Acetaminophen is My Friend

I have posted 3 separate entries today, each from the last three days, with the order going from earliest to latest.....

Some may not get the reference, but much like Conrad's "Heart of Darkness", it's getting harder and harder to write about the experience of traveling deeper and deeper into the mainland, just as an internet connection is more and more difficult to come by. Like I said before, I am not really in control of my own destiny (save when I'm racing bike, of course). However, as arduous as these long bus rides on patchwork county roads between stages are, they allow me time to reflect on the culture shock, as long as I don't look out the window (i.e., we just now stopped for a moment because the road was down to a single lane due to a bunch of drying rice on the roadside!) It's going to be difficult to understand later what I now write. Turbulence is an understatement. "If this was an airplane," my teammate Gavi says, "we'd have to make an emergency landing."

Stage 2: Gannan (a little town of half a million)
Seriously, though, we have it made here. Treated like celebrities, not only in the police escort at the head of the 6-bus caravan, but each stage has a massive opening ceremonies with parades, music and dancing, speeches from mayors and village representatives, fireworks, and balloons. I think all this gimmick is to intended to draw focus away from the lack of air quality.

The 2nd stage is a 100km circuit through the city. Riding to the start from the hotel, I quickly realize that traffic lights are merely suggestions, and light suggestions at that. There are police at every corner, ushering the racers through the congestion, but there seems to be a plethora of grandmothers who could care less for their safety. The race starts and the "walking wounded" (yes, mom, it's that bad) is brought back to life. All my pain falls away as the streets are clear and lined with people and children screaming "Jyo! Jyo! Jyo!" but I hear is a roaring waterfall. The road narrows as we fly under the original gate of the city, easily 1,000 years old, and I glance at beautiful temple shrine as we make a sharp right turn. How can I not be inspired to push myself beyond the point where my body and mind says STOP!? The team works well together, I pull off another Superman for the moto camera during a chill moment, and all is ready for a speedy leadout with me at the head when the bad luck demons come again. With less than 5 km to go I feel that all-too-familiar "soft tire syndrome". Flat in the read wheel. Even with a quick change from Lane, our trusty team wrench, I'll never catch up to the front. To add injury to injury, I take another high speed spill trying to hold on to the team car pulling me back to the peleton. Yesterday's wounds reopen, and new ones are made. As Lane comes over to check out my bike, I don't even realize until later that I quote the famous Tommy Simpson, who's final words, "Put me back on my bike" came from the depths of pain and confusion that only a fallen rider can understand.

Bleeding over my white handlebar wrap, I manage to finish only a few minutes behind the peleton, but by this point, the People's Republic has indeed become that again. The road is reclaimed by the masses and I am forced to dodge and weave my way through to the finish line. It is another shock to the already damaged system: we are merely shooting stars here. Done and gone as soon as we arrive. Now on the bus for another 4-5 hours and the road rash on my left butt cheek is quickly adhering to my shorts. Yippy!

Hitting the Ground Running, I Mean Sliding

It's 4:22 Sunday morning and I am drinking as much coffee as I can take before we all load on the bus for Hong Kong Island and the first stage of this much anticipated race. Once there, we line up for the start at the HSBC building, and I notice that behind the racers, we are outnumbered at least 3 to 1 by the VIPs and other amateur cyclists who are here to participate in the Victoria Harbor Fun Ride that takes us 10 km down the island to a small corner of Hong Kong where are start the actual racing. Suffice to say, it is the most dangerous part of the day, with many enthusiasts getting far too involved in the "fun" but really just end of running into a motionless caution cone or the medium on the highway. Its a laugh and I manage a few superman poses for the numerous camera-equipped motorcycles. I meet a French-Austrialian, Pierre, who grew up in the shadow of Mt. Ventoux. We chat about Life, Lance and Love, and I promise to get him on a Mello Velo Tour someday.

Basta! I came here to race bikes, so lets race bikes!

The gun sounds and it's all Zen. Finally, time begins to slow down and I know I'm in the zone because I can't remember if I have 3 or 4 teammates. Yelling and cussing gets underway quickly. It's nice to get things out of the way that are inevitable in a stage race, such as throwing elbows at another rider in order to keep your position in the peleton. What I witness during the stage is a dirty South African and a spastic Dane exchanging international relations in the form of some heavy "handed" memos.

What I didn't need to experience, yet something that comes along with these races, is a high speed spill. I avoid the first crash of the race, but with less than 2 laps to go, I am the victim of a chain reaction caused by my own teammate dodging a crack in the road. The result is an extra close-up view of a few front wheels, some heavy road rash on all joints and buttocks, and terribly twisted neck. The real bummer is my bike. As the race passes me for the final lap, all I see is the muggy Hong Kong sky and my 2 Zipp carbon wheels in not-so-circular shapes.

