triathletes, cockroaches, and 60 miles

I never understood physics. I just didn’t get it; why it was important, how it worked, etc. I’m not talking about advanced physics [that’s in a whole nother world of “I am so confused”], but simple introductory physics. I recall vague examples of energy being transferred from one pool ball to another being involved, and glasses half full of water being swung around and not spilling. That’s about it.
Oh, and one other thing: that a body in motion likes to stay in motion.
At the time I “learned” that rule, I was more concerned with why an inanimate object would have wants or desires [sadly I was the only one that didn’t see the end of any potential career in medicine or science for another two years]. But it’s all coming back to me, slowly but surely, a decade later. Because bicycles and physics are like peanut butter and jelly. They go together and love each other and people really get them together. But to me? I’m feeling like when I was eight years old and choking down PB&J sandwiches at friends’ houses just to be polite and silently gagging. I still apparently don’t get it.

But I’m trying. And that old rule about bodies in motion hit me full force on Sunday when I rolled out of bed after completely passing out at the rockin’ late hour of 11pm. I could barely walk, and with sore legs that didn’t want to fully extend, I crab-walked down the hallway to dive into the bathroom, the need to pee being the only thing that was powerful enough to get me out of bed. Descending the stairs was painful but loosened up tight muscles, the running around before I left NYC behind for Boston aiding in the recovery process.
Recovering from what? From, oh, you know, DOING MY FIRST 60 MILER, EVER. I was so secretly proud of myself, I would have danced after my shower if my quads weren’t struggling to support my weight. After doing a grand total of 20 miles during the week, I got peer pressured into going on the NYC Velo monthly ride, led by Erik of Vice Magazine. Actually, I was asked to be at the shop to help out at 7:30a.m., which apparently means “7:50a.m.” in Velo-speak. I pulled on bibs and a jersey just so I wouldn’t have to climb those damn stairs again, and “helped out” by watching people filter in and talking to people about their bikes. The group that showed up consisted of about 12 or so guys, plus 2 girls [myself included]. The route planned was a brisk 80-miler that skirted the edge of the town I grew up in in New Jersey, but knowing I wasn’t up for throwing down four times the number of miles I’ve done all week on a bike in one day, I told Andrew I would tag along until we crossed the bridge, then do a solo ride up River Road.

So in my head, I imagined a leisurely ride up to the GW Bridge, then the struggle up those two climbs on River Road and an easy ride back on 9W, hopefully in the big ring. My illusions of having the energy to go up River Road crumbled as the group kept what was probably a “leisurely” pace for them, but was uncomfortably close to “balls to the wall” for me. CJ and Erik were at the front of the group, and shot up Riverside Drive with me huffing and puffing, attempting to suck on a wheel but losing it completely.
By the time we got across the bridge, I had the distinct feeling that I had probably blown myself up trying to keep up and that trying to climb up River Road would be suicidal. We were less than an hour into the ride and I was already popping Nuuns into my water bottles [Nuuns are incredibly awesome...you can even break them in half if you have smaller water bottles or you just want to thin it out]. I thought I was off the hook at that point; the planned ride was going up Knickerbocker Road, which is west of 9W. I thought I would be solo cruising.
Until CJ, Chris F., and Stanley decided to go with me. CJ called it the “fat, slow group” while Chris F. referred to it as “the ride for people who have other things to do other than ride all day.” Whatever the ride was called, we spun up 9W, past the Palisades Marketplace, and for the first time ever for me, to Bunbury’s in Piermont. There was a decent climb or two, a muffin split with Chris, some crashing into the woods [not me], and triathletes that piqued CJ’s competitive edge enough to have him decidedly drop me on the way back [the next time I saw him was at the bridge. LOL.].

But holy shit, as sweaty, snotty, and smelly as I felt after I was done, I could only think about doing a 70 miler next time. I was able to come back in the big ring, having at last grasped the concept of shifting gears and how to manage all of them. That’s not to say I wasn’t complaining, I was. When I protested at a climb, David, a friend of CJ’s who we picked up at Bunbury’s told me that I sounded like CJ two years ago.
“Now look at him. He’s a like a cockroach. He won’t go away.”
CJ laughed mid-climb, telling a story about his last Tour of Battenkill which had me laughing despite my labored breathing. An hour later, I was in no man’s land, but it was totally okay; we all start somewhere, and it’s usually off the back. Chris waited up for me, then bombed past me on a descent, shouting as he passed that that’s what 200 pounds looks like [there’s that physics again]. I had no hope of keeping up.
Maybe in two years, though.

