Bike Lane Bliss: Intro

Bike Lane Bliss: Introduction

I’m Richard Fries. I’m a cyclist.
This means more than 40 years as a racer, tourist, advocate, publisher, historian, commuter, journalist, announcer, and now, blogger. (And a woeful mechanic I might add.) I ride year round in pretty much all weather. And yes, I have a car, a house, and a sort of normal life, too.
This blog will hopefully be random. I think about a lot of things but from the vantage point of a cyclist.
But having watched a lot of bad cyclists somehow get accredited to teach others how to ride, I felt something had to be said. This blog will not be intended to dismantle the teachings of 'effective cycling' and 'vehicular cyclists' and other experts. Its just that I see a lot of folks who are quoted in newsapers and television interviews on the subject of cycling doing some of the most curious things in traffic. This book is not about replacing those teachings, but enhancing those teachings.

Although you’ll get a smattering of elements on history and politics and personal anecdotes, there will be two primary themes: travel logs from me as I work as a race announcer and cyclist; and a sort of zen guide to urban cycling.
Towards the latter, this blog is intended to be a first draft of a book designed to help people love bicycle commuting. I’m trying to let people realize I do not ride my bike to and from work every day because it’s the correct thing to do. I love, indeed crave and require, that time of each day when I ride through the congested and seemingly daunting streets of Boston, Cambridge, Somerville, Arlington and Lexington. And when I got my latest job offer in the heart of Boston, I saw the commute in the city actually as a plus, not a minus.
Where others find fear, I have found bliss.
I hope that these words expedite somebody else’s development as a cycling commuter. But when one finds that bliss between two automobiles traveling at 28 mph one finds a release from all sorts of fears that prevent us from enjoying other things in life.
There are certainly some skills that I will write about. And there are observations of what to study in those canyons of steel and glass. And yes, there will be “things” to discuss in chapters on equipment and clothing, so you suburbanites can read on comfortably knowing you might be able to buy something to speed up the process. But this is not a step-by-step, how-to blog. There are plenty of great bike shops to help you there.
But the overarching lesson is the simple Buddhist phrase: “Be here now.”
As one cycles in a city, one makes a lot of observations of others inside of automobiles. We cannot help but recognize just how much of their life is abuzz with distractions. There can be mobiles phones, texting, Top 40 radio, hot coffee, cold drinks, Yorkshire terriers, Greek salads, dashboard gauges, fellow passengers, eyeliners, one shoe off, crying children and the occasional squirt of cream filling from inside a donut.
If the cyclist makes a mistake, the cyclist gets hurt. If the motorist makes a mistake, the cyclist gets hurt. So guess who pays extra attention? But having to be hyper aware IS the gift. I want others to recognize the gift. To overcome that fear is liberation.
The payoff in urban cycling is achieving that meditative state of being relaxed yet vigilant. The stress is being processed with rhythmic breathing. The balance is achieved between the physics of the bike and the wheels and the body as engine.
I’m not trying to frighten readers. The average year round commuter hits the ground about once every eight years. And most of those are minor. Although much of what I do may startle some, I can assure you that as I approach my 50th birthday with three children, a wife, and a mortgage, I would not do this if I perceived it as risky.
The urban cyclist is stripped down to the simplest and most elegant of machines, the bicycle. The urban cyclist must be hyper aware of the surroundings. Study the seasoned Manhattan bike messenger who may shock us riding confidently with a fixed gear, no helmet, and often no brakes. But look again: that rider will not have headphones. Rarely will there be a cell phone on their ear and only in a safe place. That rider is coolly studying the entire flow of the landscape. That rider will have 260 degree picture of awareness. That rider understands the importance of paying 100 percent attention to the surroundings.
Few Americans – some of them extremely smart people - ever achieve that degree of awareness….ever. Study the health club and find folks “running” on treadmills while plugged into CNN. They have divorced their bodies from their brains and their souls. Rarely do I find an American all in one place at one moment.
These writings come mostly from observations made in my life as a cyclist. Others come from my cycling heroes such as Scott Chamberlain, Alan Rodzinksy, Gene Oberpiller, Chris Iglehart, and a legion of impresarios too numerous to list. But for the literary types out there, I hope you’ll recognize that I am applying several elements taught in the books by Eugen Herrigel (Zen and the Art of Archery), Timothy Gallwey (The Inner Game of Tennis), John R. Stilgoe (Outside Lies Magic), and Richard Louv’s (Last Child in the Woods). I also have applied stuff learned from Joseph Campbell and Robert Bly.
And, oh yeah, I like Star Wars movies.
Please read, comment, forward, etc. But all I ask is that before motorists make any comments here, they would be well served to try riding a bike the city to comprehend the experience.
Thanks for reading.