I'd love to show pictures of the burns and cuts, and my middle finger missing a good chunk of nail, but I'll save them for those I need most pity from, like my loving girlfriend.

A good result for the team though, as Lisban nabs fifth. I just wish I could've been there to help him, as if he needs it.

I am in pain but positive, for I am given the same time as the leader and allowed to continue the race. I live to fight another day. No time to rest though as we quickly get back to the hotel and pack up everything and head for mainland China. It's a ten hour bus ride to the next town, plus we have to unpack all the luggage and bikes, take a stroll through Chinese customs, and transfer to another bus. My teammate Chris teases me by mentioning that we just passed the town where all the carbon bike frames and wheels are being made and I could get a new pair for less than 200 bucks! Arrrrggghhh! My left butt cheek really burns!

Final highlights of Hong Kong (not pictured because the internets here are so slow, but wait, yes, it works!): nearly touching the top of the tunnel on the bus, the open air fish and meat market (i think that's tripe?) and the 10,000 Buddhas Monastery

Arrival in Hong Kong and Final Race Prep

I forget how long a pan pacific flight is! I watch 6 movies and 3 episodes of Sienfield during the flight! We land in Hong Kong at 7:15 in the morning on Friday and all I want to do is Tai Chi... in my sleep! It's easy to deny the grogginess though. It's China baby! The cab ride to the Regal Riverside is a tour of beautiful suspension bridges and marvelous buildings; hundreds upon hundreds of stalagmites of glass and iron, each reaching higher than the next. What I'll remember most though is the 1,000 ft high scaffolding... made entirely out of bamboo!

When I arrive at the hotel, the team is already out on a group ride, so I quickly throw together my steed and head out for my first ride. I am told by a tall Danish rider (who looks errily similar to another Dane, the infamous chicken, Michael Rasseumsen) that I should stick to the bike path which runs along the river. There are gates every hundred meters and I soon tire of the crowds, so I stop at a quiet park for some quick yoga and take to the roads. An immediate culture shock as I realize the they drive on the wrong side of their British made roads!!! It's a sharp learning curve as I come close to a speeding truck on a blind right-hand turn (note to self: stay on the far left, especially in a blind curve). I quickly realize that Hong Kong is the more packed than any place I have ever visited. It's a quite morning, but I am surrounded by ghetto-like pod apartments. Its like being inside a bee hive when all the bees are out gathering pollen. I return to the hotel and my room feels like a penthouse compared to what most have here.

Before leaving for China, I sold a new pair of Zipp carbon fiber handlebars on Ebay, but I meet the man who bought them in the lobby of the hotel. His name is Bruno and he is a triathlete from France. His gives me $1800 HKD (Hong Kong dollars) and I feel like a millionaire. At lunch I ask our host, Louis Shih, the president of Champion System, where I can can have a tailored suit made!

More and more racers start showing up at the hotel. Malaysians and Swiss, Japanese and South Aficans. We have it made in the shade here. Big purse, small field (small compared to the amount of prize money). Out of the 60 plus racers, I am the only one to be born in American. I am also the tallest (I hope these two traits win me many friends, if not wins). We are a US based team, but my teammates are all born outside the country: 2 Canucks, Gavi and Chris (former living in NYC, the latter in Taiwan), a speedy Columbian in Lisban (our top chance for a podium finish), and a young dragon from Guyana, Sommraj. On the roster for the race, we are all given Chinese character names next to our names. I find out from one of the race staff that in Chinese, "dragon" is pronounced, "long", so I hope they worked that into my race name. I could see Longacre meaning "a rice field cultivated by a dragon".

For the opening ceremonies, we take an open-top bus ride over to the world headquarters for HBSC on the famous Hong Kong Island, the home to some of the the most expensive real estate in the world. Really, in terms of its pure scope, the skyline puts Manhattan to shame. Multiple 200+ floor buildings litter the island (how do you Feng Shui a building that size?), but its quiet. Not a single horn to be heard. The ceremonies are nice, we walk around, witness a wedding, and as quickly as we are dwarfed by man's modern marvels, we are wisked away on the bus, back to the hotel. Just as well, for we will have enough time racing along Victoria Harbor tomorrow to see all of the city we want.

Day 1: San Francisco - The (sneaky) bike rider always prevails

I've flying down Market in downtown SF, paying close attention to the rail tracks traps in the roads, and an advertisement on the side of a bus catches my eye: "You deserve to have the job you love." Damn right you do! And I have it. It's to ride my bike. Who says the job you love needs to pay though? Adventure's the reward and maybe a little winnings can come along for a bonus.