lobsters and hogs

At family gatherings, I usually sat at the “kids’ table.” This usually consisted of me and my sister, plus the few cousins that could still relate to us. Given that my mom - the youngest in her family - pushed me out when she was 37, this meant that aforementioned cousins were at least 11 years older than I was. The kids’ table [or “the young people’s table” as it was later called] was fun for my sister and I, but looking back, I’m impressed that my cousins were able to even carry on a conversation with us. With the exception of cyclists, I find it difficult to talk to anyone who is over 3 years younger than I am. Toddlers and babies just make me awkward. I’ll point and pull sleeves of friends and say how cute they are, but when people give them to me to hold, I tense up. I’m deathly afraid of dropping the child or not holding him/her right or doing something wrong which will enrage the parent and result in them slapping me.
Which is why when Mike told me I could sit at the “kids’ table” at his family’s annual Lobsterfest, I muttered something like “um, nevermind” and found something busy to do. I imagined the scenario that unfolds before me when my mother has threatened the same thing: me sitting at a separate small table with my cousin’s 6 year old tyrant of a son, getting abused by a toy train or verbal abuse that’s meant to be funny but is just annoying, until I snap and then he cries to his mother who probably wouldn’t really care but everyone else will remember it forever and judge me by it, including my own mother. But hey, Mike’s American. That means he has loving, accepting, nonjudgmental parents [this is true]. The kind that dispenses hugs and stuff. And the hugs are of the cute, warm variety, not the stiff, awkward ones I’m forced into when my sister tries it.
So I agreed to go. Even with the threat of being dumped at a separate table with small children whom I wouldn’t know how to talk to [what are they even into these days?]. But again, these are American children, which means they are adorable. And have blue eyes. I even got to hold one. And no, I wasn’t there as the Asian nanny.

I didn't even drop the baby! A few minutes after I relinquished him to his mother, as more family members and their respective children filtered in, Mike offered to walk his mother’s new Specialized Ruby Elite [with 105] out to the garage. She said I could try it out, and I got to ride my first ever women’s specific CF bike.
It’s a 48cm, but easily fits my towering height of 5’2.5 [Mike’s mother is about 5’1]. Despite what everyone says about CF, this bike felt solid, like there was something there. It accelerates well [even in my Vans on clipless pedals], and although I only took it out on a quick spin, I bet it’s an awesome bike to take out on longer rides. Pedaling up the driveway, Mike appeared beside me on his father’s new Specialized Roubaix, another CF bike. With a fairly minimal paint job, the raw carbon of the Roubaix makes the bike look like the equivalent of a muscle car: fast and strong. The two bikes together make for an impressive pair and Specialized moved up on my list of wish bikes. I’d totally get one if Velo carried them [ahem!].
But then I rode this, and my life changed.

JUST KIDDING. And yes, that’s a Harley.
Then, as we were finishing up playing outside, food started coming out. Cheese, crackers, and fruit in the kitchen, steamers on the stove top and after we swung by the fish market in Mike’s father’s truck [I got to ride in a truck! Oh man, I love trucks!], lobsters. A big boxful of lobsters. We attacked them after we stuffed our faces full of steamers and after I ripped that crustacean apart, I was just about ready for a mid-feast nap. Mike and I just sat there for a while, feeling full and/or pregnant with food babies, staring at our swollen stomachs, until the entire family got together for the annual photo meticulously staged and taken by Mike’s father, Gene.

Then there was dessert. Oh yes the Spriggs like their dessert. I saw the cake on the table and silently thanked Mike and Cassidy for making me ride as much as I did last week. Then I grabbed a fork and ate a big chunk of that thing. I mean, it said “Mike/Rapha” and “Kaiko, JD.” WHY ARE AMERICANS SO CUTE AND NICE???

So after that, I went into a diabetic coma and had to be carried to the car and rolled home. But not before we flipped through the Winning magazines that Mike's uncle, Andy, brought for him [he had saved all but the first three issues]. We laughed at the awesomely 80s ads, and kept pointing things out to each other. It's a treasure trove of design ideas and just good cycling stuff in general. At least half of the issues featured some kind of pro female cyclist, too, which was definitely cool and appreciated.

