I would like to thank the good people at the Montclair Bikery for restoring my manhood. I purchased a Madone 2 years ago. I wasn’t quite familiar with compact cranks, but they came with the bike and I was happy to have my first carbon pony. It was faster than my late 80’s aluminum Cannondale that had seen messenger tours in both San Francisco and Washington DC.

For awhile it was love at first sight. Climb up practically anything versatility and did rollers well. My top speed had plummeted though. I switched out my rear cassette to an 11-25. I figured that, that was cheaper alternative to getting a whole new crankset. It did help. Spinning up to a decent pace on the flats was still a challenge. Along with following the lead riders wheel, I would look at their cassettes and see that he still hadn’t officially “dropped the hammer”, but would shoot me out the back if he raised the pace even by a hair. That’s not very comforting.

During rest stops I would check out other peoples cranksets, usually on the sneak. Didn’t want to make anybody any more uncomfortable than they already were in their tight shoes and lycra. What I had between my legs was inferior to theirs. Size does matter. Now, I was too heavy too climb efficiently and too underpowered to really hold pace on the flats without blowing up. A weird middle spot. The compact turned out to represent the best in mediocrity for roads that led up and the ones that lay flat.

I decided that if I needed a standard crank again. Javier (I believe) installed my crank the other day. The difference is only 3 teeth but it visually looks like a plate compared to the saucer. Now I can hold my head up high again, for as long as is aerodynamically feasible.

“Pain can be controlled – you just disconnect it.” (The writers of “The Terminator” must have been cyclist with dialogue like that.)

I needed to test my crotches durability so on Saturday I rode a good flat 80 miles. It’s sound, but could be better as could most of my weathered parts. There will come a day when I can just pick one from Wall-Mart, but until that day comes, there’s Advil and duct tape.

Besides getting to work, I wanted to use this mornings commute as a recovery ride of sorts. 11.22 non-aggressive miles. Before I left the house, I fixed myself a cup of Pete’s French Roast and 3 fried eggs. I indulged and used butter. Olive oil is preferable for health, but nothing beats a patty of butter. I looked around the kitchen like one of those guilt ridden commercial moms who feign decadence in front of their mom friends as they eat fat-free Yo-plait and consumed my eggs.

For some dumb reason I turned on the television before I finished getting ready. The Terminator was on. I love science fiction, so I was destined to watch Schwarzenegger at his best and most revealing role. He captured the essence of a soulless machine with only one objective which is as the title of the movie states; terminator. He fucked up California pretty good to. I couldn’t lap all of that up and still make it to work in a untimely manner, so I watched the car chase in the parking garage. No computer generated anything. Just a couple of stuntmen hopped up on coke pointing shotguns at one another and blasting away. That’s Hollywood! Side note: Why did a killing machine have to rent out an SRO for a night? That scene took away some of the “ballsyness” of the character.

I left the house, totally juiced on seeing Arnold. The roads were emptier. This is good. I don’t have to jockey for a few scraps of road. I’m no Einstein or even the guy that organized his underwear drawer, but I know that if I am in a vehicle that touts a height of 20ft, I probably won’t clear a light post that stands at 19ft. Bad truck, bad truck. The road is blocked up with traffic. Being able to hop onto a sidewalk has it’s advantages. I ride a few blocks further down into Paterson. I look over to right and see a guy that is the spitting image of Warner Brothers, “THE CRUSHER!!! What’s the likelihood of seeing a Tex Avery creation on a run of the mill commute. Life is.

That’s All Folks…

I love my second job. I sell bikes, share my knowledge of cycling in general and do the little tweaks to peoples bikes that kept me making dough during my messenger years. Life isn’t sweet, but it’s sure ain’t sour.

