If there was ever any question, the love of my lifey, road, is back. I spent the weekend watching live feeds of Tirreno [did you guys see how adorably sweet Benedetti was, helping Failli tuck his rain cape away?], and cheering on a favorite team.
Plus doodling, spinning inside...and out. In shorts...!
...And now I have the flu. I'll be back in a few days when I've stopped sweating and generally being a disgusting mess.
'Cross season has always signaled transitions. Like the rebound boyfriend [or, better, the really awesome guy friend that will voluntarily be a fake boyfriend post-break-up until you can go 24 hours without unraveling into a weepy mess], 'cross has held my hand every year as road left me. The air gets a little colder, I start pulling on knee warmers on rides, and by September the races I'm watching involve muddy stairs, and much less asphalt.
It's a good change of pace. Like hanging out with your big brother type friends - the ones you know will make sure you get home okay before going home with that girl you played wingman for - after you pulled a bit of a disappearing act over a crush that didn't work out. CX gives you something fun to do when it's freezing cold outside, with people you secretly think are insane, but you're still proud to call your friends. You end up with lots of good stories, inside jokes and killer hangovers. It's the best way to spend a winter. [Picture below taken by Alex...isn't my helmet hair amazing?]
But then there's a lull in February, after CX Worlds [although Cyclocross Tokyo holds me over a little longer]. Valentine's Day rolls around and the big brother figure that is 'cross is out wining and dining a hot date. The lack of romance in your life becomes a little too clear. You start intensely staring at the Competitive Cyclist postcard from three years ago with Cav on it racing in the Giro - even though you're not a Cav fan - because maybe, just maybe, you can will it to be May if you tried hard enough.
I know, I know, there are the Spring Classics, and it would be greedy of me to ignore Paris-Nice. Coming off the high of CX season, though, I've been craving something...more. The excitement of watching all the big names flex their muscles in the same race, Tour-style. The sprints, lead-out trains, and fast-as-fuck climbing that you get to see in stage races. The Italian sun bouncing off colorful jerseys on carbon fiber bikes...
Actually, that's all bullshit. I didn't see Adam Hansen's name on the Paris-Nice start list and immediately lost interest. Yeah, I understand there's value in watching races that don't include the most bangable dude in the pro peloton, but understanding that concept and acting on it are two different things, okay?
But then there was a tweet about Tirreno! And a start list shot full of HGH [that's Hendy, Greipel, and Hansen, in pedal-strike speak]! And just like that, it looked like I was going to make it through March without [too much] pro cycling stage racing withdrawal.
Sure, my entire face is in agony from the trees around Tokyo constantly jizzing pollen into the air, but I am seriously loving spring.
Since meeting Chandler and Tim at Cyclocross Tokyo last year, I’ve taken the liberty to clog their inboxes with rants about ‘cross, Tokyo, and bikes, and stalked both of their racing seasons. I sent a lot of emails with exclamation marks. I met up with them at the Gran Prix of Gloucester. They kept telling me that “yeah, yeah we can’t wait to go back to Tokyo,” but a part of me doubted they would make the flight over after Louisville. I mean, isn’t going to sleep for a week with an ice cream IV the natural thing to do after Worlds, not run off to race again, in Tokyo?
But last Friday two Fridays ago, I was sitting in a bar in Ginza with Tim, [Rapha-Focus mechanic]Tom Hopper, and [Rapha-Focus team manager]Jeff Rowe, having a beer at 3pm. We sandwiched coffee at Café de L’Ambre [where Tim had a café oeuf, a meticulously poured-over coffee with a raw egg yolk in it] between the watery beer and a stop at a whisky bar, and thus started the weekend.
24 hours later, I was cheering on Chandler in the Cat 2 race on the same course that the pros would be racing on the next day. Lined up pretty much in the last row, Japandler moved his way steadily up while Tim, JF [a Boston friend of Tim’s, in town for business], and I screamed and yelled. We all tried to shame Chan into at least beating the guy on the Surly Pugsley, until we realized that that guy was beating everyone. Well, until he rolled his tire and had to switch to a regular ‘cross bike [“oh, that guy that was riding everything?” Chan would later say]. Chan came in 4th, and I got to play podium girl for the first [and last] time in my life.
I only really found out how much sand was actually involved in the course after JF’s masters’ race the following day. There was the long stretch of sand that was there last year, but this year an additional beach section was added, presumably to allow for more spectating space. A pavement sprint led right to a wide curve along the beach [a few guys endo-ed as they hit the sand], before the riders raced through the twists in the trees. A small ramp added some excitement between the wooded sections, before a descent back onto the beach, into sand that seemed to swallow front wheels. I had seen Chan ride the high line the day before, but most of the amateur field had chosen to run the sand section. Both Chan and JF would say that it was the hardest race they’d done this year. It looked brutal.
