10.7.2010 | 8:56 pm
Right now, The Runner and I are at a very fancy dinner/auction benefiting the GranFondo charities. We ran across Ibis honcho and BFOF, Scot "Chuck Ibis" Nicol. We were quite impressed with how dapper we appeared, and thought you would be too.
The only sad thing is we neglected to take a photo of the appetizer we were served. Because if we had taken a picture of it, probably one of you would have been able to identify it. As things stand, I’m only able to assert that it was kind of pinkish and smelled of fish.
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10.7.2010 | 10:25 am
The Runner and I are headed to Santa Rosa for Levi’s GranFondo. Expect lots of short posts over the weekend.
Oh, and you know what’s more awesome than spilling your drink down your entire left side right before getting on a plane?
Lots of things, probably.
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10.1.2010 | 10:04 am
A Note from Fatty: Today is the last day you can enter in the contest to win an Orbea Orca with Shimano Di2 components or a trip to Austin to ride with Team Fatty at the Ride for the Roses. Click here for details, or click here to enter now!
The cycling world is buzzing with the news that Alberto Contador — three-time winner of the Tour de France, for those of you who don’t really follow pro cycling — tested positive for clenbuterol during the Tour de France last July.
Here are the basic facts, as I understand them:
- Clenbuterol is an asthsma medication, and also works as a stimulant, and has the side benefit of making you lose weight. Both WADA and UCI have it listed as a banned substance for pro cyclists.
- The sample Contador tested positive with had a tiny amount of Clenbuterol in it: 50 picograms (trillionths of a gram). To get a sense of how much that is, I googled “picture a trillion” and found a page that is very helpful: it helps you visualize a trillion by showing what a trillion dollars would look like if you stacked $100 bills on pallettes. Here’s the (ahem) money shot (to get perspective of how big this would be, note that the tiny figure in the bottom left is a man):
So fifty trillionths would be if you took one of those $100 bills from that ginormous array of pallettes of stacks of $100 bills, and made change for $50. In other words, a 50 picogram concentration of clenbuterol is an unimaginably small amount and wouldn’t — on its own merits — do Contador any good.
- The only reason Contador tested positive was because the lab his samples (both his main and backup sample tested positive) is outrageously high-tech and was able to detect levels with incredible sensitivity.
- Contador does not dispute that Clenbuterol was in his system. Instead, he claims that the way the Clenbuterol got into his system was by eating some meat that was brought in from Spain. Since — evidently — Clenbuterol is (illegally in the US, not so sure about Spain) used to make cows have more muscle mass.
Contador has given a press conference, where he strenuously denied any wrongdoing. The most awesome thing about this press conference, if you ask me, is the following photograph and caption from VeloNews :
Yes, that’s right. “Contador left the conference in a news conference.” Kudos to the crack team of journalists at VeloNews for that informative and interesting photograph and caption.
And also, is there any possible way they could have made Contador look any more like a Very Sinister James Bond Villain?
Here, let me try:
OK, I suppose it is possible.
Sorry, I’m having a hard time getting to my main point, which is this: I know exactly how to help Contador get to the bottom of this Clenbuterol-tainted-beef (or, as I’d like everyone to start referring to it, “Beefgate”) problem.
Furthermore, I’m going to make my services available to help him. Because that’s the kind of personI am.
The Simple Solution
In order for Contador to convince UCI, WADA, and the public that he really truly was a victim of an unfortunate dinner entree selection, he simply needs to show how the effect can be replicated. This can be done by following these simple steps:
- Get a cow. A really top-quality one, preferably, for reasons that will come clear in a moment.
- Inject the cow (or use an inhaler, if that’s the way it’s done, and I hope it is because that’s a hilarious image) with the amount of Clenbuterol that one might normally inject the cow with in order to achieve the desired results of better, leaner meat. Or maybe they use
- Wait the normal period of time for the Clenbuterol to do its thing.
- Slaughter and butcher the cow.
- Find someone who currently does not test positive for Clenbuterol and is willing to eat as much steak as necessary to prove a point. I — as a person who has never used asthsma medication, cannot afford to buy performance enhancing drugs, and looooves steak — will be happy to volunteer. Maybe I can get a bunch of friends to volunteer too, and we’ll fire up the grill and turn this experiment into an awesome scientific barbecue.