Before I got into the car, I think I said something about how I have to ride and all that but that coma lasted well into Monday. But that’s okay, there’s always tonight, and tomorrow, rollers in my room, and from what the Internet tells me, Thursday Trick Nights at Superb...! So that whole fitness thing might win out over the whole flabbiness thing. Might.

rides and needles

I blame my childhood epilepsy for a lot of things: the parental prohibition on engaging in sports, the inability to climb trees and my subsequent complete lack of interest in traveling at any rate faster than a brisk walk. All of which could be explained by simple laziness, but the epileptic seizures and symptoms that quietly vanished along with most of the awkwardness acquired during puberty seemed like a good enough scapegoat. Epilepsy was to blame.
It did, however, teach me how to HTFU. The fact that I had to take medicine to control my seizures meant that I got my arm stabbed with needles every few months for blood tests. I detested them. The needle always seemed larger, wider, and more deadly than it actually was. The heavyset nurse - the nurse was always heavyset, usually with glasses and pale curly hair - would approach to poke a hole in my arm with that silver needle, a rubber tourniquet making my vein swell and pulse. I imagined the tip of the hollow needle as a gaping, sharp metallic tube that was at least 2mm wide. Enough that it couldn’t not hurt, no matter how brave I was. And as the nurse approached, dabbing the pit of my elbow with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol, I drew in a deep breath...and usually screamed.
At eight years old, I would consistently bawl in sheer terror. Given that blood tests happened too frequently to count, my mother probably found it both tiresome and secretly hilarious. By my teenage years, I had learned to contain the tears, holding my breath and looking away, squeezing my eyes shut because if I couldn’t see it, it might not feel so bad. That’s never true, but it helped keep the freaking out in check. Towards the end, I actually looked, and found the way blood gushed into test tubes fascinating. I still couldn’t look, though, when they slid in the needle or when they pulled it out.

It’s been over a decade since I’ve gone in for one of those tests, but the needle and the looking away, the way I could hear my heart beating in my head, and the slow exhalation when the deed was done has been coming back to me these past few days when I’ve managed to drag my butt over the river and to New Jersey. Actually there was more involved, like my loud ragged breathing and frantic spinning while trying not to pass out, and the other day, clinging onto a wheel knowing that that would be the only way I could possibly make it home in one piece.
Caught in the Rapha Wednesday ride a few days ago with Cassidy and Wei “Top Ten” Chen, I had no hope that I could keep up, much less make it to the end of River Road. I had tried the first climb [about a quarter-mile long] a few days before; and actually considered sitting down and nursing my legs at the top. But my solo ride yesterday turned into a group when I caught up with Cassidy and company on the West Side Highway. We were joined later by Matt - who raced with Lang back in Seattle - and Chris 2 from Velo. Our motley crew slid across the bridge and bombed down the sidewalk that leads to River Road, me mostly terrified and trying not to ride my brake but failing miserably. We would group together, then spread out, the faster guys flying down the descents and up the climbs. Hitting the first climb, Matt peeled off to start the climb from the docks on his single-speed. I made it halfway up in the big ring and then spun feebly the rest of the way, getting out of the saddle but staying in the drops the last 10 feet.

We dived down more descents, dodging some nasty potholes, while Chris and Cassidy laughed at how I rode like I was still on a track bike. The final climb appeared almost suddenly. Matt peeled off again to add another quarter mile or so to his climb. I looked up, and I ditched any thoughts of doing any part of it in the big ring.
“Just spin,” Cassidy and Chris advised, making it sound easy although my legs were incapable of moving at such a rapid pace, “and put your hands on the top of the bars.”
I tried, I did. But my body would curl forward like it didn’t want to sit up and the sensation of trying to “spin” in my granny gear but finding that some sort of mashing was also involved to get up a mile long climb was weird, for lack of a better word. The only thing I could hear was my labored breathing and since the jokes had died down, it sounded embarrassingly loud. Cassidy spun beside me, telling me that I was doing great and that I was almost there and I wanted to tell him that he should look into becoming a life coach but nothing would come out. I mostly sputtered, while flip-flopping between the top of the bars and the drops. I think I managed to spit out a rhetorical “seriously?” and even laughed when Wei - who had yet to break a sweat - and Cassidy pushed me up about 10 feet, their hands on either side of my back.
It got harder after that, though. The road curves deceptively, making the disappointment that the climb wasn’t over that much deeper every time I turned a bend. I gave up. Like the time BRC-IF guy paced the hell out of me, I stopped looking. I kept my head low, peeking at the 3 feet in front of my wheel and nothing else. I suppressed hopes that it would end, and just focused on getting up the stupid thing. Not that it made it any easier, but like those all-too-frequent blood tests taught me, in a pinch, not looking/voluntary denial isn’t such a bad strategy.