I run into all types in the store. Those that haven’t ridden in years, those that look like they haven’t ridden in years and those who are about to embark on their first voyage into the world of biking. Sales is an art form. Because no two customers are identical, the spiel has to be adjusted to fit the moment. Not every customer appreciates humor or as it may seem much else in life, but for that moment in time, I crawl beneath that cloud with them. I’m a sales guy, not a therapist. After that moment has passed, I wring out and move on to the next. The guy that sounds like he knows where a few bodies are buried gets specialized attention as well. I grew up in Jersey. My mob may be a little rusty, but my diction is still pretty sound.

Today I had the most annoying customer ever and not for anything she did, that was disrespectful. She simply had allergies and refused to blow her nose. Like clockwork the mucous would cascade down her nasal cavity every 5 seconds and she would breath in deeply to avoid an embarrassing mess. She’s a grown woman. I’m not offering her a tissue. I kinda hoped that she would just figure it out. I couldn’t outfit her son fast enough.

My other favorite customer was a Jewish family. Not like New York Jew, but like Israeli Jew. Probably European Jew and not like “Let My People Go” Jew. The kids and parents were cool. The parents wanted me to fit their sons helmets over their yarmulkes. Those holy “doo-rags” are a dickens to size. I’m funny about touching other peoples kids as well I should be. I’ve never been in a situation where I’ve used the word, “yarmulke”. I fumbled over asking if it was ok to remove it, mainly because I didn’t want to misspeak. Our helmets are pretty solid in the case of an accident. I don’t know of the safety tests performed on yarmulkes. I asked the mom to remove it and then braced myself for a theological thumping. Didn’t happen. I didn’t know if “yarmulke” was an outdated word, but it was all I had to work with. I wouldn’t want somebody at the coat check asking me if I wanted to check in my dashiki. Bad example, but sale or not, I don’t want to be too much more insensitive than I already am.

All’s well when the shop is clear. I wash my hands of the grit, grime and sticky stuff from a muffin I tried to swallow whole only to discover, a cut that the Park Tools Polylube has thwarted from gushing all over some child’s brand new bike.

Brought to you by Tide Ultra
“Don’t worry about shitting yourself. We got you covered”

1:00 p.m.
Every other Thursday I work late. Not really important to the story, but then it is. I started my commute very lackadaisically. I don’t think I’ve ever written the word, “lackadaisically”. Also not important, yet it always feels good to expand on my written vocabulary. There was no aggression in my pedal stroke. I had a place to be, but found no true desire to push pace. My panniers agreed. When I’m not out riding on the rivets of my saddle, keeping my wheel tight to someone else’s, concerning myself with heart rate anomalies and sowing the roads with mucous, I’m relaxing. I watch the landscapers whose knowledge of English is comparable to my knowledge of Yiddish, the nanny’s making coin, and the walking unemployed. There are of course other types of people out there like the retiree’s basking in the sun, graveyard shift types etc…

I walked into work without a drip of sweat.

10:00 p.m.
After making the wise decision of charging my light as opposed to my Garmin, I head out into the dark of Paterson, NJ. I wasn’t always that smart. I record all of my commute miles. I’m quite anal about this and pretty much nothing else in my life. I’ve ridden with the only light being illuminated coming in the form of my Garmin display. Not smart, but I never said that I was. Strava.

To avoid potential uncivilized activity, I adjusted my route around the drug activity on East Main St and opt for drug activity on Haledon Ave. Going downhill I get the speed up in the upper 20′s. With my gut and the laundry I was transporting home, reaching a decent speed is pretty effortless. I make the mistake of turning onto North 1st right into “The Stupid Nigga Playoffs” as Gangstarr so eloquently called bad behavior by people of a certain hue in his song, “Soliloquy Of Chaos”. I knew instantly that I had made an error. My speed took me deep enough into the activity which involved cars blocking the streets and people loitering on the sidewalks. I always look for exits when I ride. Life just seems to be more fun having a plethora of choices to avoid annihilation.