Coin-op Purgatory

Coin-op Purgatory

LEXINGTON, Mass. (Feb. 6, 2010) - Greetings from the Lexington Laundry Village. A coin-operated purgatory seemingly designed to correct any visions of grandeur from a week prior. I deserve this.
Laundromats - like bus stops and motor vehicle registries and court houses - serve a purpose to shave away at a person's sense of dignity.
This is a gray Feburary day. And not just the skies: From the salt of winter, the "black" top is gray; the "red" brick is gray; and even the fire engine that just passed has been powdered gray. And my eyes just fell on some guy's XL men's briefs dropped on the asphalt...they too are gray.

Nobody opens a laundromat because they love to help people get clean clothes. They open laundromats to make money without having to work. There is no wi-fi; there are not even power outlets. This dispatch is being typed only after I scoured the place for an outlet. (This is a skill I've developed with nearly 20 years of event work.) They tried to hide the power outlet near the ceiling, so my laptop is presently being fueled from a heavenward cord.

And folks in laundromats are not pretty. We're all here in various states of desperation and frustration. And we're all dressed rather poorly. It's not like singles troll for love in laundromats - unless one is on a college campus - as these folks are in a destitute demographic. What's odd is the mechanical silence; nobody talks. It's hard to strike up a conversation while carrying your fudge-striped undies across the room.

My re-entry home from the Czech Republic has been less than celebratory.

My poor wife had been stranded by me with a case of bronchitis and a car that would not start in near-zero temperatures. My plan to attend the Cyclocrossworld.com party was aborted after we learned our 13-year-old daughter, Emmy, had been fending off a 39-year-old online stalker in a virtual reality site called There.com. We got the police involved and spent 90 minutes in the station.

I got the car started but the washing machine broke. Even my day today started with Ginger, our dog, barfing on the rug. Eeesh...

And for added fun I had a disciplinary hearing for my job at Best Buddies International to discuss my "behavior." I cannot discuss the details due to confidentiality but it did reveal that somebody in my work environment simply did not like me.

I've never experienced such a thing; why would they not like ME?

Again, I deserve this. The Czech Republic - where EVERYBODY liked me and the cars worked and the laundry was done - is simply not real.

So I got through that, enjoyed a great event that I helped plan for Thursday night but I missed Madison's pinewood derby due to my poor aptitude in scheduling. And then after some bouncing about Friday for work, I find myself here in the Lexington Laundry Village. The new car battery and the washing machine fix should just about wipe out our checking account.

So this blog of mine was sparked to life to write about a trip to the 'cross worlds. But the true impetus of this blog came as a result of the incessant talking to myself while living by bike.

Heretofore, we'll move on to those observations.

I'll try to spice it up, from here, you know, write about sex or something. Thanks for reading.

Racing Day 2: Giants to Midgets

Tabor Day 4
Race Day 2

From Giants to Midgets

PRAGUE, Czech Republic (Jan. 31, 2010) - "Hey, pssst, pssst....You want a Japanese midget in a cage?"

We had walked by about a dozen guys hawking sex workers and strippers as we walked through Prague Center with about a dozen Americans, looking like good targets for these guys. But I have to admit the offer of a Japanese midget in a cage caught my ear.
"What?" we collectively asked.
"Japanese midget in a cage," he repeated. "You can kick it."
As if that would whet my appetite for this product more.
We kept walking totally confused.
It had been the strangest, most comical cherry on top of a sundae of extravagant experiences during the weekend. Witnessing perhaps the great 'cross event of my life had me on a high. This whole midget thing kind of popped that bubble.
I arrived at the venue for the big day, the elite women followed by the elite men. I emptied out of the van driven by Beat Wabel, the Swiss star who won the World Champion in Munich more than 20 years ago.
I must admit to being nervous, but eager, to announce for the giants of this sport that I love.
After checking in to the office, I started the process of preparing for the call-ups, updating research, and codifying each rider's palmares into a few key symbols, letters and numbers. At 8:40 a.m. I heard the music come up. Frank, our sound guy, obviously had arrived. A pleasant fellow, he had been cut from the cloth seemingly used to make all sound guys. Long hair, beard, and bags under his eyes from working late nights in clubs. And they tend to prefer hair band music. I opened the office door to hear "I'm looking for the hotty with the million dollar body...." He would play Nickelback and Bon Jovi all morning while I worked, repeating about four songs over and over and over.

