The Mrs. flew with the kids to Germany a week ago and today I once again fly across the Big Pond to join them.  It’s a “visit-the-family” trip which means my beautiful bike is staying home without me.  Don’t worry - I’ve arranged for a sitter.

We’re visiting my wife’s family in a very small, rural town at the northernmost tip of Bavaria (Bayern).  I met the Mrs. while stationed in Germany with the 8th Infantry Division way back in 1989 when the Berlin Wall was still up, the Cold War was hot, and driving an M1A1 main battle tank around (Western) Germany was just plain good times.

I’m really looking forward to spending some time back in her sleepy village.  There’s not much to do except eat, drink coffee, talk, eat more, drink beer, sing a few songs - all while hiking through the woods (sometimes even at night).  Here’s a map of where we’re going to give you the idea…

View Larger Map

I have actually been cycling and just not writing about it.  Went to Julian last Tuesday and set all kinds of new records for myself.  1:46 to the top of Old Julian Rd and 2:56 to the pie shop in Julian.  Then I suffered all the way home.  It always happens that way.  I always end up limping back for home, wishing that someone would hit me with a car just so I can get a free ride home in an ambulance.

Here’s the elevation profile to explain.

For some reason (and I think this is what makes me a little odd), as soon as I get home I’m stoked and ready to ride again.  All memories of past suffering are replaced with visions of glory.  So I talked Mark into joining me for a return trip on Saturday.

We took it nice and easy all the way to Julian.  I could tell Mark was nervous about the distance and elevation so we kept the pace low and I took the front a lot.  We arrived in Julian just fine and enjoyed our pie a lot.  We sat in the dappled sunshine and played with our iPhones as only boys can do.

Then we started home and Mark bonked.  Really hard.  With 15 or 20 miles to go I could tell he was really suffering.  I stayed with him and felt sorry cause I know I’ve spent a lot of time in that house of pain, especially on my way home from Julian.  After a time, we made it home and Mark survived (I pinged him the next day just to make sure <g>).

Now I’m getting on a plane and heading back overseas.  Maybe while I’m there I’ll talk the wife into letting me get a mountain bike!

Aforementioned pizza, originally uploaded by Arlyn Asch.

]]> http://www.adventuresonabike.com/2008/08/09/aforementioned-pizza/feed/ http://www.adventuresonabike.com/2008/08/09/best-recovery-beverage/ http://www.adventuresonabike.com/2008/08/09/best-recovery-beverage/#comments Sat, 09 Aug 2008 20:12:42 +0000 Arlyn Asch http://www.adventuresonabike.com/2008/08/09/best-recovery-beverage/ .flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; } .flickr-yourcomment { } .flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; } .flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; }

Best recovery beverage, originally uploaded by Arlyn Asch.

Goes perfectly with a pepperoni and jalapeño pizza.

On the train again, originally uploaded by Arlyn Asch.

Headed to Anaheim on the train with Mark. Eighty coastal miles riding
back. Best part is Pizza Port at the end. I love Cars, Trains and
Bicycles.

So, I guess I’ve gotten used to it.  Yesterday, I was looking at some old photos of me on a bike from last year - here’s a cute one of me, Romy and my daughter after riding the MS Bike Tour.  Make sure you click on it to get the zoomed in image.

Look at those nasty, hairy legs!  I guess it’s funny how we get used to some things.

I told another friend, Dave about it and he immediately signed up.  Then his friend Firger, who’s Mom struggles with MS signed up.  Firger actually signed up without owning a bicycle.  Next thing I know, we’ve got 7 people on the team.  We’re started calling ourselves “Team Climb On!“.

When you sign up, you commit to raising at least $400 for the National MS Society.  I was pretty nervous about being able to raise that much so I procrastinated asking for donations.  I had no real connection to the MS community and was happier focusing on the cycling challenge.  In the back of my mind, I pondered whether I would just pony up the $400 myself rather than ask for donations.

