Going Gonzo

Gonzo journalism.

Look that one up in your Funk and Wagnell!

(Or Wikipedia.) 

Gonzo journalism, according to Wik, tends to favor style over accuracy and often uses personal experiences and emotions to provide context for the topic or event being covered. Use of quotations, sarcasm, humor, exaggeration, and profanity are common.

Hmmm, sounds thoroughly modern to me. 

You know how, when you buy a new car - a car you hardly noticed before, like a Honda Element for instance - you suddenly begin to see Honda Elephants everywhere?

I see motorcycles. 

I see motorcycles ever since last Friday when I began reading the 1965 classic, "Hell's Angels" by Hunter S. Thompson. 

Only a couple chapters in, and so far it's the perfect meaty antidote to having so greedily stuffed down that high carb rush, "Eat, Pray, Love", the week before.

So there we are, Tiger and I, on the couch with the "Hell's Angels", reading the opening chapter...

...when I burst out with a laugh so loud, poor elderly Tiger nearly left his stripes behind on the cushions in his haste to get to the cat door.

"Why can't people just leave us alone, anyway?" says one Angel called Tiny.  "All we want to do is get together now and then and have some fun - just like the Masons or any other group." 

Thompson goes gonzo. 

He speculates wildly down the page that the Hell’s Angels might, in twenty years or so, follow the Freemasons into "bougeois senility", becoming the tamest group on the road, while some other group takes over the headlines. 

"What is the trend in Kiwanis?" asks Hunter S. 

"In the drift and flux of these times it is easy enough to foresee a Sunday morning, ten or twenty years hence, when a group of middle aged men wearing dark blazers with Hell's Angels crests on the pockets will be pacing their mortgaged living rooms and muttering sadly at a headline saying: KIWANIS GANG RAPE, FOUR HELD, OTHERS FLEE, RINGLEADER SOUGHT."

I see motorcycles. 

Even on Monday morning TV.

July was National Women's Motorcycle Month.
 Check it out: http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/26184891/vp/38306782#38306782

(Where on earth would we be if there were no Today Show to alert us to the latest trends?)

 A whole month designated to make women feel they are welcome to ride motorcycles? 

Uh oh - I think I am about... to... go... gonzo!

What is this?  The Sixties? 

Wow.  Gosh.  Golly.  Gee Whiz.

In college, there was this motorcycle...

No books, no classes, no work-study job, no paper due, no WORRIES, could keep up with that little red road bike, swooping the shoreline of Lake Champlain, blazing down mile-long trenches of October red maples.  

Riding fostered ultimate focus.  Every molecule homed in on being very, very alive.  Zen before I ever heard of Zen.  No drugs required, and very little gas. 

(Today, I love ya, but sometimes you're so yesterday.)

Northstar and I rode up to the Firehouse from Charlie and Jake's last Saturday.

It was a pretty fair ride. 

Fairly short; 38 miles. Fairly windy; SE about 20 knots. Fairly hot; perhaps 90.

528 bridge hump, from the river road.

On the south end of our favorite part of the route, the road along the river, a periwinkle blue house pops out among all those sedate beige's.

A Christmas tree, on the front porch of a riverfront wooden palace, wears big bright summer flowers.

A man, clutching a huge coffee mug, inspects his teeny, tiny front yard golf green.

On the north end, above Cocoa Village, a Lemony Snickett-style houseboat, anchored off shore, is complimented by the modern cabin cruiser tied up to the back porch.

I see motorcycles.

Just as we reach the Firehouse, a phalanx of Harleys rumbles onto the Road from US1.

The bikes are huge, intimidating, black and chrome and roaring with power.  Both men and women are aboard.  It sounds for all the world as if the Hell's Angels are coming!

But, to a one, these Harley Dudes and Dudettes are broad in the beam, gray haired, mild mannered, and grinning sweetly as they fly by in the opposite lane.

If not for Hunter S. Thompson, I would never have noticed them, except for maybe the decibel level.

Here they are! To my newly opened eyes, this mass of roaring metal now appears angelic indeed.  On this Saturday morning, I see angels, and their happy makes me happy. 


Of course there may well be some real Hell's Angels out there, but thankfully, so far, even now that I am looking, I have not seen them.

These tamed and friendly looking Harley dudes are surely those foreseen 45 years ago by that gonzo seer of the sixties, Hunter S. Thompson!

Hunter S., by the way, lived until 2005, no doubt plenty long enough to see proof everywhere that he was right.