I've learned to simply let sound guys be sound guys. With Frank alone in the booth I stepped in reviewed the music I had prepared for the day. I asked to push the music up to its highest level. He did. I put a piece of blue tape on the mixer at that level and instructed him to push it there when I gave the cue. I returned to the office for my work. Then on came Jindrich. Mornings with Jindrich had become something a kin to visiting Treblinka.....A monotone, authoritative voice instructing the prisoners "Work will set you free." The entire Soviet bloc housing surrounding us kinda just creeeped me out at first. Then I came to recognize that Jindrich was simply being the pro announcer; he was reading the PA tags. So we got it down. He read the sponsor tags; I read the sponsor tags. He re-capped the Saturday races; I re-capped the Saturday races. He did the pre-race line up; I did the pre-race line up.

We had about 90 minutes until the start and I had everything in place. So I ran up to the town to take money out of a bank machine. I streamed back in to venue with spectators. They poured in jangling with bells; fluttering with flags; honking with horns; and banging on drums. The whole place converged with a buzz.

Upon my return we went right into the show. Laura Van Gilder had confessed to being nervous on this snow and ice. Katerina Nash was visibly tense, with all the Czech Republic expecting a win. The event is truly stunning for those of used to being a modest fringe sport. In the Czech Republic, 'cross - and not just cycling, but cyclo-cross - is truly a big time sport. The crowds paraded into the venue with huge Katerina Nash banners and Zdenek Stybar photos.
I spent several weeks preparing for this moment, studying results, watching Sporza, and researching rider bios. The junior and under-23 categories were a bit tough to work as there is very little material on them to study. But for this day I had prepared for months, if not years.

And then it's there.

"Elite women, report to staging!"
Thankfully Frank had figured out the gig by now. He drove up the music and the crowds, like iron filings to a magnet, drew towards the staging area. There is nothing in my opinion quite like the start of a big 'cross race. Mechanics, soigneurs, officials, riders, coaches, and media all converge into this one location. For a November New England race the start line can get mighty crowded. For the world championships it is an amazing crush of people.
We lined em up, got em off, and went to work on the call. In the first-lap traffic, Katerina tumbled hard. She leapt back up but the Orange Line had left the station: Marianne Vos, Daphny Van Den Brand and Sanne Van Paasen were gone. Across came Hanka Kupfernagel. Katie Compton, sadly, went right out the back with her legs knotted in cramps. Truly a tragic story of sport.
Katerina, drawing on the support of the crowd, came back up to Van Passen and moved into fourth. But every time she challenged Van Den Brand for third she would bobble or dab or fall. She clearly rode as strongly as any body in that race, but 'cross is a game of mistakes, mishaps and mechanicals. And while Marianne Vos danced about cleanly on this course, Nash simply had too many demerits that day.
Vos won ahead of Kupfernagel and Van Den Brand. Jindrich and I knocked out the podium. I had my own bobble there but nobody noticed.
During the break I made my way down to the concession stand. I bought three T-shirts, two mugs and a pack of stickers. I handed the guy 2,000 Czech Krona, expecting him to ask for more. He gave me 1,300 back. I had gotten all that stuff for about $8. In hindsight, I wish I had bought the entire lot of stuff! I could have sold it all in a day back home.
I got some lunch, checked in on the dancing at the beer tent, saw the Cross Crusade boys, and then made my way back to the office.
So here's a confession. I really do not think I'm all that good of an announcer. I don't have a great voice. I don't show up with reams and reams of research on riders. I don't study websites and magazines every day. And quite honestly I don't spend all that much time with bike riders due to my competing interests of my family and other friends. I will say this: I'm a quick study. I had spent a long time prepping for this race. Once the race is under way, an announcer pretty much sticks to the roster and adds a bit of analysis and when possible, a touch of color for spice. Many of the greatest announcers from whom I learn are NOT cycling guys but from other sports. One of the hardest things to teach is something I learned from the guy who announced Hank Aaron's record home run. He called it and then let it go. Just let it breathe. Good advice.
Part of what I have tried to do as of late is talk less, especially before the event. My Czech colleague just kept pounding on the mic before the race. I feel it creates the Charlie Brown effect; you know, the squawking horn of the teacher. Just noise and inflection but no content.
For what they would pay me to call the World championships - the flight, the hotel, the fee, the meals - I truly feel I earned it in just 17 minutes.
I truly believe less is more. Ever since I was a boy, I have loved watching great athletes in that precious hour before competition. And I try not to talk.
The lunch time band ended. I had Frank hit it hard with "The Things You Say" by Cicada. Then Jindrich did the sponsor thing, the preview thing, and then it hit me. I would be talking about 'cross in front of 35,000 people and probably 10,000 of them knew more about the subject than I.
I left the announcing booth at 1:20, with the race to start at 2 p.m. Jindrich would keep talking; Frank went back to Nickelback. I pissed about three times, ate some cookies, and then did the calculations based on the music I had given Frank.
Six minutes to go.
I had checked the sound, walked up and down the stretch. I had drilled Frank to keep the sound up high. With the final race, he got it.
Three minutes to go.
I fist bumped Frank; winked at Jindrich; and grabbed the wireless.
One minute to go.
I took a drink of water and left the booth. At 1:43, Frank pulled down the sound entirely and I gave the hard call to staging. Then Frank brought up Fat Boy Slim's "Right Here, Right Now" really hot. The place went electric.
This is where I like to let it go. I took a moment just to watch his massive crowd just move to this music. I am told they rarely have any music at European 'cross. The whole scene simply pulsed with this music and this pressurized atmosphere. I bathed in that moment. The giants all moved into the pen and the Czech official, Miroslav Janout, gave the signal. With that, I gave a brief introduction, and Frank swapped the music to the call up song. For this, I had chosen a cut by Hardfloor. I get great music from a lot of sources, including Dan Ferguson of the Bay Area, my son, Grant, Joan Hanscom, and continue to use stuff from the best sound guy I ever had, the late John Pavlat. Living in the world's largest college town, Boston, also helps. But this cut came from one of my best sources, Merlyn Townley, the ace mechanic. He has great access to the trance scene which I use a lot.
With that thumping, I took a breath, then earned it. I would call all 66 riders to the line, starting with Zdenek Stybar and ending with Pekatch Dror of Israel. The names were Flemish, Czech, Dutch, Italian, Spanish, Basque, Hungarian, Japanese and even Mongolian. And the announcer cannot stop to read. I learned from Larry Longo how to codify all the palmares, the career highlights, in tiny symbols next to the rider's names. It looks like cuneiform at first glance. For example, next to Stybar was "WC2xu23cz." That means World Cup winner, two-time Under23 World Champion, current Czech national champion. Those symbols were next to about 25 names. The others, sadly, only get their number, name, and country called.
Once staged, I cram along the fence to return to the front of field, stopping to tell Jonathan Page that I would talk to him in one hour on the podium. He smiled.

