Lesser-Known Olympians [.. at least I didn't know HE was an Olympian] ... plus a tale yet to be told.

So I was perusing the Yahoo Olympic website yesterday (during Management Information Systems class... errr.. I mean, my "free time") and I saw an article entitled "American Cyclists Arrive in Face Masks" quickly followed by "American cyclists apologize for wearing masks".

Not too big of a deal, cyclists aren't known for their style... any motorist can tell you that. But suddenly, something caught my eye in the article:

BEIJING (AP) -- Four American Olympic cyclists are apologizing to Beijing's Olympic organizers for arriving in China's capital wearing face masks.

Michael Friedman, Sarah Hammer, Bobby Lea and Jennie Reed released a statement, saying the masks were only a precaution, and not an attempt to make a political or environmental statement.

The name Bobby Lea stood out like a saddle soar after 150k.

I don't know Bobby. I know other Olympians in Beijing [see next post] but I'd be lying if I said Bobby and I were friends. No, I remember Bobby from several races where we faced off head to head while I was racing for Vermont and he was racing for our heated rival Penn State University. He was a crit and TT specialist, I was the exact opposite, a mountain and 'tough guy' endurance race specialist. I first remember Bobby from a race back in 2001 (I think at West Point, but I might be wrong)... My teammates were cycling dorks... followed every pro race... knew how to pronounce even the most obscure Dutch cycling names with near fluency despite their anglophone-centric education. I, on the other hand, did my training (short in length, hard in effort), wolfed down a dinner that always included some sort of canned food and a salad, and spent the rest of my time studying Computer Science and Accounting [not recommended if you list 'Partying', 'Personal Exploration and Discovery', or even more directly, 'Chicks' as you collegiate goals]. Not a lot of time for watching Phil Ligget and Paul Sherwin on VHS, perfecting the pronunciations down to the lowest domestique, or going on long, drawn-out road rides while discussing the latest L'Equipe editorial with your buddies (although I wish I could have).

Before one race, they spoke of one name with a slight hint of apprehension (as in... "omg, this guy is going to kill us all.. he's legendary!"). I really don't pay attention to that kind of thing because I always thought that if a person is THAT good, I'll see it first hand during the race. I remember hearing mutterings about some sort of National Championship or Junior National Championship or Track Championship and I even think I heard a few foreign countries mixed in while I took off my warm-up gear.

The race started and we wound our way around the forested hills of West Point. Since it was only April and most of the teams were from the East Coast, we all had pasty-white legs due to the fact that most of us only begun riding outside within the last month (at that time, I would usually ride about 200 hours INSIDE before riding outside ... good thing I'm a lazy ass now :)

Anyway, the race started and we were riding along in the peloton when suddenly I smelled something strange in the air... I looked at the leafless trees... pollen?... I looked at the lack of grass... "hay fever? ... in New England? ... in April? There is still a few pockets of snow in the woods for goodness sake!" Suddenly I realized it was the poser in front of me with the gleaming bronze legs that shined so much that you got a headache if you looked at his calves too long. I vaguely remember my teammates saying something about this "Lea" guy going to Panama, or Columbia, or was it Belize... for the Pan-Am games just a week before the race... must have picked up a tan and some sort of local embrocation cream to "show off" to the New England locals.

"Ha ha, I'm an international cycling superstar... just smell me dude!"
... if his legs could talk.

I drafted in a coconut-oil stupor for 10 or 20 minutes before rightly seeking a new position in the peloton ... maybe tucking in behind someone named Biff or Jake with a Britney Spears sticker on his stem who hailed from the north-country (hey, it was 2001 after all). Ahh, much better, more normal from what I'm used to.

Being cooped up inside a computer lab for 4 years has its cycling advantages... you really don't care who is in the break or what is going on in a bike race, you are just psyched that it's a weekend and for the next 3 hours, none of the people around you would rather be debugging a memory allocation error triggered by a dynamic C++ multi-dimensional array application.

Ignorance was bliss.

The only thing I did was give 100% when someone jumped, or I got bored... whichever came first.

Racing in West Point is always fun. The year before was my first year road racing (after 8 years of mountain bike racing). I was in near the front when I noticed it was getting really hard [insert idiot look here]. Guys kept hammering up the damp windy roads surrounding West Point, flanked with commanding trees on either side just starting to reveal their leaf bud weapondry for the summer. Coming from a mountain biking "every man for himself" mentality, I was like, "jeez-um, you guys 'r really putin' the boots to'her!" (old Maine/New England saying... proper definition not suitable for children under 28). That year, before I knew it, I did a rotation at the front of our break group and after I did my 120% pull (or effort) at the front, looked for support (the next guy who is suppose to take over in order to keep the pace high) and found no-one. "Geez, they are going to make me look like an idiot," I thought since I had been watching breakaways get caught in the last kilometer in the Tour de France recently, only to see the guy end up in 117th place (2 seconds behind first place). "Geeez, I'm an idiot!" I continued on anyway.