I can only hope he got to witness it at least once while biking his local forty mile loop on a bright and beautiful Saturday morning.

 

   

View from the back of the pack: XTerra at Hannah Park

OK, I admit it.  I've been playing way too much and training not at all.

But there have been cool critters to see.

Animal farm along West Orange Trail

Peacock - Tropical Trail

Baby Llamas, or maybe Alpacas?  Tropical Trail

And cool humans to ride with.

Mother-Daughter? or twins?

Killer and I even did a little involuntary bushwhacking into a very sticky Spider Kingdom.

Santos

And I finally got my photo showing a hint of elevation.

From the top of the drop - Vortex, Santos

We got pulled over for speeding - we weren't!  I swear! - then figured it out when the cop turned out to be a mtn biker wanting a closer look at the 29r's.

I rode in the company of some excellent hounds on an excellent hash trail...

And baked some sushi rice bars.

We larked through a short pre-ride of the bike course at Hanna Park on Saturday, after registering for the First Coast Xterra.

The course is all marked!   

Red for Run, Blue for Bike.

Call Mr. and Mrs. Goneriding

when you want a race done right!

So, there you go.  Too much fun.  Too little training. 

Could account for the 2 minute hamstring penalty yesterday at the Xterra, a massive leg locking cramp, costing me the race. 

Or not.

It could have been the last minute decision to lighten up by going with only 70 oz of Gatorade instead of 90.

Or it could have been ignoring the rule - if you make sushi rice bars - eat them.  (Eat them, even if the fridge in your hotel room froze them into solid blocks that thawed into watery soggy blocks.)   

Or, it could have been the time it took to stop and inflate the burp-flat.

Resealed, complete with leaves and twigs inside.

Or... 

I don't know - the moon was full?

That the race turned out to be with myself is irrelevant. 

I thought I was being chased, I really did.  It was both a surprise and a disappointment at the finish to find myself alone in the age group. TriLady aged up, and last year's winner, the woman I expected for the whole race to come swooping by me at any moment, sat out to watch her husband race.  

But there was plenty of company on trail! And plenty of action!    Plenty of crashing and laying down of bikes.  The sugar sandy riders of our third swim wave went straight from sink or swim to pass or be passed, on the three lap, 13 mile loop that is the XTerra bike course in Jacksonville. 

As Lance says, "Some days you're the hammer.  Some days you're the nail." 

Some days, you're both. 

Riders on bikes of all shapes and vintage rushed and spilled down  that trail like hounds on a hunt.  Mostly it was the sand that took them out (and sometimes everyone nearby along with them) but the quick rooty little climbs and drops, among the twisty turns, did their share as well.  At every turn it seemed there was someone to run over (uh, sorry about that), or someone to run over me.

TriLady caught up soon after the transition out of the swim.  But early on, she slowed for a hand off and I dove ahead.  Yes!  When she didn't show up on my wheel again right away, I tried not to worry, knowing sometimes all it takes is one rider in the way to hold you back for awhile.  

Finally - free of the pack!  

But Killer began acting so suddenly squirrelly, I thought at first a wheel had come unseated.  Two solo endos in a row for no apparent reason convinced me I'd better stop at the next trip through transition to figure out what was wrong.  

The moment we hit the pavement, I knew it wasn't the wheel.  There's one rolley polley feel like no other - a front tire gone soft to the point of nearly rolling off the rim. 

Must've burped it on a tree root.

Whew, Killer's squirmy but still rolling.  (Stan's NoTubes saves the day.)  A stop to load up the CO2 inflator, the big PUFF, and - darn - there goes TriLady through transition ahead of me for the third lap.

OK, so chasing down someone who's not even in your age group is never wise, but sometimes it is irresistible.  You know you're pushing the heart rate but the sheer joy of a chase is worth a thousand trophies.  

So I caught her.  And she fell.  And I ploughed into her.  And the guy behind us ploughed into me.  As he and I untangled ourselves, that slippery TriLady got away again.   

And I caught her again, one last opportunity to pass before she could peg me between the two trees on the Grunt, and I did it!  I came up beside her, about to shoot by...

And a massive cramp seized my hamstring.

TriLady shot off down the trail without me.

There I stood, alone on one leg, unable to move in any direction, for two solid minutes. 

I desperately dug out my one mustard packet and sucked it down, but with an empty Camelbak, there seemed little chance of recovery.  I needed to take in some fluids, and soon.  (A bad enough cramp can shred a meniscus and set you back a year, but the Sebring Century is another story.)