After the crowd work, clearing the media, I have to shut up for the final, wonderful, 30 seconds.
"They're off, they're, they're off!!!!

With that, Frank tapped the deck for The Hives "Hate to Say I Told You So." Giving this song to Frank could be akin to giving cocaine to a lab rat. He would play that about six times during the race. I kind of liked that.
After the start, Jindrich took the first half lap. And he totally pinned it. The locals said they never heard him so excited.
The race was nothing less than brilliant. Stybar led early. Then went into the second pit with a flat. He would emerge with a new bike in 12th. From there, the Czech team went to work. Radomir Simunek, the son of the Czech legend of the same name, went to the front and kept the Belgians in check. He went just hard enough to keep them from attacking. Martin Zlamalik drifted back to help pace Stybar back up to the front. Martin Bina lingered at the back of the lead group, paying attention to the Belgians in front and looking for Stybar coming back from behind. The Belgians all rode as individuals. And why not? They are each millionaire athletes with web sites, contracts, fan clubs, and clothing lines. The Czechs all rode for Stybar. The friendly Swiss star Christian Heule, who raced in the states in September, went to the front and led for two laps. But then Stybar, in two big moves, returned to the front. Simunek had done his work and he faded. Stybar surged. Despite a few mishaps, he just pulled away leaving Klaas Vanternout and Sven Nys in his wake. Up to them came Martin Bina. French rider Francis Mourey - like the entire French team that weekend - rode brilliantly but stayed out of the bar fight between the Belgians and the Czechs. To the thrill of the crowd, Stybar rode to a solo win. Vanternout rolled off to finish second. And the legendary Nys, with a reputation for his acrobatics, stumbled, bumbled and tumbled on the course. He and Bina swappped savage attacks and counter attacks on the final lap and brought the fight to the pavement with Nys winning the sprint.
The crowds went bananas for their beloved "Stee-bee". The cameras could not see him through all the massive flags on the finishing stretch. I let Jindrich take the finish call completely in Czech. He went three minutes HARD on the mic. It was great.
Podium. Anthem. Done.
Done.

