Our own Lambert Vaes riding up the Galibier last month in the French Alps, like a BOSS.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Monday, June 24, 2013
Ocala Road Race (Sunday)
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| Lambert Vaes (2nd) and Kerry Duggan (3rd) represented in Ocala for the orange and gray of Cycle Logic. |
Basically Lambert and I plus a guy from Florida Velo attacked 50 racers on Pumpkin hill (Germantown) and managed to stay away the last 4 miles to finish 8 seconds ahead of the bunch. (and as it turned out 3 massive crashes near the finish)
It shouldn't have worked. The field must not have seen two guys with similar jerseys - but Mike said he and several Florida Velo racers immediately and agressively "got fat" on the front. Sweet.
Lambert go 2nd and I got 3rd. We didn't contest the Florida Velo guy winning because A) he was fresher and worked a bit harder B) he was not in the GC so not a threat and C) we were so freakin' tired at the end and just kind of rolled across the line together all weary smiles.
Overall, none of us were in the GC money because we suck in time trials and have bikes areo as a 12 pack.
Note: Look at Lambert, he SO needs to work on race number location. At least he used more than two safety pins this time. Sigh!.
K-Dogg
Friday, April 26, 2013
Boone Roubaix 2013
Crazy Dan Boone and Dr. Pain's Lessons of Dirt
April 20th 2013When Mike Robinson's (AKA Dr. Pain) wheels hit dirt he morphs into a Lycenthrope or shape shifter. His aero position drops four inches, leg speed increases 20%, pupils dilate to improve hazard handling, and heart rate and wattage spike. His usual mild personality devolves into an ill-mannered terra-planing competitive S.O.B..
"Never stop pedaling when you hit a sand trap" he advises. "It only slows you down and you'll stop or crash. Bomb all descents at top speed. You need the speed to vault the potholes of death."
I have learned to never let him get ahead of me in deep sand. Somehow he just always floats away leaving you flailing the bike in shin-deep sugar sand unable to get going again. But I am grateful for his negative tutelage for it has proved invaluable in recent Roubaix events.
Our 250+ mass start race began in 38 degrees and ended in the mid forties. Hiding in the van huddled over the heater proved a poor strategy. We were told there would be a neutral lead out across the cold, rain saturated field but nobody told the lead car which immediately took off out of sight. This left all 250 people struggling to stay up front on the twisty, hilly potholed course.
The carnage was unbelievable. No crashes, but within 2 miles the lead group was down to 25. My legs felt like lifeless turkey bones kept in the fridge too long. It was a painful struggle just to keep in the draft near the back.
Mike and Jayson were nowhere in sight. So strange for the Mudd brothers to vanish this early.
Eventually pavement appeared, the pack slowed slightly and It felt like a grand fondo.
With a super-human effort a red-faced Jayson managed to get across the gap and latched on to the very back where I had pitched my tent. "Oi!" he breathed. "I made it. Bloody hell I'm knackerd!"
"Welcome back dude!" I congratulated his effort slapping him on the back. A few seconds later we started one of the longest steepest climbs of the whole race. An un recovered Jayson began to slide backwards. "Bollocks!" he cried. "See ya later mate........" and he was gone. I felt bad and considered giving him a push......but only for an instant because the 20-40 year-old riders were now climbing away from us single file and because he is not sponsored by Bike Works/Cycle Logic. Maybe next year he will be orange not blue and I will help him. Maybe.
Eventually I came off too. This climb was steeper than Hogpen at 6-Gap but not as long.
A few miles later I was joined by two younger guys from Team Pittsburgh and we started sharing the load. Me on the uphills and dirt, they on the fast paved downhills. Everytime we hit dirt I thought of Dr. Pain. What would he do? Keep the pressure on, never hit the brakes and bomb the descents and potholes. A pattern set itself up......climb just hard enough to retain Team Pittsburgh.....descend fast enough not to lose them......then imagine chasing Dr. Pain on the next dirt sector. When my buddies came off I couldn't help a feral Robinson grin.
