twice the dis-tance. As a frequent climber of these Bay Area hills, I normally ride a 52-39-30 in the front and

an 11-27 in the back and defi-nitely had occasion to use my lowest gear at Mt. Washington.

The race was on August 15th, 2009. I flew out to New England on the 13th and stayed with my brother. Jim Chaskin of The Bi-cycle Outfitter packed my bike up and shipped it, and thanks to help from friend Michele Rae, UPS figured out where it was and delivered it on the 14th. The night before the race, my father, brother and their wives, and I stayed over at the Mt. Madison Motel in Gorham, NH.

he morning of the event, I drove out to the Glen View Café at the base of the Mountain and had breakfast with a few

other participants. Mt. Wash-ington is famous for its bad weather, but August 15th dawned clear and warm. The summit was clearly visible from the base, and riders could see how nearby and high it was!

The race start was amusing because I showed up in my Alto Velo kit, and the P.A. announc-er clearly thought I was one of the Webcor women pros. A Co-lavita rider I spoke to was

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determined on the mount

very friendly as she clearly was wondering why she didn’t rec-ognize me. We 500+ riders went off in five flights all initiated by a loud gun. I was in the 4th of 5th flights, presumably based on the estimated time (90 min-utes) I submitted.

s noted in the press coverage, the day was beautiful, and riders were actually hot at

the bottom. The road surface was mostly smooth and wide in the first five miles. While I could tell that we were definite-ly going uphill, the variable 10-15% grade didn’t seem any worse than going up Hicks or Montebello, because it wasn’t. There were two kilometer-long stretches averaging >14%, on one of which I did stand a bit, but for the most part I was tak-ing it easy and conserving my energy. I was pretty nervous when we hit the dirt/gravel sec-tion at about mile 5, but since there had been just a bit of re-cent rain, the roadbed was packed and traction was good. I rode on the embedded-gravel section in the center of the road since I was worried about slip-

ping my traction wheel when the dirt turned up, but then I was nervous about flatting on some of the sharper-looking rocks. Everyone definitely breathed a sigh of relief when they got back on pavement at about mile 6.5.

By this point, the road was a bit narrow and twisty. The views were spectacular since the day was so clear: 360-degree pan-oramas of the craggy and green Presidential Range. By this point, I was having a fabulous time and knew I was going to make it all the way to the top, so I picked up the pace a wee bit. The whole way I was passing riders who were resting or walk-ing, and now I started passing folks who were still riding. As we approached the summit, we entered some mist.

In the last mile, I started to go past a lot of spectators. There had been scattered fans all the way up, but as we got into the last half-mile, real crowds were lining the road. At about a quar-ter-mile out, I saw that my broth-er had chalked my name on the roadbed! That really surprised me, and I clicked up a couple of a gears and accelerated, which

caused a couple of spectators to hoot encouragement at me.

I came around the final big turn and saw the last wall, which is as steep as Cat’s Hill, but 50 yards long, with two hairpin turns and several big potholes. If those challenges weren’t enough, I saw that the road was only 12'-15' wide, and at the edge were not barriers or course mar-shals, but spectators with flail-ing arms and baby strollers. Yikes! I was reminded of photos of Liege-Bastogne-Liege or the Tour of Flanders.

I had plenty of energy to put on a sprint to the finish, but I was scared. I stay seated, and moving my eyes rapidly be-tween the spectators and the potholes, ground up the final climb. I bobbled in a giant pot-hole but did not go over. As I hit the first hairpin, I heard my fam-ily screaming, “GO ALISON! GO!” They must have been inches away from me although I hadn’t seen them.

Later on my family told me that: a) the woman’s overall winner, Sue Schlatter, had fall-en on the same pothole while standing and pumping; and b) spectators had knocked

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over a unicyclist who was in-sane enough to ride up Mt. Washington. I’m glad I was conservative on the final bit as, hey, I already had road rash at the start!

I rolled around the final bend and over the finish to have at-tendants grab me, put a blanket over me, and hand me water. Awesome.

I was 12/17 in my W45-50 cat-egory, which includes the top two women’s finishers. In retro-spect, I could have gone about 10 or 15 minutes faster than my 108-minute finish, but I was nervous about the gravel sec-tion and the 22-24% finish and went quite slow at the bottom. My tracklog on Google MyMaps includes my warm-up as well as the race.

After the event, my family gave me a ride down, as racers were not allowed to descend. Hell, a lot of cars are not allowed to drive up!

All in all, the race was a won-derful experience. I forget how beautiful New England is be-tween visits. I totally recom-mend racing in front of your family even if they are not sports fans. ’

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“It’s pretty much the brightest rear light I’ve seen on a bicycle!”

—bikecommuters.com

www.flashbakonline.com

Weight loss: 18 weinies (@ $9.44/weinie)

Easton Zero Offset Carbon Seatpost

$200.00 160g

Kalloy Uno Aluminum Seatpost

$30.00 359g

You can add money to subtract grams—but how much weight are you really shaving? Just a whisker? Use this guide to determine the Weinie-weight Differential for some pairs of components and accessories. And just to put cost into perspective, a typical cocktail frank costs ten cents at the market.

The Weinie Diet’’

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Sidi Scarpe$219 582g/pr

Topeak Stainless$16 42g

WTB Pure V$40 347g

Wellgo$80 342g/pr

Sidi Ergo 2$499 568g/pr

Topeak Carbon$50 18g

Selle Italia Flite$190 230g

Sidi Ergo 2$200 325g/pr

Weight loss: 1 weinie (@ $280.00/weinie)




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the weinie diet

Easton EA70

$70 260g

Spin Stix$100 55g/pr

Mavic XC 717$85 395g

Ritchey SuperLogic$325 192g Forté Comp

$18 117g/pr

Mavic EN 321$49 570g

Weight loss: 16 weinies

(@ $2.25/weinie)


(@ $42.50/weinie)


(@ $15.06/weinie)

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the weinie diet

Total weight loss

on the Weinie Diet: 60 weinies

(@ $18.78/weinie)

(=1.5 16-oz. packages,

costing $1,127)

pedaling fleshpedaling flesh

“Bare as You Dare” is the motto of the World Naked Bike Ride, the international clothing-optional events that “celebrate the power and individuality of our bodies.”

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ewww.riderscollective.org may 2010 1

SEATTLE

GRANADA THESSALONIKI BRISTOL

SEATTLE D.C.LONDON

BRIGHTON VALLADOLID

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pedaling flesh

MEXICO CITY

MANCHESTERPARIS

TORINO

NEW YORK

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pedaling flesh

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e

The World Naked Bike Ride events harken back to the days when

nudity was only seen in peddling.

at the end, a look back’’

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riders collective july 2010 1 ’ ’ ’ ’ riders collective ’ We use bicycles in countless...

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