Then one day, it occurred to me that one of my best friend’s dad has multiple sclerosis.  His name is John.  John used to have a really active life, he was an avid skier, cyclist, hiker and tennis player. After his diagnosis in 1992 he had to use a cane to walk, then a walker, and now a wheelchair.  He’s unable to move on his own or even feed himself.  John considers himself very lucky that even though he has lesions on his brain typical of MS, they have not progressed and he maintains full mental capabilities.

All of a sudden, what really mattered to me was how we could help people like John live with MS.  I told this story and asked for donations and people gave far more generously than I could have predicted. I was inspired by their contributions.  As the summer progressed, Team Climb On! worked harder and harder to make a significant difference in the MS community.  We were all getting stoked by people’s commitment to do something good.  It drove us to go farther.

By the time the actual event rolled around in October, we had raised $22,047.01 to fight MS.  Each member of Team Climb On! was awarded Top Fundraiser and 4 of us were among the top 150 fundraisers, which is a special honor.  We were presented with a team award and I even won “Rookie Team Captain of the Year” at an awards banquet in January.

Oh, and I did the cycling.  It was a great ride, in fact.  But do you know what was so inspiring and what got me really passionate?  It was the difference we made in the MS community.  It was all the lives we touched.  From the riders on our team who were getting into cycling just for the event, to the people we inspired by our example, to all the people who would benefit from the money we raised.  I had no idea that contributing like that could be so rewarding, so fulfilling. I really got that life is the most rewarding when you are being a contribution.

This year we’re going even bigger.  We’ve already doubled the size of Team Climb On!, which was pretty easy - people want to be a part of making a difference.  We’ve also increased our fundraising goal to $50,000 which I think is actually pretty doable - with a bit of help :)  I’m not worried about the training anymore and there are 30-mile and 100-mile course alternatives for people who are more focused on the contribution aspects than the cycling.

I can’t wait to see how much we can accomplish this year. Visit my donations page, make a contribution and be a part of it.

ps: Would you like to be a part of Team Climb On?  Visit our team web site to see what we’re up to and drop me a line at arlynasch at gmail dot com if you’re interested in joining.  We’re always looking for people who want to make a difference.

Here in San Diego, we’re always looking for a public restroom of some sort, maybe a gas station or a roadside cafe.  One time in France, we all stopped when one rider got a flat.  We happened to stop near a couple of Gendarmes.  We all peed (including the women) in various places.  The Gendarmes had no comment.

Vive le France!

Stage 17 – At the 1km marker on L’Alpe d’Huez

Our chalet was on the race course and we could view the action from either the barriers or from a balcony above. For sure, the balcony gives you a longer view and more of the race to watch. From the top balcony you could see an entire switchback up and back. From the barriers, all you could see was 10 or 20 meters down the course in each direction. But watching from the balcony is kinda like watching on TV. You get a good view of the race, but you’re not really there. You watch from a distance.

I was on the barriers when Carlos Sastre rounded our switchback. I couldn’t see him, just the mix of cars and motorbikes that swarmed him. But I could feel the energy; it was undeniable and super intense. The whole world got a little brighter. I saw Carlos just as he passed. He was coming up our side of the barriers and he was so close I flinched backwards. I was afraid he might actually hit me. I could clearly see a look of intense determination and pain on his face. He was hurting himself; he knew it and it felt good. I could see the sweat coming off him and I screamed “Venga! Venga! Venga!” He was gone in less than an instant.

It was two minutes to the chase group so I ran upstairs to watch from the balcony and see if that was any better. Menchov, Vandevelde, Cadel, and the Schlek brothers all went by and it was like watching on TV. I could see them well, just from afar.

I ran back downstairs and got back on the barriers. The energy and excitement was back. Yeah, I could see less, but I was getting more out of it. More than I’ll get from watching on TV next year, certainly.