At one point a strong but nutty local rider bridged up. I think he was on drugs. He was way too animated. Every hilltop or hard effort he gave a rebel yell at the top of his lungs. "Yee-ow!!!, feel that BURN!!! C'mon boys! Let's ROCK!!! Hoo whee!!!"
I think he rode bandit. Everybody had a three digit race number. His was folded up to reveal "6." But he was strong and we let him help us like the Woody Allen joke:
A man visits a psychiatrist.Later he started whistling the sag truck to take his vest. They politely ignored him. They knew something.......maybe he was the crazy side of the Daniel Boone clan. We kept the eggs though.
"My brother thinks he's a chicken."
"Have you told him he is not a chicken?" says the psychiatrist.
"No because we really need the eggs" the man replied.
Finally we turned onto the final gravel parking lot loop and under the finishing banner. Team Pittsburgh raced itself hard for 15th place. Crazy Daniel ignored the banner and headed for the free beer. I rolled under the banner in about 2 hours 41 minutes.
Few riders seemed to have road skills and required lectures on efficient rotations and echelons. There must be more mountain bike riders in these kinds of races.
We all agreed the promoter Andrew "Stack" Stackhouse is much friendlier and more approachable than all Florida road race promoters combined. He was very interested in everybody having a good experience. He was MC and also drove the whole course filming and offering help and encouragement to all the racers he encountered. He walked the parking lot welcoming everybody one at a time.
We will definitely be back next year and will do as many of his upcoming races this year as possible.
K-Dogg
Here is the video that Jayson O'Mahoney put together...enjoy.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Rouge Roubaix video
Monday, March 18, 2013
Rouge Roubaix #15
Five Mile Bridge
Bridge...........Must....be around.... NEXT corner......groan!......maybe NEXT corner......aaaagh! Where the @#*% is that Fve Miles from the FREAKIN' End BRIDGE?!Keep going......turn that big gear. DON'T lose that wheel in front ... it just gets EVEN harder! Hate my chain.......chain gang.....that's what I'm freakin' on - a chain gang - doing life without parole! Out of GU, fuzzy thinking, on the verge of swooning.
Somebody make me stop!
This is what the last 20 miles of Rouge Roubaix the 15th feels like........somewhere just before the "Five Miles From the End" Bridge. Mile after mile of twisty, turny, rough chip seal road. Every corner looks the same. BANG through the pot holes, SLAM over two dozen wooden bridges and DODGE the dodgy bits. All on your skinny tire 10-speed bike. The only concession to conditions was to bleed tire pressure to 90.
Even before that there were 101 miles of big hills......big paved hills......big dirt hills.... with steep wheel-sucking sand patches and slippery marble-strewn, scary descents over and over. When the hills flattened out Mr. Gusty Headwind showed up and spoiled the pack party. Keep going, keep going. Save a little punch for the dirt sections if you can. Eat another Double Shot if ya got it.
Scott dropped the GU I gave him. The one he REALLY had counted on getting him home. I had just rolled up to him and Jayson after chasing (with two other guys) for two hours due to an early flat. Our boys were with the shattered remnants of the first chase group which failed to bring back 5 pro-elite masters. They were exhausted from the noble effort. "I see you still have that GU I gave you this morning" I said. It was sticking out of his left shorts leg. "Yeah, I really need it now" he groaned.
Then, like a bad dream, it suddenly fell to the ground and popped a few wheels back. His entire body slumped so hard there was a shock wave. "No soup for you"! said Chef Roubaix.
Jayson and I took a few pathetic pulls to help the pack out. Suddenly my two former buddies punched it up a hill. On the verge of fainting I managed to bridge up then looked back. Nothing back there. So sad.
The fourth and last dirt sector came and went bringing tears to our eyes. My two younger companions (40 and 43) had mercy on their older shadow and didn't insist I match pull for pull. For a while. I was no threat to their race I kept teling them. They didn't seem to believe me but I kept clawing back from their increasingly unfriendly surges.