Sometimes, there is no way to go but forward.  

So, I hopped. 

I could hear the crowd and it wasn't far.  I hopped down the slope, dreading the uphill of the Grunt, but determined.  

The cramp released.   

Huh?  Hopping?  The cure for muscle cramps? Or maybe it was the mustard, but my leg was suddenly freed! 

The Grunt was no trouble with both legs working and no one in the way, but the third and final bike loop ended behind TriLady once again. 

And so did the run.

But there's joy in the finish.  Even if you're limping.

And always, ALWAYS, lessons to be learned - no matter how many times you ride around that block.

(Congrats to TriLady, first in her age group, and to Popeye, second in his.  And congrats to all who finished - and even those who didn't.  You were there!  You won!)
    

Proof Positive! Sushi Rice Bars, Insulated Bottle Comparison

The Tour is on! 

It's the Andy and Alberto Show! 

At least right now.  But anything can happen. (Ask Lance.)

Are you watching the Tour De France?

We record it and watch in the evenings.  If you're in the shop today, DO NOT tell me what happened!  I can sleep through the big finish myself.
 
Yes, even with the fast forward, no matter how exciting, it's just too late for me.
 
So, the extensive weekend coverage was more to my circadian rhythm.  I finally got to watch some of the interviews with my eyes open.

One of the team nutritionists is making sushi rice bars!

I watch carefully. Popeye volunteers to take notes, but this is one I've made a lot.  I make mine a little differently, though.


Sunday is an early up.  Santos. Two and a half Elephant-hours from door to trailhead, and then enough miles to last longer than a 100 oz. Camelbak.  The perfect opportunity to test the Tour version of Sushi Rice Bars. 

There is no point making this for short rides. Gatorade will carry you along just fine for an hour or two. This is nutrition for the long haul.  Rice is quickly and easily digested, add some proteins, good salty soy sauce, vinegar, and Ta Dah! - perfect fuel for the long burn. 

Watching the interview, I'm already thinking that my way is better. 

I have an advantage, though - a kitchen.  When you're prepping food in a different hotel room every night, you gotta do what you gotta do. 

But kitchen or not, they're the pros.  We decide it can't hurt to try it their way this once.


For the Pro version of Sushi Rice Bars check out:

http://www.competitivecyclist.com/za/CCY?PAGE=WHATS_NEW&WHATS_NEW.ID=213&PRSET_VERSION=1

Sushi Rice Bars - Pro

Sorry, guys.  These were pronounced "OK, but a little slimy" by my veteran taste testers, Popeye and Krafty.  I had to agree!

There's another way, but you'll need an oven.

Sushi Rice Bars - Performance

3 cups cooked sushi rice (or any cooked white rice)

1 or 2 eggs, and enough egg substitute or egg whites to equal 6 eggs.

handful of diced ham or crumbled turkey bacon (optional)

apple cider vinegar

soy sauce - full sodium

Cook up your rice, put it in a bowl.  Mix in a tsp of vinegar and let it cool.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Cook up the bacon or dice the ham.

Whip the eggs and whites together.  Don't cook 'em - yet.

Start easy - a couple tablespoons - and mix equal parts vinegar and soy sauce into the rice.  Taste.  If it isn't TWICE as salty as you would want to eat while standing in your kitchen, keep going! 

*This is the tricky part - you can't taste it with raw egg so you have to taste it now.  Remember you will be adding the equivalent of 6 eggs and also, once you are sweating buckets on trail your cells will appreciate the salt and vinegar much more than they do standing in your air conditioned kitchen. 

OK, it's SALTY.  Add in the ham and stir in the raw eggs.

Pour it into an olive-oiled pie plate or baking pan.  Bake at 350 for 25-30 minutes until the "pie" is firm, and an inserted knife comes out clean.

Let it cool, slice it up, and wrap it in individual servings.  We wrap 2"x2" squares  in waxed paper and put a couple in a pocket sized baggie. 

There's one advantage to the pro version.  If you don't have a crew member to hand bars straight from the cooler out the team car window, then you have to be careful.

This is food for the long haul, yes.  It's especially good for loop workouts (like Wickham Park Marathon or loops at the Econ). 

 

But keep it in the cooler until the last moment when you take off down the trail. 

 

Take note of the time.  