In that race, I still thought I was an idiot until the lead car zoomed in front of me (a classic indication that you alone are the leader of the entire race) to provide a lead-out and clear the road to signal that the lead rider of the race was approaching. The car zoomed in front and I got in the drops and continued to push hard as we passed fans and course marshalls [marshalls are people or policeman who stop traffic at intersections to make sure the riders go the correct way and cars do not interfere with the race].

The difference between a 'normal race' or even the Tour de France and this race was that the lead car, escorting me with flashing lights driving down the center of the road, and the course marshalls who control traffic, was that the course marshalls had semiautomatic rifles. They dressed in full battle camouflage and knew how to kill someone just by using their thumb and index finger. The 'lead car' was not a fancy "business man's" car like the Tour de France, but rather a Hummer H1, a vehicle only available to authorized military personnel, fully outfitted in camouflage and military satellite radio with a guy on the other end of the radio with his finger on a big red button (if you know what I mean). This was before the idiotic consumer-driven marketing campaign that you see today where Hummer H2 or H3 are driven by civilians outfitted with fabric seats, music radios, and air-conditioning. No, the vehicle I was behind spewed out even more exhaust, had bigger tires, a MPG efficiency that basically meant that I felt like I was drinking the gasoline straight out of the tailpipe. Instead of comfy seats and an FM radio, this thing had military-only radio contact and an interior specially designed so that if the previous driver was shot down in combat, it could be cleaned by a fire-hose and promptly replaced by a new driver.

Accordingly, even the lowly course marshalls who signal traffic to stop and point me in the direction to go were different from most bike race course marshalls. It was a subtle difference but the camoflague outfits provided a hint as they pointed the direction I should go with one hand while nonchalantly holding a semi-automatic weapon that was probably longer than my bike in the other hand.

No second guessing here. I'll go "that way".

Needless to say, despite my lead position in the race, I took all corners such as this with trepidation.

In that year, another rider finally caught up with me and beat me in the final 3 miles. We worked together until the sprint... (I think even Joe Schmoe on a mountain bike can beat me in a sprint) but it was one of my first road bike races and one that I will never forget. I finished with a huge second place victory for our team, ahead of any and all Penn State rivals... including one named Lea.

Back to the current-year story... I was so use to reading outlandish syllibi from professors and projects assigned to be due in 3 days that would take 2 months to complete that I was idiotic enough to say... "err, ahhh.. alright, still 2 hours left to go... 120% of my maximum heart rate seems like a reasonable and maintainable effort to me!" So I jumped on a wheel. If that wheel failed, I jumped on another.

Eventually, it was just 5 of us. Most of the riders in that pack are still professional cyclists even to this day (7 years later). We rotated through to hold off the main peloton or what was left of it but I noticed that some were holding out for the flat finish.... (did I mention that Pee-Wee Herman could beat me in a sprint?).

I think I got 4th in the race but I do remember that the (in)famous Lea was nowhere close. "Pffft... " I thought. So much for racing in the Pan-Am games... spring in New England is a killer... (or maybe our pasty white legs simply distracted him).

Many years later I discover Lea on the cover of "Bicycling Magazine", one of the biggest cycling magazines in the world. He was always a pretty boy in my mind (see 'leg oil treatment' above), so the cyclist-turned-model seemed to fit.

However, in reading the latest Yahoo! Sports article about the masked cyclists, my eyes quickly focus on a single name.... and suddenly my olfactory glands filled with essence of coconut and rubbing alcohol. Sure enough, he is representing the United States in Track Cycling in 2008.

Curious (aka 'class is getting boring'), I investigate my former enemy further to find an article entitled:

Lea follows family's Olympic legacy

Geez, after reading this article I'm thinking that My dad was an accountant and CFO... his was an Olympian... pffffft, as a kid, I remember having the following argument with my dad, ... I'm sure Bobby had the same argument with his Olympian dad:

"Which is better, Burger King with the Whopper and Strawberry Shakes, or McDonald's with the Big Mac and crispy Apple Pies?"

This discussion could go on and on as we traveled back from the hockey arena or bike race to home.

Epilogue
Bobby did not receive a medal, but the press coverage for wearing anti-pollution, anti-Chinese, anti-cultural, xenophobic masks was well covered.

Neither my Dad or I like McDonald's or Burger King anymore... not sure why though.

Bobby is still a great cyclist. I look like one of those guys with the expensive bike who looks like he just started riding last week. But I still enjoy it.