My goal was to stay with them to the bridge. To the Bridge.....the Bridge. All will be fine after the Bridge. Eventually we hit the Five Miles To Go Bridge. Everything should be fine now. Two miles to go and my buddies left me struggling up one last hill. One mile to go and my front tire went flat. "You gotta be FREAKIN' kidding" I mumbled to no one. Luckily a wheel truck was right there. Unluckily the only spare left had a CX tire so wide I barely could pound it on with brakes wide open. I spun it. Nothing happened. The tire was so tall it dragged on my fork crown.
Criminy!
This race cursed me to the very end!
One mile to go. I was afraid of capture any second. Nothing for it but to buck it home. Like a stuck pig it squealed every rotation. Squeal! Squeal! Squeal!
Burning rubber was a worry but soon the finish line rolled past. The tire survived but now sported a flat top. The crowd cheered wildly for every hollow faced racer that finished - mostly solo. I had never seen such a far-away look in Scott's weary face. But now we could sit down at least. Justin worried us coming in half an hour later, but he had two flats. Ed was in 4th position 2/3 into the race but somehow faded from there. The quiet man wasn't elaborating. Jayson was just "knackered".
After showers, jambalaya and local beer Jayson and Ed lay horizontal in the room avoiding their painful "Roubaix Butts." They swore they would never do this race again. Two hours later they couldn't wait to race it again. They must have spotted the Five Mile Bridge and hope was renewed.
K-Dogg
[editorial note: Kerry's effort earned him the top step on the Masters 55+ podium...he's just too modest to mention it in his own story. Congratulations Kerry!]
-2013.jpg)
Somebody make me stop!
This is what the last 20 miles of Rouge Roubaix the 15th feels like........somewhere just before the "Five Miles From the End" Bridge. Mile after mile of twisty, turny, rough chip seal road. Every corner looks the same. BANG through the pot holes, SLAM over two dozen wooden bridges and DODGE the dodgy bits. All on your skinny tire 10-speed bike. The only concession to conditions was to bleed tire pressure to 90.
Even before that there were 101 miles of big hills......big paved hills......big dirt hills.... with steep wheel-sucking sand patches and slippery marble-strewn, scary descents over and over. When the hills flattened out Mr. Gusty Headwind showed up and spoiled the pack party. Keep going, keep going. Save a little punch for the dirt sections if you can. Eat another Double Shot if ya got it.
 |
| Scott, Justin, Ed and Kerry during their pre-ride. |
Then, like a bad dream, it suddenly fell to the ground and popped a few wheels back. His entire body slumped so hard there was a shock wave. "No soup for you"! said Chef Roubaix.
Jayson and I took a few pathetic pulls to help the pack out. Suddenly my two former buddies punched it up a hill. On the verge of fainting I managed to bridge up then looked back. Nothing back there. So sad.
The fourth and last dirt sector came and went bringing tears to our eyes. My two younger companions (40 and 43) had mercy on their older shadow and didn't insist I match pull for pull. For a while. I was no threat to their race I kept teling them. They didn't seem to believe me but I kept clawing back from their increasingly unfriendly surges.
My goal was to stay with them to the bridge. To the Bridge.....the Bridge. All will be fine after the Bridge. Eventually we hit the Five Miles To Go Bridge. Everything should be fine now. Two miles to go and my buddies left me struggling up one last hill. One mile to go and my front tire went flat. "You gotta be FREAKIN' kidding" I mumbled to no one. Luckily a wheel truck was right there. Unluckily the only spare left had a CX tire so wide I barely could pound it on with brakes wide open. I spun it. Nothing happened. The tire was so tall it dragged on my fork crown.
Criminy!
This race cursed me to the very end!
One mile to go. I was afraid of capture any second. Nothing for it but to buck it home. Like a stuck pig it squealed every rotation. Squeal! Squeal! Squeal!
Burning rubber was a worry but soon the finish line rolled past. The tire survived but now sported a flat top. The crowd cheered wildly for every hollow faced racer that finished - mostly solo. I had never seen such a far-away look in Scott's weary face. But now we could sit down at least. Justin worried us coming in half an hour later, but he had two flats. Ed was in 4th position 2/3 into the race but somehow faded from there. The quiet man wasn't elaborating. Jayson was just "knackered".
 |
| Scott, Kerry, Ed and Jayson post-Roubaix |
K-Dogg
[editorial note: Kerry's effort earned him the top step on the Masters 55+ podium...he's just too modest to mention it in his own story. Congratulations Kerry!]