At the top, I nearly fell over. We stopped for a few minutes for a bathroom break and my feet were doing that thing where they quiver in my shoes. Cassidy suggested we all go up to the Palisades Marketplace, which was only a few miles away. To be honest, if I had been alone, I would have just headed home, but I’m a sucker for peer pressure so we went, Cassidy, Wei, Chris and Matt dragging my wheelsucking ass up there and then back to the city. In hindsight, my choice not to peel off was probably a good thing, as I probably would have died a long, slow death on the side of 9W had I tried to get home by myself [or been victim to the more embarrassing alternative: bonking and cabbing it back to the city].
Back at the Rapha Cycle Club drenched in sweat and crusty, Mike asked me if I would ever do it again, but I couldn’t really think. I just sat and looked at my legs and feet and told him I didn’t know. He asked me how the shorts were, and I remembered I had a new pair of Rapha men’s bib shorts on and thought about how I hadn’t noticed anything on my ride and even how my butt never got sore even though my thighs might be a bit wide for the extra-small. But hey, if I keep riding, they’ll slim down, right?

Well, probably not with the sheer amount of food I ate afterwards. But like I told Mike a later that night, that ride was the hardest thing I’ve ever done on a bike. That’s sort of embarrassing to admit, but the complete ass-kicking I got on Wednesday was also incredibly fun. It made me want a road bike even more [is that even possible?] so I that I could conquer that ride...or at least do it with a little more grace and maybe a tad less sweat.
Eager to fill that void in my life due to a lack of gears, I helped out for a few hours that same night at the shop. I had to cut my visit a day short and hustle back to Boston the following day, sore legs and all, but when I fell asleep Wednesday night, I was hoping I could do that ride again, one more time, before I became gearless again.

work it, girl

“You’re not working on Sunday? Sunday is funday. Sunday we dance around the shop naked.”
Kyle told me this as I leaned on the counter by the cash register at NYC Velo. It was Friday, early afternoon, and my legs were beginning to feel worn down already. A few hours later, I would sit on a couch and realize that the last thing I wanted to do was get up, much less cook dinner, descend five flights of stairs, run some errands, and climb back up those stairs. But for the moment, my knees were just a little uncomfortable, reminding me that although sitting at a desk for 8 hours a day probably isn’t healthy, it was a lot easier than scampering around all day.

With the hopes of working towards a new bicycle, I worked a few hours at the shop this past weekend. I restocked shelves, sold helmets and lights, was asked advice on sizing for someone my height [answer: difficult], mastered the basics of the cash register, ate lunch on my feet, and made fun of Ish. The usual suspects, who I always tend to forget about when I’m stuck at a desk for too long, were in. There was the guy in his early 20s, just getting into the fixie craze and primarily concerned about making his new bike look really flashy. On the hunt for powdercoated Deep Vs and anondized everything, inevitably with a budget too small to build his fantasy bike, I cringed a little remembering my own pink anchor-like rims. Selling those off moved up slightly on my list of priorities.
Next came the [predictably] Japanese tourist bike dorks, murmuring and pointing at the Ellis hanging in the middle of the shop, behind the pretty Vanilla. They bypassed the impressive single-speed, choosing to ogle instead at the geared wonder, and when Justin showed them the electrical shifting, they gasped in unison, and ooh-ed and ahh-ed for a good 5 minutes. It was nerdily endearing, maybe [mainly?] because they were Japanese.

And then, of course, the bike celebs. Saturday evening, John Prolly and John of Two Tone Atlanta [Twitter friend meet up!] swung by on some awesome bikes, then proceeded to molest the Vanilla with their cameras. We talked bikes and the New York State Track Championships taking place at Kissena, and took pictures and tweeted. They hung out for a while, before heading off to check out the Rapha Cycle Club, and when I looked at my watch after they had left, it was almost closing time.