Back at the Sram tent, with the sun coming out, Tim’s primary concern was how much he would be sweating, and Jeremy Powers’ primary concern seemed to be trying to walk without stepping on a herd of Japanese fans. Arnie from Red Bull came to hang out, as did Sam from the infamous Behind The Barriers. The latter would, later that night, get footage of me weaving around the streets of Shibuya after chugging 1.5 beers with him........Yeah.
I actually did a lot of weaving in and out that day. Once the gun went off, JF and I ran around the course, shooting pictures of Tim and Jeremy with our respective iPhones. JF, having raced a few hours earlier, was familiar with the best places to get pictures, and we jumped over Shimano tape and ran through sand to cheer on the guys. Japanese national champion Yu Takenouchi led the race just like he did last year, and flew through the sand like it wasn’t even there. Jeremy and Tim would close the gap between the trees [with Jeremy bunny hopping the barriers every single lap, to waves of cheers by the fans], but Yu would stretch it back out once on the beach. The field was getting lapped; the course more crowded. The elite field did a total of thirteen grueling laps, with Yu holding on until the last lap, when Jeremy cleaned up any hope of a Japanese win. Tim claimed the last spot on the podium, and the race was done.
The sun was slowly setting by the time the guys finished the podium presentation and conducted quick interviews. We were all shivering in varying degrees, I finally met Alex of Sram who also worked the pit with Japandler for Tim, and I found out that Tim has these zip up tights that are like the Lycra equivalent of basketball rip-off pants [par for the course, I guess, when you’re the “Michael Jordan of the cyclocross world”].
Getting shitfaced off less than two beers and wandering aimlessly around Shibuya followed, plus some riding around town and a night with Red Bull. But more on that later.
[Lots more pictures here.]
It’s been all ‘cross, ‘cross, ‘cross around here lately but I got a refreshing taste of my first love, track, last Friday. With Austin Horse in town for a race on dirt and on the first Red Bull Mini Drome event held in Tokyo, it promised – and delivered – on good times.
Nearly 100 racers spun around the tiny velodrome – some flying off and making for great entertainment – in the first round of time trials, before progressing to the pursuit event. Austin flew around the track, making great time…until his front wheel nosed itself off the edge. With three more laps to go, he was unfortunately out of the second round of sprints. The crowd cheered regardless, and the press of people became nearly suffocating as we reached the final pursuit matches. Messengers progressed through the round robin to their friends yelling encouragement, as Red Bull girls – ever present – handed out gratuitous bullets of caffeine. I stood on tiptoes to catch a better view, but without much luck. The pictures I managed to take don’t do the event justice; I swear, it was way more amazing than my camera shots look.
Thanks to Ai and Arnie of Red Bull for putting on such an awesome event!!! And hopefully see you guys again soon!
[More pictures here.]
Last week was a dry and fast one in Tabor, then a wet, sloppy one in Plzen last night. I'm not talking about my recent escapades with European men, but the Cyclocross World Cup series.
My second and third pro cyclocross races watched through grainy live feeds [and most likely the first of many with Dutch commentary], the Cyclocross World Cup series is integrating itself seamlessly into my Sunday nights. I nap expressly to stay up later for the twisted curves of the 'cross course, and self-medicate copiously with coffee the following Monday. I'm aware that I'm regressing to full-on weird behavior again, where my schedule is dictated by pixelated bike racers with impossibly foreign names like Sven Nys and Radomir Simunek, Jr. This would probably be considered alarming behavior by normal people, particularly for a single 20-something living in the giant playground that is Tokyo. I am, however, fortunate enough to have friends who believe that this is a legitimately acceptable way of whittling away hours that could be spent sleeping on a Sunday night. They even encourage it.
Call it the payment in arrears due for neglecting my race spectating addiction for too long this year, but the irresistible draw of the World Cup series is probably due more to the simple romance of anaerobic hell done the European way. The pro/WTF of Sven Nys snapping a chain in Tabor and still coming in fifth, riding around the course all like, "aight, get out of the way." Pauwels looking pretty much as miserable as I do when I climb stairs [except I don't do it with a bike on my shoulder, at any pace that is faster than "plodding"]. It doesn't hurt that, when you see someone you're lucky enough to call a friend racing in the World Cup series in his iconic Red Bull helmet, you're completely allowed, even in the cycling world, to emit low timbered "YEAH, BRO!"s like a frat boy watching the Superbowl.
"You look refreshed today," an attorney commented yesterday.
"Really...?" I responded. I was three cups of coffee in, and the last time I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror, it looked like I was still celebrating the pre-Halloween weekend in the guise of a corpse. But mud and 'cross had been on my mind all day, flashes of dirt-splattered legs and failed dismounts softening the computer screen glare and fluorescent lighting of the office.
Back in my three-walled cubicle, I stared down at my calendar. Three more weeks until Koksijde. Three more weeks until another live stream of awesome.
[First set of pictures are from Tabor, the muddier ones from Plzen.]