- Feed me the steak. Oh, you’d better give me plenty, just to make sure I’m good and contaminated.
- Test me to see if I’m all Clenbutorolized. If I’m not, you’d better give me another steak. Hey, I’m happy to help.
Of course, it’s totally possible that the first time we conduct this experiment, I may not get the cut with the Clenbuterol in it. For that reason, we’d better go ahead and get a whole bunch of cows and load them up with varying amounts of Clenbuterol.
And then, on a regular basis, you can send me different cuts, with differing amounts of Clenbuterol. Send plenty, though, because — as I believe I have mentioned — I loooove steak.
Eventually, I’m bound to pop a positive result. Alberto’s name will be cleared, and I’ll have eaten a lot of delicious beef. And with any luck, all that Clenbuterol will clear up my sinuses and help me lose some weight, too. Totally win-win.
I’m here and ready to help you get past Beefgate, Alberto. Because I’m that kind of guy.
And because I loooove steak.
PS: Yesterday, when The Runner got home from work, she said, “Guess who I saw in the hospital today with a broken leg.” I guessed Kenny first, because his bones are like balsa wood, but more brittle. Then I guessed Sunderlage, because that’s the kind of Summer he’s had. Then I guessed Mark, because he has terrible bike handling skills. Then I guessed Dug, because I kind of hoped it would be Dug.
Finally, The Runner gave up. “No,” she said, “It’s KanyonKris’s wife Jolene. She broke her leg while riding, at the top of Tibble.
For those of you (most of you, except locals) who haven’t met Jolene, she — like KanyonKris — is an incredibly nice person and a lover of bicycles. I was sad to hear of her nasty injury. Be sure to take a minute to read about her fall (here and here) and maybe drop off a note of encouragement at KanyonKris’s blog.
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09.30.2010 | 7:46 am
A Note from Fatty: A couple days ago, I got an email from Scot “Chuck Ibis” Nicol, honcho-in-chief of Ibis Cycles. Here it is, in its entirety:
Got bit by a tree.
Wanna see the before?
To which I of course responded, “Well of course I want to see the before. And I want to hear the story!”
Chuck obliged, and sent me the story of what happened, along with photographs. I thought it was an interesting story, partially on its own merits, and partially because Chuck’s storytelling style is so incredibly different from mine.
As a result, I am going to do something a little different. I’m going to post his story, but I’m also going to add commentary in key places.
IMPORTANT NOTE: There are a couple of very graphic photos of Chuck’s injury here. If that kind of thing bothers you, you seriously should not read today’s post.
The Flapper
It was a beautiful day in the La Sal range above Moab. It was threatening to be 100ยบ in Moab and we decided to head uphill. So we decided to do a ride up around 10-11K feet. It was spectacular, September 28th and the Aspens were going off.
[Note from Fatty: So far Chuck and I are pretty much in alignment, though I definitely would have gone on for a few paragraphs about the lack of oxygen. And I probably also would have talked about how in spite of my lack of training I was managing to climb like a mountain goat on crack.]
It’s a hardcore ride, check out the hikeabike.
[Note from Fatty: OK, I would never just say "it's a hardcore ride," as if it were a throwaway clause. If I'm on a hardcore ride, I'm going to make it the centerpiece of the story. I'm going to go into detail about how hard it was, and exactly what was in the core, and then somehow manage to be both boastful and self-deprecating at the same time about how I managed to ride something that I wouldn't have thought I could. I probably would also have spent about 300 words describing what was going through my head as I pushed my bike across those rocks.]
But again the views were spectacular.
After a while, I ran into a low branch with my leg. Simple as that. Probably enjoying the view or something. I was with an experienced guide from Western Spirit Cycling, and he said it was the largest laceration he’s ever seen in 10 years of guiding.
[Note from Fatty: Frankly, I just can't even comprehend the beginning of that paragraph. You tore most of the skin off one of your calves, 'simple as that?' I would reconstruct the moment, millisecond by millisecond. I would describe the branch in such a way that would make women and children tremble. I would turn this story into a seven-parter, with the entire second part being about the exquisite pain I experienced at the moment of injury, the third part being about the pain I experienced during the next two minutes, and the fourth part being about how I passed out upon looking at the gory inside of my leg.]