Post-dinner, all I could do was sit with my legs stretched out in front of me, staring dumbly at the calves that felt like heavy clubs. Mike said he was going to hook me up to the Globus he borrowed from Brett, which sounded like a terrible idea. But then again, maybe not, as I woke up Sunday morning with dead legs and that sort of oppressive cloud-like sense of obligation to ride anyway. I did [in the park, nonetheless, which was pretty much like a circus], making my Sunday outside the shop my own fun day [there may have been some RuPaul involved...].
No naked dancing, though. But at least I know where to go to see that on any given Sunday.

mullets and gmc [bikes]

I’ve been on a purging spree for the past two weeks. I stuffed a huge garbage bag full of clothes and donated it to Goodwill. I am going through piles of notes, recycling everything I can, throwing away stuff I can’t, packing everything else into boxes, bags, and suitcases. Purge, rinse, repeat.
And in the middle of throwing out beauty products that probably shouldn’t be used anymore, I looked in the mirror at the bob that had achieved “soccer mom” frumpiness. Thick and gross, I called a salon, found out that my usual stylist was out for the week, and made an appointment with another one anyway. How bad could it be?
“I’m just going to add some layers on top and thin it out a little but keep the length,” my new stylist informed me. I’ve learned, however, that this is what every stylist - possibly with the exception of the one I would trust my life with in Japan, who has taken me from awkward tween to bouge-y punk to brand-name whore to some semblance of working professional without really uttering a word - is taught to say. And when you’re fortunate enough to have friends and family that wouldn’t refer you to someone that is just so-so, you end up being just a little too trusting when left on your own. You trust Yelp reviews and forgive a few botched cuts. You go to a new stylist employed by the same salon because really, come on. How bad could it be?

Well, I’m sad to admit: it can get pretty bad. Like mullet bad. Like wtf-I’m-actually-going-to-pay-another-stylist-to-fix-this-because-I-never-want-you-near-my-hair-again bad. Like I-briefly totally-considered-suing bad. [Although it doesn't look as terrible tied back...oh and do you love my Little Mermaid bath towel? I DO!]
Post-mullet-imposition, feeling sort of terrible for myself and acting right in line with predictable contradiction, I picked up the search for things to acquire. Even in spite of all the discarding and donating, I’m a packrat at heart. So reminding myself that that new one bedroom won’t fill itself, I went hunting for a new bicycle.
You know, the one with gears that I still haven’t managed to get my hands on [total lack of finances having something to do with it]. Ebay and Craigslist hasn’t turned up much, and I’ve pretty much given up hope that the Internet was going to deliver something awesome to my impatiently clicking mouse. Until, bitching and moaning to SkullKrusher about anything in my size that was decent, he showed me...

...THIS.
Possibly the shittiest bike I’ve ever seen, a close examination of the description of this stellar thoroughbred on two wheels will tell you that shifting can only be done on the top of the bars, like a mountain bike. But to brake, you need to use the hoods. I actually don’t really understand how this works, except that somehow, someone took grip shifters and forced them onto some road bars. And then expected people to buy it.
But fascinated in a disgusted sort of way, I couldn’t stop looking. And Googling. Amazon.com provided even more entertainment with some amazing reviews of this zippy 21-speed bike, and trying to figure out wtf is going on with the shifting, the ghetto quill-like stem, and who at Shimano was on drugs when they agreed to supply parts for this monstrosity, I found a picture. One that is almost as amazing as the existence of this bike.

At first, unable to admit that this could possibly happen, I convinced myself that I was seeing it wrong. I stared for a while longer, closing in on my computer screen, squinting some, tilting my head. But, no. What you’re thinking...dreading...is right. That’s a GPS, mounted on a sub $250 bike, with the hoods on backwards. Oh, yeah, and with those grip shifters. Awesome.
And if that hasn’t made your Monday, here’s another shot where you can see the grip shifters in all their glory, plus this guy’s impressive wrap job.