 

Proteins (even cooked) shouldn't be eaten if they've been in the heat longer than two hours.  If your camelbak stays ice-cold, keep it in there for a little extra time before the bacteria takes over in the heat.

 

If you aren't doing loops, these bars will give you a two hour jump  on hunger.  After that, insulated bottles with a mix of Gatorade and protein powder will have to take over.

 

(And yes, I do have a recipe for home-made-"gator"-ade. Will publish in a later post - if I haven't already?)

 

Oh yeah!  So, Saturday afternoon, we also did a side by side, insulated bottle comparison.

 

3 bottles, hot sun, watch with timer

 

Insulated bottles - left to right:

Polar, Camelbak Chill Jacket, Camelbak Podium Ice

 

Filled the three bottles with crushed ice and water from the fridge door. (I use crushed ice because it fuses together and lasts longer than cubes.)

Start timing!

 my notes...

Bottom line:  Yes, the new Camelbak Podium Ice bottle really does  keep water colder, longer, as advertised.  The water was still cool at four hours.  It's a little pricier than the other two though, so if you don't do three-plus hour rides, you can get away with one of the others.

Oh yeah - I'll let Krafty have the last word. Polar Bottles are made in the USA, Camelbaks are made in... you know where.

Do you feel lucky?

I bought a lotto ticket yesterday.  I have been buying one at the grocery store every week for a couple months now.  It started out as a joke gift for Popeye when he changed departments and started working six and seven days a week. Now it's got a permanent slot on the grocery list.  

I attempt to guess-timate the odds.  48 million to one, maybe?  Higher than my calculator can count, let alone me with my Jethro Bodine ciphering skills. 

Not much of a Plan B, is it?

When we got our college degrees, my friends went off to their Careers.  I couldn't wait to get a Job.

To me, Job spelled freedom.  A Job was something you could quit anytime.  Sail to the Bahamas.  Come back when the money runs out.  Get another Job.

"Those were the days, my friend.  We thought they'd never end..."  

My current Job is not exactly hard work, talking to people about bikes all day.  But I do have to show up.  And if I leave for a few months there are no other Jobs to come back to.  Of course, my current pay wouldn't support Tiger's 9-Lives habit, let alone Pepper, and Gypsy, but it does enable the cycling problem.

Tiger - somewhere between 1st breakfast and 2nd breakfast.

Speaking of a cycling problem, there's a club for that! 

A Drinking Club with a Cycling Problem.  

We do like a good hash. No, not corned beef, and definitely not drugs. The hashes we like are bike hashes, of course!

Most of the bike hashes here are Sunday afternoon rides. But once in a blue moon, someone steps up to hare who's not afraid of the dark.

A couple weeks ago, while running in Wickham Park, I came face to front wheel with Mr. E and Mr. B on trail. (Hash names are usually given on one's fifth hash, and in grand British tradition, most are unprintable.)


I was grateful I'd just changed out of my Vibrams and back into my normal, glamorous, size ten Nikes. When you're wearing unconventional footwear a chance conversation focuses on the shoes, and you hardly ever get to nose into what the other guy is up to, you know? 

And when you see hashers out on a Wednesday, you definitely want to know what they are up to! 

Scouting trail for a full moon hash.  Hooray!


A quick chat and I volunteer to head off the other direction. A hash trail is secret or the game wouldn't be any fun. 

Good thing the reminder comes with a few days left to untangle and charge the light batteries.  There are no street lights on trails.  To ride a mtn bike at night, you need LIGHTS, not lights.  With 2 lights each (one on handlebar, one on helmet), and batteries that take 12 hours each to charge, plus (what the heck, we got 'em, might as well charge 'em) one extra batt apiece, it can take a couple days to get organized.

  ultra organized light storage

But any extra effort is worth it.  Night hashing is an experience in itself.  

In the twilight, there's a sort of tailgate atmosphere.  Mr. D. has made a stencil, and is busy spraying T-shirts with glowpaint. 

Some riders have gone to the same dollar store as me!  4 for a dollar glowsticks sprout from helmets, dangle from wrists, wrap handlebars.

At sunset, the hares depart.  About twenty minutes later, it's "On-On!  Hounds Away!"  We hounds hit our lights and begin the chase.
 

Trails can go anywhere, streets, back alleys, off road.  Hounds range at "which ways" to scout out "true trail".  There can be count backs and YBF's, (you've been fooled.)
  

Often there's a half way stop with beer, to further tempt and delay the hounds - and huh, they don't seem to mind! 