SImon and I turned around, the other 6 went on. This is a very big epic ride. I was less than half way.
Rode back to town, 26 miles, with the “flapper.”
[Note from Fatty: If I were writing this story, part five would be called "Riding into town with the flapper," and it would be 1200 words long. ]
The rest of the images tell the story.
[Note from Fatty: I passed out for a moment, just looking at that thing.]
The nurse drew a smiley face on there for me.
The ER doc was a magician with the stitches. I got 8 inside and 18 outside.
Yesterday we rode the Virgin River Rim Trail. Wow!
[Note from Fatty: I would make part 7 of this seven-parter be all about how I anguished over whether I would ever ride again, then how I made the heroic decision to go riding the next day and about how the pain was nearly unendurable, and yet I survived and am a better man for it.]
PS: Is anyone going to be driving from Santa Cruz to Santa Rosa next week? And if so, would you mind picking a road bike up and hauling it over for me? Chuck’s gonna loan me a sweet bike for Levi’s GranFondo, but we need to get it over there. Email me if you can help.
PPS: Don’t forget that today and tomorrow are the last days you can enter the Orbea Orca with Shimano Di2 / Ride for the Roses contest.
Comments (53)
09.29.2010 | 12:20 pm
A Note from Fatty: The “Win an Orbea Orca with Shimano Di2 or a Trip to Ride for the Roses” contest is in full swing, with more than $23,000 $24,000 raised on my Austin LiveStrong Challenge page alone. And together, the five Team Fatties (Seattle, San Jose, Philly, Austin, NYC) have raised $434,342 so far this year. That’s awesome, but we have more to do. So, if you haven’t donated yet, please donate now. You might win a dream bike or a trip to join Team Fatty at the Ride for the Roses. The contest ends this Friday, so don’t delay!
This is going to be one of those “exception proves the rule” posts. Or if it doesn’t prove it, it at least illustrates it. Or emphasizes it. Something like that. I don’t know. Regardless, I shall now tell my “exception does something with the rule” story.
Last week, I had one of those moments where an appointment falls through, no new one takes its place, and — lo and behold — I happen to be near a mountain bike trail and have all my biking stuff nearby.
It was, essentially, one of those moments that give serendipity a good name.
Not wanting to tempt fate — which loves to fill my time with non-biking activities — I suited up, texted The Runner that I was “going to do a quick Hog Hollow” (a “quick” ride means, in this case, not that I would be riding quickly, but that I would be doing so immediately and would be back before she got home from work and therefore do not expect to have any brownie points deducted from my stash of accrued brownie points, if in fact I currently have any brownie points accrued).
Then I put my phone in my jersey pocket and was gone.
It was one of those rides that reminds me of why I love Autumn so much. The weather was cool, but not cold. The colors were changing. A brief-but-hard-rain the evening before had packed down the singletrack, making it grippy and fun.
Although, I noted, that same rain also washed some scree into new rows and piles on the Hog Hollow climb itself. (That’s foreshadowing, by the way.)
After about an hour (or so, I wasn’t counting) of excellence on Corner Canyon (Jacob’s Ladder to Ghost to Canyon Hollow to Rush to Clarks, for those of you who are locals), I began my descent from the saddle of Corner Canyon down Hog Hollow, heading home.
And then, about halfway down, I hit one of those new piles of scree. My front wheel washed out to the right and I went down on my left knee.
For those who have ridden with me when I’ve taken a fall and are therefore wondering: No, I did not scream. I only do that when others are around. As far as you know.
Instead, I stood up to start riding again.
Then I sat back down, as the wave of nausea hit.
I took a look at my knee. It didn’t look beautiful. It looked, in fact, as if someone had taken a rather jagged ice cream scooper to my knee and scooped off a deep, ragged chunk of skin.
I should’ve taken a picture. Really, I should have. Here’s one now — six days later — but it doesn’t really give you the full effect.
So as I sat there, waiting for the pain to subside, I had a couple of thoughts:
- Really, all things considered, it’s amazing I get hurt only once in a while.
- I wanted to call Lisa and see if she would give me some sympathy over the phone.