I see one guy running to one of the cars stopped in the street. That’s never a good sign. I wasn’t sure if my imagination was getting the best of me, but I thought he had something in his hand that wasn’t a bouquet of flowers. A guy hops out of the passenger side of the car. I spot my escape. A space in between parked cars that led to an empty sidewalk and freedom. I didn’t turn to see how it played out. My S-Works helmet I believe has never gone though ballistic tests. I channeled my inner Cavendish, got lower than the parked cars and hammered it with much more on the line than just the green jersey. It’s incredible how you can sprint when you have to with flat pedals and panniers loaded with laundry.

After rounding the corner, I had that rubbery feeling in my legs that usually comes with almost getting smashed to bits by automobiles. I couldn’t shake the shakes, but had to pedal to the safety of yet another gang neighborhood that hopefully was a little less active. It took about a mile to get my legs back underneath me.

I just wanted to get home at this point and still had 8 miles to go. With the adrenaline now dissipated, I was even more tired than I was had I just had a normal commute where the only thing I had to fear was some guy in a Buick. Thankfully, my legs know the routine and even when everything thing else in my container wants to shut down, my legs much like pistons just keep going.

11:00
Home

11:02
Beer

I decided to go with my rack and panniers today. It’s a passing fad, but so was lite beer and now it’s a staple in even the surliest of bars.

My panniers always change my mood for the better, even with the extra drag they create. In combination with the flat pedals I’ve resorted to, riding’s become really fun again and not just another reason to wear really tight clothing. I highly advise riding with flats if you feel as though your in a rut or you need to work on your technique.

The most important variable to keeping commuting much like relationships fresh, is variety. Instead of rambling along my normal route I veered north into Montclair onto Grove St. Grove is abundant with shoulder. It’s like commuter Heaven, Valhalla, Jannah or wherever you believe lies beyond. Taking the alternate route adds about a .5 miles onto my commute, but what’s a little extra mileage when the sun is shining and I’m not wearing 4 layers? My normal route is faster, but allows me about 12 inches before I find myself in life traffic. I’m used to getting buzzed, but that doesn’t mean that I like it.

Riding with panniers forces me to commit to staying saddled. Getting out the saddle just means swaying bags that may clip the tire and generally just don’t look sexy. Since I’m not engaged in trying to break land speed records, I also greet people as I ride by. Why not add a pinch of sunshine to someone’s day before flipping off somebody else for coming a little too close to my bars? All that’s missing is a rainbow set of suspenders ala Mork-style.

The destination is the cost of the journey and that’s what commuting is really all about.

Two extremely long months ago I was laid up in pain from undergoing surgery for an inguinal hernia. My crotch has forever been altered because of this procedure. The pain from it was comparable only to the pain of missing the last call for alcohol, having to admit I was wrong to my sometimes snotty teen-aged daughter and being woefully inactive. One major thing I learned about myself during this period was that I really liked donuts. I enjoyed them so much that I had to go with the club cut jersey to avoid unnecessary spillage this morning. With not having ridden in months and the pounds gained thereof, I knew that I was going to be asking a lot of my Lycra.

Today I decided to leave my depression behind. I don’t think you can ever totally get rid of it once you have it, but in time you can learn to control it and even use it as a motivational tool. I dropped out of college, but did manage to earn a C in Remedial Psychology 001.

Dusk

All good rides be them of the club, training, racing or just plain chilling variety, always start the night before. I began rummaging through my assortment of Lycra possibilities. It had been so long, that I sat back and looked at what I actually planned to go out in public in and gave pause. Skin tight pants, a giant bowl on my head and glasses with lens that rivaled those of senior citizens with light-sensitive eyes. If I had any plans on seeking glory this year, I was going to have to let appearances go. Next up was retrieving the tools of the trade that I ride with. I guess during one of my “pity parties” I took everything out from where they belonged and hid them, so to help ring in Christs rising I had my own little “egg hunt”.