-2013.jpg)
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Southern Cross 2013 report
Mountain people say if you don't like the weather just wait 10 minutes and it will change.
They lie. The 51 mile Southern Cross extreme CX race was 28 degrees at the start and 34 at the finish - 3 1/2 cold miserable hours later. It was so cold at the finish the hot lasagna they served outdoors
was brittle before we sat down. During the race a power bar was a flat, cold rock. Completely inedible.
Mike's gummy Power Blok clicked when he dropped one. Water bottles spouted an ice dome with slush that had to be chewed.
Unaccustomed to these conditions Ed, Mike and I pawed through a ridiculous plethora of of bike clothes in every possible combination. What to wear?
A 12 mile 20% plus dirt climb is best done naked. However, an 8 mile descent begs a wool burka.
If you have to change a flat you'd best start a survival fire. We ended up horribly overdressing to cope with standing still 30 minutes at the start. Surely we could peel layers later?
The course itself was miserable. A 400 person mass start is crazy enough without ankle-deep slimy red Georgia clay. Imagine riding a light dusting of hay over a blaze of fresh dog crap. Deep slimy ruts formed as 800 tires slipped helter skelter careening around the initial technical CX 1.5 mile start. The air buzzed with angry orange blobs launched off tires and and slapped onto bike frames, vests and sunglasses. My heart rate maxed out at 195 running up one of those shite hills less than 2 minutes from the start. But.......suddenly you notice you aren't cold anymore. Now you are feverish.
No time to change as we left the dirt and began forming little echelons desperately chasing other little echelons heading toward the first 12 mile climb.
About 20 seconds ahead I could just make out Ed's familiar orange Cycle Logic kit safely esconched in the lead group-but no matter how hard I sat-on we just couldn't close. (I didn't catch Ed until he crashed and flatted 30 miles later.) But soon the 12 mile rocky climb began.
Immediately I was baking like a butterball turkey with the stops stuck. Sweat soaked through 4 layers of lined lycra and dripped down my open chest as my ticker beat 175 at 6 mph.
Legs were somewhere between track standing and 30 RPM.
What was I thinking? Everything moved in slow motion for an hour. Riders I could catch in 10 strokes on the flats were actually 20 seconds ahead. You had to carefully thread through a minefield of quartz and granite rocks as big as melons. Touch one this slow and you might not get going again. Cries of "that's it!" echoed up and down the valley as people started walking.
Eventually you top out at the feed station where volunteers clang bells in your face, yell "good job!" and generally piss you off — not racing.
And then you descend, and descend, and descend some more. Four zippers head North now. Over-gloves are found. Your powerbar is now a lollypop-all you can do is lick it. Luckily the Gu still squeezed out - on my cheek, on my gloves and on my jacket. At 29 degrees and 37 mph
your eyes weep, your nose gushes and your hands ache on the brakes. Throw in ruts and dodging boulders around every other blind curve understand how Ed eventually crashed.......and flatted at the same time. He hit a big rock, flew over the bars and ended up on his knees facing away. He didn't mention this to me when i came upon him calmly fixing replacing his tube. At the end (he still caught me for all that) he had a mild concussion, a bloody bulb on his upper back and minor strawberries. Truly The Fighting Irish. The Fighting Irish that do yoga.
A few more hard, hot climbs, a few more freezing,scary plummets and we ended back on the final 1.5 cyclocross section. Mike was so tired he chugged half a can of the traditional beer hand up at the hardest run up hill. He said it was a tempting to bail and cruise the 1/2 mile paved shortcut back to the warm Mommobile. But we both managed to click back in and stagger on with honor- ignoring even more irritating cheers of "good job!" or "come on buddy! ride through the creek! You can do it!" Personally, I was in a black mood and mumbled "I don't give a #%*#!" and simply sloshed through the frigid water not risking a fall on my #%*#in arse this close to the end.