So I called The Runner (I know, sometimes I call her Lisa, sometimes I call her The Runner; I don’t know why) and negotiated the tricky conversational waters of trying to get sympathy while still coming off as a tough guy, not as a crybaby.
I think I might have come off more on the crybaby side, if I’m were to be completely honest with myself. Which I’m not.
But I did get my sympathy, and that’s what counts.
Conditioned Reflexes
Later, after the oh-so-fun session of scrubbing and bandaging the knee, I spent a little bit of time thinking about the first observation I had had while staring and my new injury: it’s really amazing that — considering we ride fast on pavement or dirt and rocks and stuff — that cyclists really don’t crash very often.
And then I started thinking about the “why” of this, and I realized there are quite a few conditioned reflexes I use as a cyclist that I generally now take for granted. And chances are, you do to.
So I started to think about them:
- Balancing: The very first conditioned reflex a cyclist learns is the act of remaining upright on a bike. When I think about it, it’s still amazing and crazily unintuitive: you’re straddling a tangle of bars and wheels, with only a couple-inch-square pair of rubber patches touching the ground at any point. And yet, you stay upright. And after a while, you stop even thinking about how you stay upright. You’re on a bike, riding along. Why wouldn’t you be upright?
- Leaning: If I were asked how I steer my bike, I’d be tempted to say “with my handlebars.” But the truth is, except for at low speed, the the handlebars have almost nothing to do with it. You steer your bike by leaning. How much? How far? And to what degree in concert with a nudge against the handlebars? I couldn’t even explain. The truth is, I just look at a place and ride my bike toward it, with no conscious thought whatsoever about the complicated stew of balancing, steering and leaning my body is executing. And that’s for the best, I think, because if I had to make all those actions consciously, I’d almost certainly fall down.
- Pedaling: Pedaling is like breathing. It can be conscious, where you think about every single stroke. But when you’re just cruising along, your legs just repeat the motion, endlessly and tirelessly. Until, of course, they don’t.
- Shifting: I remember when I would have to think so hard about my front and rear derailleurs and the cogs up front and back and how pushing on one lever with my left hand to put the chain on a bigger gear would make pedaling harder, but pushing on a similar lever with my right hand to put the chain on a bigger gear would make pedaling harder. And I’d get so boggled. Plus there were the concerns about cross-chaining and mis-shifting. Now I don’t even think about shifting (and not just because I often ride a singlespeed, wise guy). When I’m climbing I — without even thinking about it — go to a gear for climbing. When I’m on the flats, I’m in a bigger gear. Without ever cross-chaining.
- Braking: Sure, I consciously know the left hand lever is for my front brake and the right hand lever is for my back brake, and that most of my power is in the front brake but I shouldn’t lock it up or I’ll fly over the front. But when it comes time to stop or slow down, I just squeeze. Both hands a little different, both hands the right amount.
- Not Braking: I’m really proud of this one. I’ve noticed several times in the past years that when I hit a loose spot or otherwise start to skid in a turn that I no longer grab more brake. Instead, I release the brakes. Without even thinking about how locked wheels don’t steer at all and if I want to not skid off the road, my wheels need to be turning. I just — now intuitively — do what was once upon a time incredibly counterintuitive: when losing control, I release the brakes.
- Unclipping: Everyone pays for this conditioned reflex by falling over, still attached to the bike, at least once or twice. But now what was once a strange, unnatural action — twist your heel out if you want to get your foot off the pedal — is the most normal, natural motion in the world. A total, complete reflexive action.
And of course, my problem is that I have just the barebones set of cyclist conditioned reflexes. Someone with really great technical cycling skills would be able to tell you about others — dropping ledges, riding a wheelie, not falling down when they hit a pile of scree.
But hey, it’s nice to know the right half of my brain is doing at least some of the work.
PS: I recently posted about Ride the Divide, and even more recently got my own special Team Fatty Edition of the movie. Mike tells me there are more copies available. Click here for details and order yours today.
PPS: Did you know that before I started posting on fatcyclist.com, I posted this blog for a year and a half using MSN Spaces? Well, Microsoft recently announced that they’re canceling Spaces and made it easy to import all your Spaces content to WordPress. Which I did. The practical upshot is that my entire blog, from the first post on May 9, 2005, is now on this site.
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