Dawn

I globbed on my chamois cream just like old times. That felt familiar. I looked at at my excessively hairy legs and shook my head. The plus of having overgrowth is that the definition-less legs are now hidden. I looked at the new shape of my legs and instead of resembling pistons, they resembled pint glasses, which I guess is fitting in a way. I’d ask the neighbors kids or even mine to come help me de-weed, but I don’t need the law getting the wrong idea about my request, so soon I’ll have to break out the gas powered weed whacker and get to shearing.

To celebrate the day, I uncorked a pint of 312 ale. It’s not bad, it’s not great, it just is (worst marketing campaign ever). Chugging it down quickly, some dribbled on my jersey. It was all good. I made the error of not checking my bike that had been sitting for 2 months. Tires saggy and the chain a little grimy and rusty. I greased her up and mounted. That’s just how I do. I doubled up on my shorts expecting soreness in the rear from not having had any saddle time and wasn’t disappointed. Having fitness and strength are just components to having a successful experience on the bike. Besides being mentally prepared for your challenge you also need a rear that accustomed to bearing your weight. My sit bones are officially off vacation, though it’ll take awhile to get them feeling good enough to take on hours in the saddle again.

I pulled up to my local convenience store for coffee. I usually add some ridiculous sweet or calorie packed sandwich with it. Not today. My bodies had it and I can dig it. I walk up to the register and I get self conscious about the get-up I’m in. 20 years of being comfortable looking ridiculous and 2 months wiped that away. I looked like some kid dressed up like a superhero he created. I made for the door without making eye contact with anyone else in the store. Life was much easier as Clark Kent. This to shall pass.

I rode upright for awhile trying to get my legs back. I was really happy to see that fitness hadn’t dipped too much. I got into the drops with no intent on pushing it. Riding felt amazing. Probably the last time I felt that riding was amazing, was the first time my dad pushed me down a hill in Colorado Springs and I wobbled swerved and then it just clicked. I’ve been a convert ever since.

My powers completely shot. I’m only using 3 of my 6 cylinders. I want to ease back into this riding thing, so not to blow the rest of 2013. This puts me at a disadvantage in traffic. I use torque more than I do my brakes when riding in close quarters. It keeps me balanced and flowing with traffic, thus keeping me safer. Fighters change techniques to counter their opponents and I did the same. Spin a high cadence, ride closer to traffic, forcing them over a tad and laying off running any lights. I was 15-20 min off my usual pace, but today it didn’t matter, because I felt a dormant piece of me wake up again.

Dusk II

Riding home was just as fun until it wasn’t. I stupidly forgot to get a little something to throw in the tank before setting off. 7 miles in, I bonked. I realized it when I started doing switchbacks on the flats with a tailwind. I pulled up to a light that was yellow and as all lights do, turned to red. I thought to myself that the town must have reset the timer on the light because the change seemed rather fast, until it hit me that I was just that slow. Strangely, even bonking felt good today. I passed by two McDonald’s and started jonesin for a large fry. I started humming Janes Addiction’s “Jane Say’s”. I wanted trans fat bad. I passed that trial and kept it moving.

I walk into the house and go to hug my eldest son who says to me that I stink and I say back, “yeah, isn’t that great?!”

-The Beginning

It happens to every person that’s ever turned a pedal. When you’re younger, you have no idea of the concept, yet you still experience a feeling of loss. Getting dropped is almost as traumatic as being separated from your mom in the mall.

You may never have erectile issues, or suffer from a clitoris that could honestly care less anymore, but you will be dropped. You never remember the first time you were dropped but sadly, you always remember the last. “Getting Dropped” comes from the Latin words; Questus Stillaret. Loosely translated it means: When gel shots can’t make up for your utter lack of preparation.

2012 was a magical year for me. It seemed as though I couldn’t help but to get dropped. I felt prepared, rested and mechanically sound, yet when the pace rose or the road went vertical, I lost the scent of the pack. The only proof I had that my group was still on the road was the banana peels I would see intermittently browning.