I could feel mechanics around the world cringe in unison, and my lunch almost came up through my nose when I saw the second picture. I clicked through the rest of the pictures provided by Amazon and considered buying one for about 30 seconds, mostly to embarrass friends that I would make ride with me. Oh the fun times it could provide...until the whole thing fell apart 20 miles from home, of course.
Sadly, I decided against it [I can be persuaded otherwise, though], for now. Which means no new bike for me, yet, but after discovering this little gem, I can’t say that the search hasn’t been anything short of entertaining. Even with a mullet.

skullkrusher and the speedmetal podcast

It was one of those times where I was in a room, ready to be sociable but too little sleep the night before meant I wanted to keep an exit plan in place. Small talk, conversations where I could slip away unnoticed, back to a cozy bed or sofa, falling asleep to bad TV, was the plan. But then Mike introduced me to SkullKrusher, the man behind Speed Metal Podcast. Nudging me and murmuring “that’s the guy, the one with the podcast,” I figured Mr. SK would find more knowledgeable people to hang out with and talk to about all things pro peloton.
He didn’t. We ended up joking around, talking about “flooring” [don’t ask], and generally acting like idiots [see picture below]. Well, until two 20-22yr old Korean girls walked in. Then I got dropped so fast, I would have been offended if the spectacle wasn’t so amusing [as well as the subsequent text-stalking that I've been privy to].
In the few weeks since, I persuaded SK to participate in an interview [my first!] via email about SMPC, cycling in Colombia, his favorite races, and bro-deals. Enjoy - and make sure to subscribe to his podcast!

KS: Okay, let's start with some basics: how did Speed Metal PC start? What was your original idea behind it and has it changed since?
SK: Well, my brother Lucho was getting so much attention with his silly blog (Cycling Inquisition), that I felt a little left out at family gatherings. Lucho would be the center of attention telling Gramma and Aunt Maria Fernanda all about his internet fame. I had to do something about it!
Actually, that's all bullshit. We have no Aunt Maria Fernanda. We do, however, have an Aunt Maria Magdalena, a Claudia Marcela and a Marta Lucia. OK, seriously now, here's the story: I really got into listening to podcasts while riding a while back. Not only cycling, but F1, soccer and football. I noticed that most cycling podcasts (especially those in the U.S.) were about cycling culture and not about the sport itself. It was a little frustrating. I'd get my fill of news and analysis from my F1 podcast, for example, and I'd learn nothing new about the pro peloton from any of the cycling ones. All I got, if I was lucky, was a rundown of the GC of the major tours. What I was SURE to get though, was plenty of ranting about riding your bike and what frame was better and some local century and the hosts new set-up. It's a very American thing, I've noticed. People who are "soccer fans," play the sport, but don't go to the stadium. Meanwhile if you show up to a pub early Sunday and meet a bunch of British fans, less than half actually play the sport. I'm a huge cycling fan. I love the sport. I have loved it since I was a little kid. Buying a road bike and riding it is a relatively new thing for me and I'm not that interested in hearing people talk about riding. I'm a fan first, a rider second. I guess I wanted to create the podcast I'd like to listen to.
How has it changed? Well, I don't think I'm as bitter towards "bike culture" as I used to be. People can do whatever they want, who am I to tell them otherwise. If you want to buy a Cervelo and ride it once a month without ever hearing about the Kuurne-Bruxelles-Kuurne or some other race, it's fine with me. Enjoy. Another thing that changed was my original co-host, DJ Dezzy Dez, left the show. He moved. The dynamic we had was fun, since he knew nothing about cycling, but I think his departure has helped move the podcast in a better direction. I've done a few episodes with my brother Lucho and with Mike Spriggs as co-hosts and I like it better. I feel we get more in depth and they get cycling inside jokes.
KS: Also, you told me earlier that you didn't expect people to be so into your podcast and what you were doing with Speed Metal. Did that change your own expectations of what you wanted it to be or become? Any additional pressure from all the fame?
SK: I'm not sure I knew what to expect, but I was overwhelmed with the amount of feedback we got, even after the first episode. Now, I think I feel a certain amount of responsibility to the people who listen. That sounds so fucken lame, but I do. I feel a certain amount of pressure to get new episodes done and to keep the quality of the information and the humor high. One of the biggest things for me now is to "take advantage" of the relative popularity of the podcast to launch other projects, like the T-shirts I'm doing and eventually (read: hopefully), develop Speed Metal Cycling into a brand. Jerseys, underwear, loopy straws, trading cards and incense.
KS: Loopy straws, huh?
SK: Dude, loopy straws are the shit! Your milk has a roller-coaster ride before it touches your lips. Not only are you happy 'cuz you're having some milk, but the milk is happy 'cuz it just went on a loopty-loop of fun. Can't wait to make some Speed Metal PC ones. Until then I have the Jens buttons. They've have been a real hit. Of course, they've been a hit 'cuz they are free, but I'll take whatever success I can get. My next big project is a limited edition set of 60 pins each featuring 60 of the best cyclists of all time. I'm doing 200 sets and releasing them 6 cyclists at a time. The first wave will be done soon.
KS: Can I get a bro-deal on those?
SK: Bro-deal? The only deal i know about is the ho-deal, when a prostitute gives me half off cuz it's my bday...