The job for today: secure the VISA which will allow the real job to happen. So I am at the People's Republic Consulate at half past 8 and soon find out that, yes, the Chinese really have a strange process of allowing people into their country. Apparently, they are not "prepared to take my case" because my hometown is Minneapolis and my jurisdiction headquarters are in Chicago, not California. With the heart rate starting to rise and no entry in sight, I know all I could do was convince the People's Republic that I indeed had just moved to California and so my home address quickly became a beautiful cream and brown Tudor house in San Mateo, the home of my good teammate and also new father, Alberto Blanco. Thanks Bro! (he makes a mean pasta sauce too).

Double thanks to Alberto for lending me a bike for the afternoon. Afterall, this slick rider couldn't just hang out in the city for the afternoon waiting for the VISA stamp and lose his chance to train! I rode the train back to San Mateo and got directly on the bike. I drilled it back north, past the airport and into the city to retrieve my most valued passport, equipped with a $160 stamp saying that this Californian was allowed to enter the country. It's sometimes difficult convincing a communist country that my money's is still good.

I am overjoyed with the whole process, that I ride around Haight-Asbury singing Curtis Mayfield's "Ain't Got No Thing On Me" at the top of my lungs. The sun is shinning, music fills the streets, and I don't feel too bad that I can't take the time out to see the Golden Gate. I stop to say a quick howdy to my pimp-in-waiting Dennis Peron (lol) at the Cozy Castro Cottage (a great place to stay if you ever are in need) but couldn't entertain his prospects. My route back to San Mateo takes a roundabout way and I stop by the Cow Palace for... well, just cause its there.

I now take the last sips of my last large Sapporo (I mean, sleeping medicine) at the airport bar and I'm off to the East...

Midwest Heads Far East (Blake's Chinese racing experiences)

So here we go... Fully supported and loaded with my carbon fiber weaponry, I am sitting in a trusty NWA plane awaiting takeoff from Minneapolis/St.Paul International to my first destination of this sure-to-be-epic world tour. Okay, it's not a "world" tour, but the assault upon Hong Kong and mainland China in the form of the "3rd Edition of the Tour of Hong Kong Shanghai" might as well be as hotly contested as battle for a swing state, because it's going to take a lot more than a village in order for me to race bike in China. I'm scheduled to leave the country from San Fransisco in less than 25 hours and I don't have a VISA yet!

I am thinking to myself, "Did I really realize that I was sitting in an exit row or not?" The only thing I know for sure is that, at this moment in time, I am not in control of my own destiny.

How on earth did I even get to this starting point? At the beginning of October, having just returned from Mello Velo's back-to-back stellar tours in Provence, I was exhausted to say the least. Mentally and physically drawn out; satiated and satisfied with the year of riding. So when first asked by Ray Alba, my Director Sportif and surrogate father in NYC, if I was in "form" enough to race in China in a couple of weeks, thoughts immediately turned to the not-so-positive affects of a month of culinary delights (straight-up gluttony) and luxurious libations (only locally produced product, of course). Sure, I had easily churned out over 1,600 km in 26 days all the while capturing a massive trophy in a race, yet I wasn't a single pound lighter than when I left!

Regardless of form, when Ray Alba asks you a second time to join the effort in the People's Republic, you really have no choice in the acceptance of the mission. I was honored at least, foolish at best. I knew he knew my strength on the bike, and although I am not the stand-out leader of the squad (Thank Gawd!), my expertise will surely be expected to come in handy for the team's top dog, a Dominican firehouse in Lisban Quintero who raced in last year's edition of the Tour (what's "tour" in Chinese?

But there was no retreating now. "Once more into the breech, Dear friends, Or close the wall up with our English dead!" I'm off to The City by the Bay in order to secure a rush! rush! VISA to race for seven days in China, starting Sunday. I miss my home and loved ones already and the plane hasn't even left the ground! In the final moments of stillness as the planes lines up for the sprint into the sky, it's a simple prayer to keep the rubber side down. The powerful roar.... Airborne and out.

Redemption on the Ventoux

I hate to pat myself on the back, but there was no doubt in my mind that today was the only real choice of days to summit "Le Geant" of Mont Ventoux. I went with my gut and my experience and knew we had to shoot the break in the weather. Departing the villa a few minutes after 9 with nothing but blue skies and only a hint of wind, the group was nervous and excited knowing that ahead lay 150 km of riding with the Ventoux plus an addition Cat. 2 climb on the way to the base of the "Queen Climb". This ascent was a special for us because we had with us returning guest Paul Kirkman who felt compelled to conquer this mountain in Provence that had beat him the year before.

The group started at an even pace, singing and making their way to the 17 km cat. 2 climb that brings us to the base of Ventoux, in the tiny village of Sault. Anxiety waned as the miles grew, the legs awakened and the sun warmed on our faces. We took our customary espresso and pastry, Paul choosing the goodness of a homemade "Provincial Powerbar" of Nutella and banana on baguette, and so launched towards Le Geant.