Perhaps Bobby would have been better off with some military vehicles and M16 bearing soldiers to lead him into China... yeah, that would have gone over smoothly :)

... but you have to catch that break Bobby.

:)

Hey, remember that time....

The 2008 Tour de France is underway and after just 6 stages there have already been some significant surprises. Today was a mountain top finish (Super-besse) that you normally don't see this early in the race. One of the biggest surprises of the day was a certain American who amazingly placed 4th on the stage and now is 4th overall in the Tour de France! His name may escape most people's list of famous American cyclists as he is usually remembered for his unfortunate withdrawal from the Tour a few years ago because of a bee sting (ouch, vdv) and his unfortunate wipe-out in the rain during the team time trial on Lance Armstrong's Postal Service Team, taking out half the team with him (luckily Lance corralled his young horseman and they ended up with the team victory anyway).

I don't remember him most for either of these dubious moments. No, I would have to say that my most fond memory of him was when we were sitting on the concrete steps of some guys garage during a housewarming party. Someone dared him to eat potato chips since Lance probably wouldn't let him. To his credit, he grabbed a handful and munched loudly. I thought he should do a keg stand. He thought I should. I said no way. He said I was a pussy. I said I had the National Championships in 5 days but I would hold his legs up if he did it. Again, he wouldn't. Again, I wouldn't. Then finally... he did. There I was, holding one of Lance's cadets up by the legs, downing cheap beer in a keg in "some-guy's" garage just 6 weeks before the tour. He lasted a disappointing 8 seconds. 6 weeks later, Lance almost lost the Tour title when the team time trial turned upside down.

Fast forward to 2008 and suddenly he's in the headlines again, thankfully on good terms this time. Check it out:

Click above to watch the video.

Nice "stand" on Super-basse today vdv.

I'm Not a Racer I just show up at the startline.

Ride Stats

• Dist:84.1


• Time:4:08:58


• Avg. Speed20.27 mph


• Max. Speed44.6 mph


• Climbing:6161 ft


• Avg. HR:161 bpm


• Energy:4438 cal


• Dist 2008:3861 mi

64°

High: 67° Low: 61°

My IE

64°

High: 67° Low: 61°

Graph of Heart Rate (red), Speed (blue), and Altitude (gray) for the race
For those not familiar with heart rates, 110-120 beats per minute and you know you exercising, 130-140 and you are really starting to work, 150-160 and you are putting out serious effort. At about 165-170 a little voice in your head says, "ok, you can maintain this for about 30 seconds, then I'm giving up". At 170-180 your body says, "ok. Nice suicide attempt. Stop. Now!". At 180+ you are venturing into the maximum your heart can possibly beat (aside from all psychological "omg, this is too hard" thoughts). The general calculation is 220bmp - (Your Age). For me, I guess that's around 191. So when I see that I was over 180 for 11 continuous minutes... you can imagine the agony...

Last weekend I met up with the local cycling club for there Sunday ride. After a sedentary Friday and Saturday of sitting on a bus for 5 hours and sitting through Human Resource Management class for 12 hours, I was ready to do some riding. As folks started to roll towards the habitual meeting spot, I began to notice 2 distinct cliques forming. I sat on the top tube quietly as some were chatting about bike parts, races, or other things (in Czech obviously). Then one guy turned to me and said in english, "how far would you like to ride?" - guess my incognito style wasn't as covert as I thought. They were thinking of going for about 5 hours so I joined them. The other group had some riders that didn't look as fit and they headed in a different direction. We had a good ride with a small group of 4, riding by some impressive looking nuclear power plant towers and rolling countryside. I chatted with a guy named Pavol who was really nice and had great english skills. One or two guys headed home early so we were down to 3 - Pavol, Michal, and me. We hit some big hills near Mikulov with dramatic limestone(?) cliffs framed with rolling vineyards and small villages.

We finished the ride after 117 miles averaging 20.1mph... pretty fast (for me anyway). Noticing that I had a weekend hiatus from my MBA classes, I emailed Pavol on Friday wondering if there were any rides scheduled for Saturday & Sunday. He said that 2 races were going on... one near Prague, another in the Southeastern corner of the country. He found a ride for me to get to the race and suddenly I found myself hours away from my first race in 6 or 7 years. Yikes!

My goal for the race was... well... to just show up and hope to finish. Obviously if you don't train for 6 years, you can't really expect much more. During most of my rides, I average 130bpm (that's heart beats per minute for the non-bikers out there). That qualifies as exercise but certainly isn't high-octane racing pace. Plus, I had already done 2 long rides over 100 miles each during the week so I probably wasn't super-fresh.

