My Cat Rasmussen

First, a happy tale:

On what happened to be my birthday, three ladies from the maintenance committee at my co-op apartment building knocked on the door and offered me a cat. The cat had been abandoned by some evictees, who left the cat but stole their front door. I surveyed the animal and decided to take it. Eventually I named him for the Yellow Jersey of the day, Michael Rasmussen of Denmark.

Admission of bias: I like Rasmussen. I like his style of racing - a strategic, pure climber with two mountains points jerseys to his credit already and here he was about to triumph in the crucial overall category. In fact, he'd just won the final stage in the Pyrenees by over twenty seconds from his nearest competitor, giving him a possibly unassailable three minute lead going into the closing days of the race. It was his hour of triumph and it did not last. In fact, you could hear booing from the crowd as he rolled over the line giving the victory salute. Rumours had been swirling around Rasmussen for days about missed doping tests before the Tour, and about really being home in Italy training when his whereabouts forms (yes, out-of-competition testing demands ProTour racers state their future locations at all times) said he would be in Mexico visiting his wife's family. He was caught in a lie by an Italian ex-racer and broadcaster, who called Danish TV and busted him (proof?) during the Pyrenees stages.

So on the eve of triumph, Rasmussen was called into the team bus and fired. The race organizers reserve the right to bar anyone from entering the race even if suspected of that great evil, performance-doping. Once the race is on, any rider can be chucked if caught out with the wrong blood oxygen values, etc. But in Rasmussen's case, he was caught in a kind of lie, and in came the behind-the-scenes pressure either from the sponsor, Rabobank, or the Tour organizers or both. Only Denis Menchov had the balls to quit in solidarity, no other rider had the nerve to protest for a moment.

If the top five overall riders behind Rasmussen had refused to ride, the whole putsch would have failed miserably, becoming a P.R. fiasco of epic proportions. But of course no one could see past their own nose and team manager as per usual, Menchov excepted.

Now you could argue that it was all true, that Rasmussen was caught lieing to avoid being tested and that could have only meant he was doping, and that his team firing him represents a great leap forward for 'drug-free sport'. Except for the fact that the team had begun by defending Rasmussen and then flipped; and further, that he had just been 'kicked off' a national team (for missing their doping tests) that he had not even been a member of (as national selections for the Worlds are normally made after August).

No, it was all done in the hallowed name of the Tour of France and in the wake of the Floyd Landis fiasco that has yet to be resolved. And in the wake of the Bjarne Riis (hmm, another Dane and '96 Tour winner) confession, the Vinokourov testosterone busting only days before, and others too numerous to name. Rasmussen was made an example of to protect the already tarnished brandname and symbol (Maillot Jaune) of the most prestigious bike race in the world.

It all makes me sick.

Rasmussen was having the Tour of his life, fighting off young Contador's relentless attacks in the mountain stages and making for the most exciting racing I've witnessed in years, and his team was controlling the race perfectly with Menchov, Dekker, Boogerd, and even Fleche all killing themselves everyday for the man called Chicken. I couldn't even watch the day I heard the news, and I'm NOT sorry I missed the final time trial because I was up at the farm. What a pack of lies.

Rasmussen my cat is a good climber and loyal.

Global Gutz All Over the Road

And the results are in.
Friday the 13th turned out to be less than lucky for me, as per my prediction - I prepared perfectly for the 10pm race, slamming a can of Coke an hour beforehand. Yes, I also checked the bike and topped up the air pressure with Hayward's leaky pump. Even better, I nipped by the Co-op and snapped up a Grand Prix Attack front tire (handmade in Germany!) 22mm of 370 (!) threads-per-inch advantage. A cool eighty dollars. I was ready.
Perhaps I had more speed than I was entirely ready for. We lit out from the darkness of High Park (from the lawn and around a stump no less!). Once into the Bloor/Keele down-and-up I accelerated away with Tofu and Jim Kuz. We were hammering at over forty km/hour and it was clear that this would be the selection. I beat them at one small intersection and re-accelerated.