Once I noticed a trend forming I tried to no avail to hold onto wheels for as much was humanly possible. In order to not completely blow up, I would sit up. My tactic could be seen as doing damage control, or more accurately just getting dropped. I did a mountain bike race last year where the victors were already on their 3rd helping of barbeque, when I crossed the line. I don’t like barbeque anyway, but that wasn’t the point. It was a pro-am event, so I expected it, but if you’re a competitor it still burns just a little.

I did find however find solace off the back. I accepted my fate and cruised into the sandwich spots of the season as confidently as I would’ve, if I had led the peloton. I did find strength in being weak oddly enough. When you’re blowing all over the road without the protection of the group it forces you to dig in and get through. I did some of my best thinking when the horizon was clear. I don’t cherish the position, but I do understand that not everyday/month/year can be yours. That’s just life in the peloton. You take your licks, re-tweak your training and maybe layoff the full stacks, because each ride on the calendar gives you an opportunity to lessen that gap.

-Kenny Mac

Off The Commute: “On The Mend”, Brought to you by the makers of Percocet. “Dag doc. No refill?!!”

2013 got off to a bang and then my small intestine shot out of my groin. “No more monkey’s jumping on the bed”. Coming to grips with my mortality; sober, has not been a pleasant adventure. I knew that I wasn’t the rider I was and was kinda ok with that. That guy drank nightly and whizzed through traffic without as much as a care for his own safety. Pick up a package that needs to be 3 miles away, in 15 minutes, traffic lights, cars and pedestrians be damned. I didn’t even need a chamois or the Chamois Cream of the Gods “Chamois Butter” to ride, whereas now I am addicted to the viscosity free ride it gives me.

I have no idea what “completely not worth it” activity it was that I was doing when my abdominal wall said, “Fuck This”, but it was totally not worth it. I’m 3 weeks past surgery and desperate to be active again. The only time I”ve had this much a lull in any physical activity was when I was 7 months old. Even then I gather, I knew life had to get better than just laying on my back and shitting on myself. From my eighth month on, I was sold on motion.

I spent my first week depressed post surgery. From being able to ride century’s quickly without too much effort to being relegated to lying on my back reeling in pain, or doped up on Percocet’s. Reading about friends still on the roads or the trails pushed me to get out of bed and rehab. Doesn’t matter how willing the mind is, when you have a gash in your gut. Mortality sucks.

Everything I practiced with regards to eating went out the window. My mantra has been to not eat what I can’t burn off. I scrapped that system for one that involved taking in healthy calories by the truckload in an order to heal properly. Before the doctor told me that surgery was imminent, I was still at my summertime bikini weight. Since then, I have put on 10 pounds. I gave up on shaving everything. 2 weeks in the house made me a recluse. I would have used that time to write, if I could’ve sat up.

Telecommuting was no where near as fun as actual commuting. Walk out from the bed, sit back reclined, address emails, go through the normal motions and then lay back on the couch and rub my crotch. Reading that last bit, almost sounds pleasurable.

I’m 3 weeks out from attempting to saddle up again, and 3 months from attempting anything rigorous without pushing the limits of the mesh permanently attached to me. Having my intestines fall out in a pace line could be hazardous and unbecoming a Major Taylor cyclist, so I will wait. I spent about 20 minutes explaining to my wife, the differences between anaerobic and aerobic exercises and how I would use my down time, to keep my lungs in shape until my muscles could rejoin them. I think she understood, but I was also on Percocet’s and probably talking in circles. Sadly there is no way to prevent the injury from occurring again. Not like I can strengthen my crotch. Note: Sex with busted crotch not nearly as fun as sex with healthy one.

Feeling mortal is humbling, but 4.5 billion people on this planet make it happen everyday, so I guess it can’t be that bad. When the cold weather breaks and sun reigns again, I will cherish the opportunity to once again saddle up, turn the cranks and take a second to enjoy the feeling of freedom again.