Stage 18 – Just past the feed station

We were standing in the road, in a slight bend. The gendarme kept pushing us back towards the sidewalk, but we keep inching out onto the road for a better look. First the breakaway streaks through the village then the peloton hot on their heels.

The boys were just cruising but going about as fast as I can ride a bike on the flats. For a brief moment before the turn it looked like they might actually hit us and we all took a step back, reflexively. They were gone in seconds.

Stage 19 – At the finish in Montluçon

Bruce and I found the perfect spot between two of the commentator trailers to get this view of the finish line.

We had really no view up the road, but we could hear the peloton coming and being that close to the final sprint was amazing. After the race, we headed over to a spot behind the podium for the awards presentation. I’ve seen the podium thing on TV a thousand times, but behind the podium everyone hangs out and waits their turn. You don’t see that on TV.

Stage 20 – The start village for the time trial

So there I am, walking around, mingling with pro cyclists as they warm up for the TT. “Hi George. Hey Jens. How’s it hanging Robbie? Good luck today Dave.” This was the ultimate in being star-struck (at least until Sunday).

So when some of the Aussies in our group wanted to bug out and watch the race on TV I nearly lost it. There’s only one team bus so we bugged out and I got to watch Cadel lose the tour on a 20-inch TV in a smoke-filled French dive bar.

Stage 21 – The Champs-Élysées

We had a VIP viewing area set aside for us. It was right on the barriers at 400m before the line.

It even had a raised room that afforded a better view. Since we got to witness eight laps on the Champs, I tried it, but with the same results as on the L’Alpe. The best view was on the barriers where you could feel the vibration of 150 cyclists pounding out the cobbles, each rider searching for the win and glory in Paris.

After the stage was over, we headed straight for the team buses which were parked just behind us. Forget trying to watch the final jersey presentations. I’ve seen that on TV a thousand times, but I’ve never hung out with the guys as they decompress and congratulate each other after the Tour.

Next year, I’ll watch it on TV. Maybe I’ll even remember who won the stages.

Thanks to Bike Noob for tagging me. Rather than tempt fate , I’ll go ahead and comply with the instructions. Here it goes…

If you could have any one — and only one — bike in the world, what would it be?

My bike. I love it and it loves me.

Do you already have that coveted dream bike? If so, is it everything you hoped it would be? If not, are you working toward getting it? If you’re not working toward getting it, why not?

I’m really not that much of a bike wiener, except that I love the one I have.

If you had to choose one — and only one — bike route to do every day for the rest of your life, what would it be, and why?

Embrun to Alpe d’Huez via the Col du Galibier, Col du Telegraph and Col de la Croix de Fer. In fact, go ahead and add the Col du Mollard just for kicks. Every day, buddy. Anyways, I have a feeling this will be my purgatory ride.

What kind of sick person would force another person to ride one and only one bike ride for the rest of her / his life?

You’ve never ridden from Embrun to Alpe d’Huez.

Do you ride both road and mountain bikes? If both, which do you prefer and why? If only one or the other, why are you so narrow-minded?

I wore out my mountain bike and can’t afford a new one. Wearing out a bike is a good sign I think.

Have you ever ridden a recumbent? If so, why? If not, describe the circumstances under which you would ride a recumbent.

Have you ever seen someone ride a recumbent? That’s why not.

Have you ever raced a triathlon? If so, have you also ever tried strangling yourself with dental floss?

I live in the triathlon capitol of the world. A couple of months ago, one got eaten by a shark. Is that enough reason?

Suppose you were forced to either give up ice cream or bicycles for the rest of your life. Which would you give up, and why?

Ice cream, duh. Don’t ask about beer.

What is a question you think this questionnaire should have asked, but has not? Also, answer it.

Do you think there should be more questions in this list? No.

You’re riding your bike in the wilderness (if you’re a roadie, you’re on a road, but otherwise the surroundings are quite wilderness-like) and you see a bear. The bear sees you. What do you do?