Three months of excitement and preparation and anticipation...Done.
I had a few beers in the beer tent and returned to the office. It's a massive void after something so big. I texted home that I was done. From there I had some final fireworks ahead. Dinner with the Americans in Prague.
We found our way to Bruce Fina's car and piled in. From there we drove to the American team hotel in Tabor. We exchanged the post race pleasantries, sympathy for Katie Compton, empathy for Laura Van Gilder, wounded in an icy scrape of a crash, and installed pillars of suport for a number of young riders accustomed to podium finishes back home. The elites had out performed the junior and Under-23 riders. Meredith Miller would be the highest placed American with her 12th in the women's event. Amy Dombroski (14th) and Mo Bruno Roy (25th) put three Americans in the top 25. The elite men were sold with three riders in the top 30: Tim Johnson in 14th, Jamey Driscoll in 19th,and Jonathan Page in 30th.
From there we whisked our selves to my hotel; Dan and I packed out. And we drove to Prague in two vehicles. The winter darkness closed in around us. After an unremarkable drive on the autopista we dropped into Prague. The darkness obscured the geography. Initially the city unfurled as any other European capital. We arrived at the Hotel Perla and dropped our bags off. Then the group gathered for a walk to dinner. Around one corner the city's charm simply cracked open like an oyster laden with pearls. Every building led to another amazing building to another amazing street. All the Americans, with Dan, a Brit, and Joachim Parbo, the Dane, in tow, filled into a room. We must have been 20 strong. The food of the Czech Republic is unremarkable. But the beer flowed and there were toasts all night.
And walking home through Old Town we were besieged by the flyer-wielding guys offering strippers and sex workers and such. That included the Japanese midget in the cage...we collectively realized he may have mixed up "kiss" and "lick" to arrive at "kick". Hoping that would move us to learn more. I could not fathom there would be sufficient demand for a Japanese midget in a cage ... let alone the even more demand subgroup of the demographic looking to kick it.
We laughed for blocks until arriving at home.
I shared a rooom with Dan. The were two beds, shoved together, but we were so exhausted we did not complain. As I lay in bed, with a full wall mirror in this classic European hotel room and this classic European city, I came to realize how much I had missed my wife who was to have come along but we failed on the money end to make it happen. The "North Bend" debacle in concert with the lack of a bonus conspired against us.
I passed into a coma.
In the morning I awoke for breakfast and joined Joachim Parbo for breakfast. Bruce, Joan and Dan joined. Then Dan and I hit out for a two-hour whirlwind tour of Prague. Having been to Paris, London, Barcelona, Madrid, Brussels, and other cities in Europe, I can say Prague tops them all for stunning architecture.
As we ripped back for the cab to the airport, I could not help notice that the same guys were still out putting leaflets into people's hands. Only now they were hawking classical music and opera.
I headed home feeling as if I had been gone a month. The flight home is never as remarkable and as electrifying as the flight away. Especially to Europe.
Thanks for reading.
The last day had started with giants and had ended with midgets. To what I would return I could not say.

Racing Day 1

Tabor Day 3

Race Day 1

TABOR, Czech Republic (Jan. 30,2010) - To date my experience in the Czech Republic had been beneath slate gray skies, witnessing a population that had surrendered to their surroundings. For days they had chipped and brushed and shoveled at the snow with about as much resolve as one could muster for factory work.
For Saturday's racing, however, blue skies blessed this stark place. The race venue, seemingly touched by overnight elves, has become a tiny Mardi Gras amid this Soviet Bloc Lego-esque architecture. Inflatable arches, banners, and most imporantly fantastic people dressed far more wildly than any NFL fans I had seen to date.
The tramped into the venue in pods of four to 20 members, all dressed in costume with bells, flags, horns, and face paint.
The Belgians opened the beer tent at 8 a.m.
I had some work left to do, so I cracked into the tasque. Final research and study on the riders. The juniors are always the hardest because every year we get a new crate of puppies with very little history. These guys do not have websites or fan clubs or Wikipedia entries yet. The pre race favorite was the World cup winner David Van Der Poel, son of Adri the Great. The orange crush, the Dutch had a powerful squad with three riders on the front row.
With the start at 11, we started to announce at 10. Jindrich just wound up like Czech Diesel and started talking. He's quite fabulous. I had no idea just what he was saying, but he would go on for three minutes and then throw it to me. Once I just said "Yeah, what he said." And shut off the microphone and winked at him. The Americans in the stands laughed.
I liked seeing David Miller and Andy Taos in the stands having so much fun.
I had worked really hard on the music and had it going. Frank had a tough job. Before Jindrich would talk he would turn to Frank and say (and this my guess) "OK I'm about to talk, turn the music off."
These guys have no music going when they announce.

So I had to really push to keep it on.
But when it came time for call-up, the deal was that I would be the only voice. So I prepared Frank well. There would be the trademark hard call to staging and then boom. Loud music. I walked down the finish stretch the start stage. And despite all the horns and costumes and the bells, this crowd proved to be really tame compared to the "Chips and Dips" of New Jersey or the Hot Tubbers of Portland. I actually had to demonstrate how to bang on the fence panels.
The call-up is super technical with every rider having his bike checked, tires measured, and number (buried beneath a coat) verified. I could not go slow enough. I suppose it did not help that only one of the five officials had a start list.