Through my racing brain ran a couple of key thoughts. The first being: Great, I'm right where I want to be, with the main field of thirty already dropped behind us. Second: I'm racing Kuz, a man with over a decade of alley cat-winning knowledge and he's got gears for a change. Plus Tofu, who I used to work with at the Path, and who goes to the Worlds every year and does quite well on his brakeless track machine, strapped in old-school styles (kitted out w. vintage 7-11 team cap and jersey no less). Two deeply talented competitors, with serious abilities in the cats, ie, blasting through city traffic steadily and fearlessly in the late-night hours. I was breaking away, leading out the sprint for the first checkpoint.
I knew I was going harder than I should have been as those who go 110% in the first part of race have a way of being swallowed up towards the end part, but the adrenaline got the better of me. There's nothing like that feeling of strength in the legs and lungs when you're going really hard and still feel like its sustainable. And there my troubles began. Going the speed of traffic or slightly faster or slower is fine but when you're going more than twice the speed (or even three times) you can get into real trouble. There are three lines you can take: the curb lane/to the right of parked cars; the yellow line dividing the road; or between the two lanes of traffic on your side, which is what I was doing. It feels safer than the curb lane because you needn't worry about pedestrians or getting doored, so there I attacked. But the best line is ultimately the yellow line because there you will find no pedestrians, no doors opening, and no cars changing lanes to your left, and with maxium cheating room to charge four way reds. But I wasn' t there and suddenly a cabbie decided to start pushing into the left lane (as they're forever trying to switch into the faster lane after picking up a fare) even though there was no opening.
I was forced to swerve left in my narrow lane-within-a-lane, doing it pinball style against cabs that were barely moving, using a free hand to push off the first car, careen to the second and push away again. By the third one I was starting to lose control and hit the right side mirror, apparently severing it completely. I didn't notice being too busy crashing to the ground in front of the stopped cab in the left lane, grinding in with both knees as Kuz and Tofu shot by on either side asking if I was okay. 'I'm okay', I called, even as I continued sliding along on the shins. For a second I was worried I'd broken my Look pedals and wouldn't be able to re-clip in, but in fact the bike had no damage due to my finely executed controlled wipeout, and I continued on with the knees crying out their shock and disgust, seeing red you might say.
Adrenalin prevailed over dismay at my lost advantage and I picked up speed again, heading for Parliamen and making mental note not to stop too soon, which I then proceeded to do anyway. That desperate mental state is the racer's greatest enemy, proven once again as I decided Sherbourne was Parliament and watched four more zip past me, not to be seen again. Ultimately, I took a respectable eighth place (though Hoffman didn't bother submitting it to the overall global standings).
Perhaps it was just - Tofu (currently on the road) won in 30.5 minutes over 21 km, about 40/km an hour. With my form I knew I could have been right there, but it wasn't to be. Kuz (currently on the road) hung on for third about forty seconds off Tofu's winning pace and so the bald-headed vegan gets his free trip to the Worlds in Dublin this August. I should go just to race against him once more.
And the knees? Still a bit sore on Monday with the scabs holding out nicely, eitherwise fine. Couldn't upload the picture I took of them, sorry.

There are races to race.

Oftentimes life is made dull by the web-log. As I creep back into the whole business I wonder just how to keep it compelling.

Choices and decisions have oft made me nervous in this life, much to my regret. This weekend has loomed with several choices hanging upon me:

1. Go to the farm w M & her band.

2. Go past the farm to Ottawa and race the Ontario Crit Champs + OBC Road Race.

3. Race Global Gutz messenger race Friday the 13th to win a free plane ticket to Ireland for the Worlds in August.

4. Forget it all and go birdwatching.

I've decided to go with Global Gutz. A worldwide simultaneous courier race with similar courses and a local prize. It should be high excitement to say the least. Just writing about it sends a shiver of energy through my gurgling veins, seeing as I was the winner of the last courier race in this town. Just because I'm an ex-courier doesn't mean I can't still race the race,

I'll have you know. It occurred to me in passing, more than a month (nearly two) after retiring from that line of work that I might very well have been one of the five fastest couriers in town, out of maybe 200 or so; or maybe 100. No one really seems to know how many there are any more, though once upon a time there were 500 or so (when I started last century). Those were the days, days when I didn't race at all, being too green and with too crappy a bike. I've gotten older and much more daring.

My courier racing career is pretty short: The first one was called Blood Bath a few years back, and my goals were to finish and not be last. Accomplished both. Then this past spring I did the Friday the 13th treasure hunt, 'Lucky 13'. 3rd place. Then a hastily organized post-polo Saturday night 'cat where I prevailed against a field of seven. Forty bucks and a baseball practice jersey were mine.

A pretty decent record so far.

On the legitimate racing side, I've done alright this year. Fifth in a short points race at the club (which I now dispise), and seventh overall and fifth in my category (Senior 4) at the CHIN International Races, in a field of over 70. That was really my best going.

So I'm primed for a top finish this Friday the 13th at Global Gutz. Did I just massively jinx myself? Yes, yes I did. Who cares really, courier races are a big adventure where we transform the whole city into our adventure playground, which is the size of playground you want to have when you're my age. Its a wholely different deal than 'proper' racing, and vastly more entertaining, involving on-the-fly orienteering skills, historical plaque facts, waypoint approaches like subway escalators and turnstiles, and finishes that sometimes involve postsprint multi-story stairclimbs with the bike in one hand. And of course open traffic all night along. A mad, bad business only for the maddest and baddest.

Like me.