The half way at this hash is a little unconventional, a few pitchers set up on the bar at LongDoggers.   Bikes lay all over the bushes and landscaping, and we stop to admire some of the more unconventional bikes, like Tranny's with the superfat tires.  (And no.  Kick kick kicking myself I did not think to take a picture!)
   

Then it's On-On again, hound's away, to track down the BN mark (Beer Near), the On-After, and the keg.  Or in this case, the coolers.

So.  Do you feel lucky?

Oh yeah.  So lucky to live in midcoast Mel-boring, Florida, where a hash can end under a bridge and still be beautiful.

From under the Eau Gallie Causeway

For a history on hashing, check out Hash House Harriers on Wikipedia. 

And if you're ever in the Melbourne area, bring your mtn bike and come On-On down to work up a thirst with the Lost Hares. (bikehash.com)

Who needs lotto, anyway?
  

Losing the Monkey.

Long ago and far away...

Master Chung required of his first degree black belt candidates:

a written test,

the demonstration of every color belt form, both tae guek and pal gay,

a 3 on 1 sparring session against the instructors,

and a hammerfist break of one brick.

When those requirements were accomplished, along with demonstrating perseverance and courtesy and indomitable spirit under every grueling condition MC could concoct for all those many years of practice, the black belt was awarded.

(At last!  Your black belt!) 

Which you got to wear for the first time at the belt ceremony, when you presented your black belt speech in front of the entire school and all their attending families and friends. 

No doubt the speech terrified more candidates than simply putting their fist through a brick for the approval of Grand Master. 

But all that was the easy stuff. 

Master Chung also required several hours of meditation before a student was allowed to test. 

I know.  Several hours of sitting, after years of training.  

So what's the big deal, right? 

That darned monkey mind.  More difficult to tame than a 7 year old white belt on a Halloween sugar high.  

Occasionally, a book or a memory or that Master Mental Artist, the desire for change, will beckon you off your easy street and nudge you into the narrow back alleys of personal challenge.   

Sometimes you can even make the challenging path a habit. 

But there's a secret to it.  A secret everyone knows.

"Make effort."

C'mon, grasshopper, you didn't think you were going to just sit there and the quiet mind of meditation would just happen, did you?

  

Sorry, no post last week.  I was at the beach.  The beach sucked up my time.  And for a few tiny encouraging moments it sucked up the monkey mind as well.

To get out early enough in the summer so as to avoid broiling the brain you are attempting to sooth, one must first detach from all the little waking chores of the morning.  One must leave the bed unmade, the dishes in the sink, the last of the coffee undrunk, and simply GO. 

The mind does not accept this easily, nor does it want you to just GO until you have exactly the right cool comfortable outfit (when you no longer wear a bikini, this is not automatic), the one hat in the house that doesn't sit crooked on your head, the correct sunglasses, a drink of juice before leaving, on and on. 

The brain resists getting out that door, even for a daily soothing.  "But what about...?" it cries, and off you go in search of those other sandals.

Make effort.

Leave the dishes, do not read email.   

GO.

Walk one hour. 

Feel the shift of morning breeze on your skin.  Breathe the ocean's thick air.  Hear the low growl of a thousand mile wave crash in a slow summer roll. 

Be aware of everything.  Think about nothing.  If you can.

It could just be the most memorable hour of the day.

And the toughest.

I decided I would visit the beach every morning for five days. 

On Monday the water was (surprise!) numbingly cold.  Warm summer air puffed up in a thin magical haze over cold breakers.  Dropping into rythmic breath was quick and otherworldly.  Wow, (surprise!) That was easy. 

For one day, anyway.

By Thursday the house was a wreck, blog unwritten, emails unanswered, laundry undone.  The morning workout hour was sucked away.  There was a ride planned for Friday.  The grill stopped working.  (No grill for the Fourth of July?  No way!)  Monkey, monkey, monkey...  One run, two rides, five stores, and a cookout later, the beach so close, seems so far away.  

But that's the hard part, right? 

And the answer is no secret.

Make more effort.
 

There's a line in the sand and it moves by the minute.  I didn't draw it.  But it seems I must walk it.  Monkey mind needs subduing, true.  But it seems the more time spent in direct assault, the more the monkey runs amok. 

I'm going to have to be sneaky about this.

So yesterday the beach.  And maybe tomorrow.

Today the computer. 

I can breathe and not-think sometime before leaving for work later this morning.

Probably while folding the laundry.