The Enigma of G. Hincapie

I've often wondered just what makes this man tick. Consider the case of George Hincapie, reigning American road cycling champion and chronic wrist-breaker.

In this sad photo dating from Paris-Roubaix 2006 I believe, Hincapie sobs at the side of the road, his hopes dashed after his bike's aluminum stem broke under the relentless pressure of the cobblestones and spilled him in a heap at the roadside. Hincapie had been in an ideal position in the race; instead he got a free trip to the hospital with a broken something.

Even though I know little about him, never search for details of his career, still I have long wondered what keeps G.H. in the game. He was Lance's loyal lieutenant for all seven Tours de France, somehow having that moment of gloire on the Queen stage in the Pyranees a couple of years ago, when he took victory in the hardest climbing stage of the Tour.

But how do you stay motivated George? After ten years + in the pro racing game, haven't you seen it all? I am reminded of the Hincapie Enigma after reading today of the closing circuits of Tirrano-Adriatico, "the race of two seas" in that sets up the early season in Italy. Needless to say, G.H. took a slam likely due to someone's bad move. There is a great photo of him I am prevented from stealing for annoying reasons, where he stands over his bike in the High Road jersey, a smear on the sleeve and a can of pop in one hand. Clearly, the day is finished for him, yet again.

Now of all people to feel sorry for and to worry about the career choices of, me even thinking about George Hincapie is pretty strange, some might say ludicrous. And yet, life is frequently ludicrous and when the alternative is sifting through a massive accounting database looking for small amounts of money attached to long tracking numbers, thoughts of G.H.'s overall wellbeing seem perfectly reasonable. While George has had plenty of victories, fame, large paycheques, and likely a fancy watch or three, I still see his career in terms of failure. Not that Hincapie is a failure. Anyone who meets his girlfriend on a podium at the Tour de France is not a failure in the world of cycling.

It's more the constant wrist and shoulder blade fractures. How does a racer stay motivated when all the work of training ends in disaster so often? George, if you're reading this, explain yourself in the Comments section. Do you read Nietsche?

The Vital Importance of Being a Suffering Bastard

Another tale of cycling daring-do: On Sunday I jumped out of bed fresh from a night at the cinema and promptly set about readying my road bike for the Donut Ride, my first since September. The Ides of March had been calling my name you see, and here I was, about to answer.

I've been doing this sort of madness long enough to know that 7am is not the time to be switching tires around, etc., but why let the knowledge years of messenger experience provides stop me from a little of the old last-minute-mechanics? (Note the bizarre-scarfwearing going on amidst the Astana team - is it Tour campionissimo Alberto Contador, his lymph glands extra-sensitive from early years of special injections at the old Liberty Seguros team?)

Well, I threw on some layers, including taping my old cheapie neoprene overbooties on over my sleek, formfitting and almost useless new Pearl Izumi overbooties. The neoprenes are so wrecked that the only way to keep them on is either with elastics (a dubious windproofer) or packing tape, and with four hours plus of 0 Celcius + windchill ahead of me I was busting out the Egyptian mummy style, no mistaking. And it did keep them from flapping into my drivetrain too much. Next step is to keep the feet warm, but one thing at a time. It looked ridiculous but frankly I didn't care.

There were 25 or so 'hardcore' people out on the sunny and cold morning ride, and I kept an eye out for wintry footwear; inevitably, some had winter-specific highcut cycle shoes (one or two even 'road' winter shoes). Most had some higher end overbooty thing happening. We had a northwesterly wind against us, making the trip up to King City a very slow and chilly affair. I stayed at the back, suffering mightily and sucking wheel as hard as possible.

There is nothing like the first 100km + ride after a few months off and in the cold too. Forget riding to work and back every day and two hours a week sweating my b-$%s off on the trainer in my apartment. All that is well and good. One hundred and twenty-two km and one post-bonk hamburger later, I was home and stretching out in the tub, invigourated to the full. They call it suffering for a good reason, by Christ. I really didn't help my case by neglecting a) sunglasses, b) a banana c) to oil my f!*#-ing chain beforehand.