The Race
I met up with Petr, Libor, and Jura with 4 bikes mounted on the roof. I filled out the registration form and immediately one of ladies at registration noticed that my name wasn't Czech... she said something and Petr said I spoke english. The race organizer perked up and said in perfect english, "oh if you need anything, just let me know." I found out later why they were making such a big deal... apparently my entry into the race marked the first year that the annual event "was international". I even had my picture taken by the organizer before the start... sort of embarrassing for someone trying to "lie low" on the race radar since I was hopelessly out of race shape and just trying to do one race to get motivation and aspiration to train and meet some of the local bike crowd. I certainly wasn't going to tell anyone that I used to be a Cat 1 racer because I don't feel I even deserve to be considered a Cat 5 now.

The Gun Goes Off
Yes, they had a gun. Despite the common perception that 50% of American's walk around town with a gun tucked in their pants, I never see too many... but apparently here it's pretty rare to have a gun. It was probably just a cap-gun but it reminded me of the American stereotype obviously generated from Hollywood shoot-em-up flicks.
Anyway, I was a bit nervous until we actually started riding. Riding in the peloton was soooo much better than riding in a peloton in the US... US pelotons are kind of crazy... lots of yelling, numerous attacks... followed by yelling about who was going to chase it down... yelling at riders who don't hold a perfect line...etc etc. In contrast, the Czech peloton was very quite... hand signals were mostly used to point out potholes, chicanes, roundabouts, etc and there wasn't a single idiotic attack.

Into the Hills
We hit the first hill and all I knew was that it was sort of long. The pace was pretty fast and a lot of riders got dropped fast. I managed to stay in contact with the main group but I had to bridge a 300 meter gap on the downhill so I didn't get much rest. The next hill came soon after... another long one. I found myself again dangling on the back with 6 or 7 others. My heart rate was easily in the 170s and even 180s at times but the main issue was that I had no solid rest since the last hill. My legs felt agonizingly weak up the 6km climb but I crested the top and myself and another guy again had to bridge a tiny gap to get back in the lead group. The roads were through a some sort of park (think: state park) and were about as wide as a single SUV (more like a path than a road). With steep drop offs on one side and trees precariously close to the road, we hammered down the sun dappled tarmac navigating the tight 100° turns and switchbacks. We caught up with the lead group... again without sufficient rest on the descent.

The Suffering
The third climb began and I was hurting. Another 4-6km climb with several steep sections... I couldn't maintain the pace. I formed up with a small group of 3 or 4 riders and we pushed hard to catch the lead group with our speed at 27mph as we rotated pulls at the front. We caught another small group that had also been dropped and we all pulled together. My pulls and a guy on a Trek we probably the strongest but I realized I needed to rest more because I didn't have much juice left. On the next climb I fell off the back. For three hours+ I had been virtually max'ed out and my legs needed to back off just a fraction of a percent... but that meant losing contact with the small chase group. For the next 1.5 hours I was basically riding alone which makes it hard to stay motivated and to keep pushing, especially when your legs want to stage a mutiny and jump ship.

The Finish
I sort of dogged it up the last climb and the final flat stretch into town I did at a moderate pace, about 23-25mph. I finally finished and was pleased just to cross the line. The lead group had winnowed down to just 14 riders or so (all categories included) and I finished only about 16 minutes behind... probably not too bad since I'm sure during the final 90 minutes when I was riding solo, exposed to the wind, and mostly just checking out the scenery, the lead group was probably hammering in nice efficient paceline. I ended up 27th overall and 13th for my category (Men 20-29) out of 70 racers. One more year and I can be in the slightly less competitive 30-39 category :)

The Aftermath
After the race, we had complementary tickets for lunch and drinks. I got in line and was promptly handed a full roasted chicken with a slice of bread and a pickle. As soon as I reached for my plate, I began to search for some plastic utensils... I got distracted and found our crew at one of the outdoor tables. After sitting down I thought, "ahhh, I forgot to get some silverware" but then I looked around the table to notice everyone eating their respective chicken with their hands. I don't think I would ever eat a chicken with my hands, not because I think it's unsanitary, I just prefer not to have greasy fingers... but I had no problem temporarily adapting to the custom. Even though eating with hands is (possibly) more common in CZ, they are more strict in other ways... foot coverage, for example, is vehemently enforced. Walking in bare feet around the house is guaranteed to conjure up a cold - and wearing only socks is just half the battle... to fully ward off colds you should wear sandals especially designed for home-use. I'm not choosing sides here, just pointing out some cultural differences. The beverage coupon entitled the holder to a cold beer (didn't catch the brand, probably Pilsner Urquell or Starobrno) but I stuck to water as I'm not a big beer drinker.

All in all, I guess I didn't do too bad for someone who hasn't done a single interval in 6 years! But of course now I have to wonder how I might do with some regular training.