KS: Oh...so...um, how's riding in Colombia different?
SK: It's really, really, different. As a past-time, riding a road bike is almost non-existent. I can tell you that out of all my friends in Colombia, actually of all the people I know in Colombia, 50% of them may like cycling, but I can't think of one who owns a road bike. The majority of people who ride are people in the lower economical strata. Usually kids (farmers) in small towns in the mountains trying to use cycling (if they go pro) as "a way out" of poverty. In recent years that has changed a little and you might see an upper middle class dude here and there riding a carbon frame around the city, but overwhelmingly it's considered a sport for the lower class. I'm almost embarrassed to tell my friends there I ride a road bike for fun. They will most certainly make fun of me and ask me how my potato crops are doing this season.
KS: And tell me about the curses and witches!
SK: Colombia is a country (not unlike many Latin American countries) that is very superstitious. The amount of weird superstitions that exist in the sport is insane! My bother Lucho has done a couple of lengthy posts about the topic on his blog. Personally, believe in a lot of that stuff and I have too many superstitions to list, but I can tell you I'll never go anywhere without a silver key my mom gave me to "keep me safe." Not sure what that means, but now I don't feel safe without it. There's a few more amulets I take with me when I'm on my bike and I cross myself five times before a long ride. My mom got it in her head a few years ago that someone, probably and ex, put a curse on me. I now fully believe it, but I'm doing something about it! I wash my face every morning with holy water, in my wallet I carry a piece of folded white paper I must NEVER unfold and I sprinkled some weird powder thing my mom sent me on threshold of my front door. Colombian pros are nutty about that shit, too! We're all nutters over there!
KS: Okay so if you're so superstitious, do you believe that things were meant to be? Like you just happened to sit next to Mike, or that we just happened to be the only minorities at the Rapha event a few weeks ago?
SK: Hahaha! We were, weren't we? Everyone probably thought I was the delivery guy from a Mexican restaurant and you, of course, from a Chinese place. But, no, I do not think that everything was "meant to be." If I did, I wouldn't bother with all my weird rituals, you know? I think that each of us is destined for certain things, but on everyday bullshit, we write our own destiny. I know, though, that without all my rituals, I'd be writing a really bad destiny.
KS: Were you destined to get into cycling then?
SK: Being born in Colombia, I think I was. It was hard to escape the craziness in the early 80s. The country was obsessed with cycling.

KS: And switching gears a bit: best race to watch, and why?
SK: Damn, that's a tough one... On TV, for me, it's a toss up between the Tour of Flanders and Paris-Roubaix. Both races have such tradition and history of drama and usually live up to the hype. If I may use the term; these two races are "epic."
KS: Personal favorite race/race stage, ever? (and of course, why?)
SK: Damn, another tough one... Off the top of my head, 1990 Paris-Roubaix. It was a photo-finish between Eddy Planckaert and Steve Bauer. At the end the race was decided by an inch or something. It was a nail-biter all the way to the end. Maybe the '84 Roubaix. It was a total mud-fest and Sean Kelly won it like a man. Fuck, I'm sure there's probably an Alpe d'Huez stage I'm forgetting. Oh, shit Il Passo di Gavia in the 1988 Giro!! Freezing cold, snowing, windy and zero visibility. Breukink and Hampsten couldn't even stand on their own after the finish. Shit, if you have a chance to watch that, take it. THAT is an epic stage.
KS: Out of curiosity, because you obviously love watching/following pro cycling, what do you do when season's over?
SK: I masturbate a lot... is this part of the interview? I hope so...Actually, I watch a lot of classic cycling and Formula 1 races, I watch American football. I have an extensive collection of old cycling videos, so I get me fix while I fantasize about the Spring Classics to come.
And there you have it. The mysterious Mr. SkullKrusher. If you're inclined to stalk, follow him on twitter here, follow the podcast here, and subscribe to it here. Because you should.
* Note: Last image = SK supporting Colombian transplant George Hincapie in the cobbles of Northern France at this year's Paris-Roubaix (image courtesy of SK)...Lucky bastard!