In this time I hope have the music just pounding but Frank, like a nervous teen-ager with his dad's Corvette, simply would not step on it.
The race finally got off (on time for the television guys, mind you) and then I just parked in the booth and worked with Jindrich. He's quite good. We sat in a small, metal hut at the finish line and just watched television. I suppose it's OK. But if I get the nod to do it in Louisville (I'll write on that later), I'll be watching live and leaving another fellow in the TV booth.
The juniors race proved fantastic with Tomas Paprstka (try saying that three-times fast) pounding away from the Dutchies and Belgians. Only Julian Alaphilippe of France - in his rookie season of racing 'cross - could claw his way to the leader on the final lap. Just about everybody had hit the deck on the ice and the snow. The crashes were either ridiculous Chevy Chase scenes or fantastically fast wipe outs. In a sprint finish, the Czech kid took it by a wheel and the place exploded.
After the first race and ceremony the entire crowd just pounded down to the beer tents where they had this fantastic Beatles tribute band. Just solid good fun with all the Czech's dancing and celebrating.
I returned up top, fixed an electrical problem, prepared for the Under 23 event. For these boys, the sun had shone for a few hours and the course transformed from snow and ice into slush and mud, like fudgecicles on a sunny day.
The undeniable favorite would be Thomas Meeusen of Belgium, winner of the World Cup series and two of those races in the series. He had chosen to compete in the elite division for the Belgian title instead of his own category and scored a stunning third place. Alas, the Belgians are not machines.
A different Belgian, Gianni Vermeersch, opened with a huge blast. But Pawel Sczepaniak (say that one, over and over) charged away with Marek Konwa, both of Poland, surged ahead. Then from the third row came the other Sczepaniak brother, Kacper. It became Polska, Polska and Polska in 1-2-3. Meeusen, who had been billed as the most acrobatic of all the racers we would see that weekend, flopped about a like a trout on the dock. He had a few shining laps but each effort would fade. With four to go I saw his chin on his chest and realized he would not be world champion. Konwa faded, the Sczepaniaks surged to finish 1-2, the first time in 'cross worlds history that brothers finished together. An amazing effort by French rider Arnaud Jouffroy, who pounded from sixth to third in the final two laps, rounded out the podium. Of note, no Belgians had touched the podium after two races. And the Americans had dissolved entirely, not getting even close to the top 10 in either race.
Afterwards I milled about, watcing the Poles dancing and drinking. I had a beer with the Keoughs, truly one of the nicest people in all of 'cross, and then returned to the office. Dinner again with Simon and Dan at the same restaurant. And then bed. Dullsville, eh?
But I did make plans for Prague the following night.

Tomorrow the elite and Prague.

Of note is how excited people are to learn that Worlds will be in Kentucky in 2013. I have enormous respect and affection for Bruce Fina and Joan Hanscom and will do all I can for them. I will blog on that in the coming days.

Thanks for reading.

Places, Everybody

Places, Everybody

TABOR, Czech Republic (Jan. 29, 2010) - So in the interest of the readers I'm going to keep this dispatch short. Frankly I'm embarrassed with the length of my blogs as of late. Rather dreary travel logs will lose you by the time we hit race days.
Friday would be a fascinating day for me but not much to read about. I awoke early, enjoyed the breakfast, and then hitched a ride to the venue to arrive at 8 a.m.
Once there I found a course buried in snow. While I never saw an effort to match the construction of the Great Pyramids, I never failed to see a local with a shovel moving snow.
Arriving for a 9 a.m. meeting, I tramped around on what I deemed a completely unrideable course. The whole place had been covered with 6 inches of snow. Turns had been pressed into blocks of ice. But everywhere the locals were shoveling, brushing, scraping, chipping, and working on the venue. This meant for both spectators and riders.
And touring the beer tents and VIP tents, I felt the approach of an army.
At 9 a.m. I headed into the meeting and came face to face with my announcing colleague, Jindrich Pulman. He spoke not a word of English. But he had been announcing 'cross races in Czech since 1972. Friendly, with a powerful voice, Jindrich would counter my English with his Czech.
We both would rely on a woman named Susanna, who spoke German (?), as our production assistant. Our sound guy was Frank, a pony-tailed fellow drawn straight from a Simpson's episode. Frank spoke a bit of English and I could feel his urge to just play Guns and Roses real loud.
We held a formal rehearsal, complete with podium girls and music and sound, to review the awards ceremony precisely as scripted by the UCI. This suddenly revealed to me just how far over my head I had wandered. We would bounce from Czech to English back and forth with presenters and flowers and anthems and dignitaries.
But after four runs, we had it nailed.
From there I had some time to burn music for Frank before I had a starting meeting with the chief commissaire, Martin Swinkjels of the Netherlands. This guy had found the perfect balance between being placid and authoritative. one simply did not question anything he ordered. We reviewed the starting call-up protocol. This really frightened me as I would do the entire call up solo in English. That means I alone would butcher names in Flemish, Spanish, Italian, Mongolian (no shit), Japanes and assorted Slavic dialects.
Afterwards I burned music, chatted with riders, and did research, research and research on riders I did not know.
At nightfall, I returned to the hotel with the officials and then joined Simon Burney and Dan Ellmore. I had gained a friendship with these guys during the U.S.G.P. These Brits have become two of the biggest advocates of US 'cross.Their Schlamm clothing line has been a hit with our crew and I can personally thank Simon for this gig. Hence we dined in Tabor Center, the three of us whacking our melons on the low arches in the old place. And owing so much to Simon, I picked up the tab. Now that is newsworthy.
Not much of a day. But I braced myself for the racing to come.
Thanks for reading.