Well, the definition of a bike race is two cyclists on the same road, headed in the same direction. So, assuming he is one of those circus bears that ride little bikes, I’d drop his ass. Then I’d pull down my shorts (ala Voris) and show him who’s boss.

Now, tag three biking bloggers. List them below.

Sorry guys, gotta be

• Mark at A Rider’s Almanac
• Andrew at More to Life Than…
• Dave at his bike blog

Bikestyle Tours arranged for us to ride Stage 19 in front of the peloton on race day and it was an amazing experience.  The fans, gendarmes, little villages, everything was there.  We got cheered all day long.

You have to understand that I’m a bit competitive (all my close friends laugh when I point that out).  I take winning very seriously.  Not to say I’m a poor loser, I don’t think I am. But if you put a finish line or a Col marker in front of me, I start calculating how I’m going to get there first, or at least in front of you.  I rarely let an opportunity pass to try and win in some way.

So when riding a 165km long, full stage of the Tour de France, I’m thinking about how to win it.  Our instructions were to regroup at the 2km line and wait for an escort to the finish line.  Ok, the 2km sign is the “finish”.  I pulled hard on the front during the first big hill in the morning so when the pace got whipped up in the last 30km, I’m rubber banding off the back.  Luckily, Aussies don’t race downhill for some reason and I always get back on the group.  As we raced the final kilos into Montluçon, we hit some traffic which made for some very nervous positioning.  We got stuck behind this slow-assed van which finally pulled aside inside the 3km banner, leaving about 500m of racing space.  We were approaching a steep overpass and I calculated that the 2km banner was just on the other side, hidden from view.  Voris would be proud of how I came out of the far left and hammered it up the overpass, leaving everyone behind.  No one really chased though either.  I have a hard time understanding that part.

As we waited for the Tour official to arrive and escort us the final 2km, there was much disagreement as to where the real finish line was.  Several of the sportier riders decided it was the “real” line that counted.  Fine with me, I was feeling good and began calculating how I would win that too.

The escort car arrived and we were told that we could not race ahead of the vehicle, that we must stay behind it at all times.  One of our ex-pro guides waggled his finger at me and smiled, “Remember, no racing.”  Ha, that’s hilarious.  When we started off toward the finish line, the car zoomed ahead leaving the perfect amount of racing space.

It’s just John and I in the last 400m.  John was pretty sporty earlier on the road so I think he’ll go for it.  I drop behind and get on his wheel, which in cycling language is like pulling out a gun and cocking the trigger.  I’m ready to go.

My focus narrows and I begin to feel all hot and prickly.  I know I’m going to win, I just can’t lose.  My body feels electric, like I’ve got Mark Cavendish legs and my racing anger starts to rise.  I stop hearing things and I can’t see anything but John, the finish line and some maintenance truck in the middle of the course at about 100 meters out.  Maintenance truck?  This is exactly what I need - John will never see it coming.  I drop back a little bit and wait for John to decide which way to go.

John goes right so I attack left.  The first few seconds of my attack will be hidden behind the truck which should give me great advantage.  I come around the truck out of the saddle, hammering for the line.  I’m way ahead of John already and I think about easing up, but as I approach the line, something really strange happened.

There I was, out of the saddle and sprinting full out, after 165km of a full TdF stage.  At the end of kilometer 537 for the week.  After all the fans, the cheering, little villages, gigantic Alps, Didi the Devil, paint on the road, beautiful France…

The signs on the barriers are flashing by and fans are pounding on them and yelling.  I’m approaching the REAL finish line, I can see the commentary booths and even the podium.  SKODA  - SKODA - SKODA flashes underneath my wheels - it’s painted on the road right at the finish line and suddenly, inexplicable, I’m actually in the Tour de France.  I mean, really there.  I throw my bike across the line and shout out something.  I want to do that whole point to the sky thing but don’t want to crash either.  I fly through the finish area in a lazy arc as I slow down and try to figure it all out.  I really did just win a real stage of the Tour de France.  That was cool.