From the bottom, after reality of a Hors Category climbs sets into a rider's mind, the group obviously must separate. This is not due to the various performing levels of the riders, but the fact that each rider, whether they acknowledge it cognitively or not, must ride their own pilgrimage to pay homage to the great mountain that lives so large in bike riding lore.

For the first 15 km, beautiful trees with singing birds and budding lavender with chirping crickets accompany the riders. But as the kilometers tick away, so do the layers of clothing. The hear rate reaches the riders' highest sustainable levels and the breath is shortened to only the necessary oxygen intake. The pines, which the riders do not waste the effort to admire, begin to disappear and even the bushes become scarce as the terrain looks more and more like the moon than the picturesque Provincial countryside.

Paul started strong, and I was completely confident he would make it to the top, but the scars from last year left Paul with some doubt. Blake rode with him for a few clicks and recalls Paul's prerogative in riding that day. "The only way I'm going to beat this fucker is to ride at my own pace and not worry about anything," he proclaimed. Upon reaching Chalet Reynard (where he decided to stop last year), Paul didn't blink. He probably didn't even notice the Chalet. After that point, there are no trees, no smells, no sugar left in his pockets. There are only two things the riders see. The first are thousands and thousands of stones, baked white by the millions of years of Mediterranean sunshine. The other It didn't matter. He settled in for the last 6 km, the most arduous. Ticking over the pedals he counted down the Km. The group waited for Paul at the top and cheered him on the last 200 meters to the weather station.

Michael, Rebecca, Karin, Mark, Mike, Paul, Blake, and Joe. Standing together on the top of the Ventoux celebrated a beautiful day in all our lives. Joe learned later that day that a friend of his and Cindy from the YMCA had passed away leaving young children and a wife. John was a cyclist and I have to believe he was with us that day, and it is for people like John that if you have an opportunity to do live a life less ordinary.......you must.

Peace and Love
The Mello Velo family.

On the Podium

Well, now we have lived every american bike riders dream we got the chance to participate in a road race in France. Last sunday we said good bye to our guests at the airport and headed north to Vaison la Romaine and a date with The Vaclusienne a 140 km road race around the Mt Ventoux.

The race started fast, we had 20 motor bike officials, cars, road closure. The raced sped through the little villes with police standing on the traffic furniture blowing whistles and waving flags. The peleton of 200 + split around the roundabout we were in a dream.

The selection started on the first climb 5 km at 4%. Blake and had little problem staying in the top 2o. A twisitng 40 mph descent snaked down the climb and brought us to the famous town of Bedoin. All was going well until the 60 km mark when on a rough patch of road I saw Blake in front of me with his hand in the air. Blake floated back and told me he had a flat and he needed my wheel, I was riding for him and the answer was painfully clear. Quick change, a quick push and Blake was chasing. I remembered the famous video clip of a Tour rider who was in yellow had to give his wheel to his team captain, then sat on the wall and wept. But such is bike racing.

And so the story can only continue on his terms. Take it, boyo...

So, bammage, I'm suddenly on the rivet and quickly into the "red zone" as the Cotes du Ventoux vindyards which accompany our beautifully tranquil tour rides, pass by in blur. Flatting on a wheel in a race most days means "Game Over", but begging Joey to give me his wheel (knowing that his race would be over at that moment), I knew I've have the power of two men in my legs. Still, the chase of a lifetime trying to regain contact with the peleton lay ahead.

During the next climb to St. Hubert, a 15 km gradual grade, catching groups of five or ten, trying to find out how many were still ahead, I willed my bike up and rejoined a peleton of 15 more strong men I recognize from earlier. Five were away, I learned from a Belgium. Or did I hear five when he really said 15, which in French while breathing through my ears sounds very similar. Nothing to do but attack again, just as we past our favorite boulangere in all of the Vaulcuse. Couldn't I just convince the rest of the racers to stop for moment? I'd even buy! I thought of Joey. He'd stay and wait around. There was still 50km left after all, and I was dying from the chasing efforts. Then I thought Vino, and wine, and the feeling of wind in your face. Attacking into a downhill with a headwind, legs breaking, no food, couldn't afford to stop at the feed, way past the comfort zone, i reached to front five, and subsequently, cracked, "popped", saw black snow as the hamstrings turned into baseballs, and so i ended up getting second in my age group, 8th overall, and won my first trophy ever, which i placed last in the Cafe de France (our local bar). This week, I will drink only bubbly, and only from this cup.


We welcomed our new guests the next day, and we now are on day 3 sitting at the Cafe de France. The Ventoux in on tomorrow and everyone is hungry to go at it. Today is a light day with a Kayak ride down the Sorgue river. We will blog the ride tomorrow.

Abientot

Joe and Blake