Meating New Friends; Adapters, Beer and More Stinky Cheese

Prague-Tabor

Meating Some New Friends

TABOR, Czech Republic (Jan. 28, 2010) - Touchdown at Prague to find nobody there to even give a shit about stamping my passport. One just walks into this country!

The doors parted to reveal that reception line of drivers all holding name cards. I must confess to secretly hoping I would finally have a person there with my name on the card. It's kinda like being chosen on Let's Make a Deal."
Instead I found a delightful young czech lady, Teresa, holding a CX World's poster. I was one of several being chosen on that day.

She was pleasant enough but we had to wait 30 minutes for the car due to some snow. I marched around in search of the elusive adapter to no avail. Instead I hit a bank machine and pulled out 500 Czech Krona. Beats the shit out of me how much money I had in my hands. So I made it over to the Starbucks, where everybody seemed delighted to speak English and got a tall coffee for just under 100 CK. Hence I realized that I had pulled out about $10.

I returned to the rendezvous where we met up the UCI Press Officer, a Swiss gentleman named Ricco. We were escorted to a bright yellow Hyundai van where we were introduced to a gentleman whose name spilled out of his mouth like a pile of so much loose change, just consonants everywhere.

I hopped into the back with Ricco only to have Teresa shut the door and return to the airport. This left me and Ricco awkwardly in the back. And we were off for a drive through the snowy grit on the outskirts of Prague without ever seeing a single spire of the great Prague architecture. Within 10 minutes we found ourselves on white rolling plains that might as well have been Pennsylvania. Actually the similarities between the Czech Republic and Pa are noteworthy.

Always looking to make conversation, I asked our driver, a weathered man appearing to be in his late 50s, just what had changed since the fall of Communism more than 20 years earlier....He tilted his head and raised a nostril and held up the palm of his right hand......

In this vaccuum of time I studied all the billboards for car ads, storefronts, and a new glass buildings with Accenture's corporate logo in lights.
"No-thing really," he said.

And returned to driving.
About 30 minutes passed with some chatter between Ricco and I before I asked our driver for which food is the Czech Republic known. Although he had a good command of English the question confused him.
Ricco, who could speak about four languages well, helped me out by asking "Specialty....Food...Czech Republica."

You see, crossing into different languages can some times be like using Google. You just plug different words into the search engine without a whole lot of concern for prepositions, tense, form, etc. And then you see what you get.

"Ahhhh..." the driver said, again the nostril and the chin and the palm came up.

In that vaccuum I saw assorted pizza delivery trucks roll by and some KFC billboards.

"MEAT....ya...MEAT."