Unfortunately we don't have video due to "technical" issues -meaning it was too cold to remove gloves and push tiny camera buttons and that our Australian film crew had a broken collar bone.
Overall the event is well worth attending and rates a "10" in overall experience. They just need to do something about the climate up there. Brrrrr!
K-Dogg
They lie. The 51 mile Southern Cross extreme CX race was 28 degrees at the start and 34 at the finish - 3 1/2 cold miserable hours later. It was so cold at the finish the hot lasagna they served outdoors
was brittle before we sat down. During the race a power bar was a flat, cold rock. Completely inedible.
Mike's gummy Power Blok clicked when he dropped one. Water bottles spouted an ice dome with slush that had to be chewed.
A 12 mile 20% plus dirt climb is best done naked. However, an 8 mile descent begs a wool burka.
If you have to change a flat you'd best start a survival fire. We ended up horribly overdressing to cope with standing still 30 minutes at the start. Surely we could peel layers later?
The course itself was miserable. A 400 person mass start is crazy enough without ankle-deep slimy red Georgia clay. Imagine riding a light dusting of hay over a blaze of fresh dog crap. Deep slimy ruts formed as 800 tires slipped helter skelter careening around the initial technical CX 1.5 mile start. The air buzzed with angry orange blobs launched off tires and and slapped onto bike frames, vests and sunglasses. My heart rate maxed out at 195 running up one of those shite hills less than 2 minutes from the start. But.......suddenly you notice you aren't cold anymore. Now you are feverish.
No time to change as we left the dirt and began forming little echelons desperately chasing other little echelons heading toward the first 12 mile climb.
Immediately I was baking like a butterball turkey with the stops stuck. Sweat soaked through 4 layers of lined lycra and dripped down my open chest as my ticker beat 175 at 6 mph.
Legs were somewhere between track standing and 30 RPM.
What was I thinking? Everything moved in slow motion for an hour. Riders I could catch in 10 strokes on the flats were actually 20 seconds ahead. You had to carefully thread through a minefield of quartz and granite rocks as big as melons. Touch one this slow and you might not get going again. Cries of "that's it!" echoed up and down the valley as people started walking.
Eventually you top out at the feed station where volunteers clang bells in your face, yell "good job!" and generally piss you off — not racing.
And then you descend, and descend, and descend some more. Four zippers head North now. Over-gloves are found. Your powerbar is now a lollypop-all you can do is lick it. Luckily the Gu still squeezed out - on my cheek, on my gloves and on my jacket. At 29 degrees and 37 mph
your eyes weep, your nose gushes and your hands ache on the brakes. Throw in ruts and dodging boulders around every other blind curve understand how Ed eventually crashed.......and flatted at the same time. He hit a big rock, flew over the bars and ended up on his knees facing away. He didn't mention this to me when i came upon him calmly fixing replacing his tube. At the end (he still caught me for all that) he had a mild concussion, a bloody bulb on his upper back and minor strawberries. Truly The Fighting Irish. The Fighting Irish that do yoga.
Unfortunately we don't have video due to "technical" issues -meaning it was too cold to remove gloves and push tiny camera buttons and that our Australian film crew had a broken collar bone.
Overall the event is well worth attending and rates a "10" in overall experience. They just need to do something about the climate up there. Brrrrr!
K-Dogg
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Spring Fling - bunch sprint
Final moments of the Masters 35+ B DeLeon Springs Road race in Deland, FL on 1-27-13.
The 3-man break had already decided the podium, but with two money spots still on the road, the field digs to the line. Cycle Logic's Paul Messal had good position, put his head down and claimed 4th place on the day along with a few bucks.
click image for larger viewer
Wednesday, January 02, 2013
A Clean Team
Cycle Logic has pledged it's support for the Florida Clean Ride Fund and fair competition at the local amateur level. We're looking forward to a fair 2013 road racing season and we appreciate the steps being taken by the FCRF to increase the chances of that taking place.
Click here to see the current list of 2013 "Clean Teams"
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