A Note:

Was out for a beer with Hayward and the skin-headed trackmaster himself, Tofu, on Friday night. These two were planning a spring alley cat and swore me to secrecy on pain of dismemberment, as to the details of said epic. Apparently, I'll be manning a checkpoint all night, which sounds boring as hell. But perhaps better than the general insanity they've cooked up for the tens of people competing. Good for them.

A Bloody Sunday @ the Bike Show.

This fine piece of industrial cycle machinery is from Quebec. It's called "le Voiturier".

Now just what could we fill this cargo-carrying crackerjack with if we had ever the chance? Perhaps a fresh pile of composted material, ready for the sprintime garden soil. Or perchance a bouuet or six of your finest flowers, that would shine forth the sunlight of oncoming spring, still so distant in these wintry parts.

Better yet, why not wheel round the snowy town bearing a load of shiny new bike kit hauled down from that annual orgy of retail binging we call the Toronto International Bike Show? I had to work two shifts of this three extravaganza this past weekend, and let me say to one and all, it was 'pas grande chose', as they say in the province next door. After doing my duty, demonstrating the bus bike rack forty times or so, I wandered over to the booth of Racer Sportif to look over the 'blow-out' wheelsets, which included the 'Anniversaire' Mavic Ksyrium with that stunning red anodised spoke amidst the black ones. A steal at $890 + taxes, my inside connection, Jeffrey, informed me. My other Insider, Alberto, couldn't believe I was hesitating over mere matters of money.

"What, David Miller not paying you enough, buddy?", Alberto fairly yelled into my ear over the din of the Show, from a good four inches away, his grey toothy grin beaming in the odours. For a second I was totally confused - thought he was referring to David Millar, the Scottish Time Trial pro now co-owner of the new American outfit, Slipstream. But no, a different argyle sock-wearer was being referred to, our local anti-disestablishmentarian and sitting mayor. Of course, I work for the union-loving bastard, don't I? There's the typically graceless beaurocrat for you, eh Alberto, you son of a gun you.

Instead I threw down the ATM card for some blow-out tires and wandered over to La Bicicletta (the most high-end snobfest in city limits), where $3000 wheelsets lay strewn about the racks, secured by nothing. They were blowing out the same Ksyriums for $899 and had a slightly lower grade model of same for a eye-watering $780. I hesitated. I hemmed, hawed, and chewed the lower lip awhile. It was Sunday, last-chance day for the show, bargains or no. Finally, I walked away from it all with the most spectacular piece of my haul being a long-sleeved national jersey of Espana a pretend-deal at $80. I doubt if it'll make me any faster, but perhaps will up my chances of Spanish conversation at the Donuts Ride.

Naturally I came to regret the whole no-buy thing on the wheelsets, once home and looking at my unchanged '06 road racer, clamped into the trainer. Why can't I ever just let myself go and blow $1000 on something for once? No one else is going to do it for me, goddamit. What's point of having the Voiturier, if you're not going to fill that trunk with gilded booty?

What is the Worst Job?

There are many bad jobs in the city I live in. But what is the worst? A difficult question to answer with so much to choose from, but consider for a moment the humble cab driver. Imagine working all day in today's full-on snowstorm, cruising about endlessly on expensive gas, in slow-moving bumper-to-bumper traffic, wrecking ball-joints in fresh potholes springing up all about you as the asphalt heaves, and working on commission only all the while.
Then there is the clientele, who may be a pack of assholic drunk guys threatening you or just being verbally abusive, and let's not forget the police and parking enforcement waiting to write you up on that moving violation, the insurance issues, fares not showing up when you drive way out of the way to find them at home somewhere. And this is only a short list of their problems, saying nothing of licencing fees, criminals, dispatchers, fares who don't pay, and in some cases starting everyday $90 (!) in the hole to the cab company. Ugh. Let's face it, taxicab driver is the city's worst job for stress, hassle, and general workplace misery per dollar earned.

Amazing that a 'hardcore' winter cyclist like myself suddenly expresses this outpouring of grief over the lot of the displaced Pakistani dental technologist behind the wheel of a Buick in the next lane, but there it is. Of course bike messenger is a short step behind taxi driver in the long list, but there at least, there is no ongoing slavery to the customer involved. It's a momentary interaction, usually. And little to no regulation and no licencing at all.

So be happy you're not a cabbie.