Half expecting something such as Paella, I returned to the window. Nearly two hours after leaving Prague we rumbled off the Autopista and within a few turns were in Tabor. Having been told of this town's stark existence, I found the Hotel Dvorak to be a stunning venue. I would stay in a building that once housed a brewery, anchored by a tower that has to be at least 500 years old.
I dumped my bags into Room 103, spending a few minutes to familiarize myself with the light buttons and plumbing fixtures and closets. Foreign travel is great for just shaking up your senses.
Then I hit out on to the streets, hoping to find an adapter for my plugs.
"Everybody speaks English," I had been told. To that point, Teresa, the Starbucks crew, and the driver were practically fluent in English. With that confidence I stomped up the narrow cobbled streets, bathed in the fantastic, compact architecture of this town that once sparked the Hussite Revolution. The buildings, dating back to the 1200s were simply too fantastic to describe. I shall need to post photos.
I found my way to a "Billa" supermarket. After trying to find an adapter, I found a staffer...No English. The next one; no English.
Nobody spoke English....Not a bit.
I found a young lady who said, frightened, "a leetle bit." So I wound up the search engine.
"Adapter....Electronik"?
"Ah....there left 200 meters"
Fantastic!
I made it to the smallstore and went through the same pantomine with a clerk. "Ahhh!" She climbed a ladder and found one. The cost? About $6.
With that I sucked in the town, stopping at some store fronts, one of which was a tribute to Milos Fisera, a Tabor rider who won the worlds in 1982.
I returned to the Billa and grabbed four different varieties of beer and some fantastic smelly cheese, crackers and water. Total? About $8.
At this point the text went off. Melanie Leveau, my liaison, invited me to the World Cup award ceremony. She told me to be in the lobby at 7.
OK.
I returned, drained a Pilsner Urquell, used my Starbucks card as a knife on cheese, and then made the lobby. There I found a handful of people waiting for rides. I can pick out UCI people a mile away. But through the din of Czech, Flemish, Dutch, French and German, I heard an American voice. I chirped my way into a mini-van with about eight others and found myself next to the American. He was Mike Plante, the man who promoted the Tour DuPont and has guided much of the development of American professional cycling. This would be the first of many great contacts made.
We arrived to the race venue. True to reports, this venue is situated amidst stark Soviet Bloc apartments. In Arctic conditions, we crunched across the snow and down a metal staircase to a massive VIP tent. Finding this was like reaching a Mandan village along the Missouri in January, 1802. We entered the blank white tent to a blast of warmth and glowing light. The 10,000 square foot tent had hard wood floors, plants, linens, tables, a massive buffet a man greeting us with champagne in flutes. Fantastic.
As I processed through I found Simon Burney, the tall, smiling Brit who wrote the book that guided much of the development of cyclo-cross in English speaking nations.
"Let's get you a seat up front," he said.
I met Melanie finally and Peter van den Abeele, who hired me for this gig. "Are you ready to be the presenter tonight?" said Peter.
"Uhhh......What?" I replied.
Melanie nodded along with the joke.
Finally I drained my champagne and said, "Four more of these and I will be ready."
I sat in the second row, behind the riders who would be honored.
The curious thing about great cyclists is that unlike American pro athletes are typically massive specimens, cyclists in street clothes make a modest impression. Then the who's who started with Simon quizzing me. Adri Van Der Poele, Beat Wabel, Danny De Bie...all legends...milled about. Then the ceremony started. The junior world cup podium was great as it featured the winner, David Van Der Poel, who is the son of Adri. What shocked me was to learn he was the grandson of Raymond Poulidor!
with each podium I got to learn about the riders and study their mannerisms. One can see why Niels Albert can be seen as arrogant. And how Sven Nys is such a popular man. The three "Dutchie" women, Van Paasen, Vos and Van Den Brand were splendidly understated. But the electricity of the night and of that room crackled around one man, Zdenek Stybar, who won the World Cup. This young Czech star has to be one of the most handsome men I've ever seen.
After the presentation, I ate some rabbit, some ham, some thing else, and something else!

All wonderful. And finally, I got to bed and slept like the dead.

Thanks for reading. Later I hope to post the story from the first day at the venue.

Trains, Planes and Automobiles: DC-Boston-Zurich-Prague

Trains, buses, planes, trains, buses, car and beyond…

WASHINGTON, DC (Jan. 27, 2010; 4:57 a.m.) - I have had this date circled for a long time. Tonight I’ll be off to Prague. I’m sitting in the Liaison Hotel lobby waiting for the Metro to get running and the Starbucks to open for business. Then it’s off to BWI and then home and then back to Logan for tonight’s flight.

Since yesterday’s blog posting I’ve received some really nice comments. Thanks for all the support. Just so folks know, I’ve scraped together enough pocket dough to survive until payday. My lone piece of advice from years of doing this is to travel with a water bottle at all times.

Seriously, people have been wonderfully kind and supportive of me. Too often, folks find funny ways to be mean or mean ways to be funny whenever folks have great opportunities. Typically those folks are hurting inside. I’ve not heard any of that.

We had an amazing event last night at Gallaudet University. Today Best Buddies and Special Olympics delegates will surge on to Capitol Hill to urge Congress to support the Eunice Kennedy Shriver Act. Last night served as a pep rally of sorts.

But I awoke at 4 a.m. and started the transition to my passion for cyclo-cross and cycling. But I also have this enormous passion for travel. At its basic form, cycling is transit. Any person who has endured a trip alongside of me knows how attentive I am to transportation infrastructure and culture.

Americans are infatuated with the “middle” transit: primarily the airplane or the automobile. But the first and last few miles are what truly intrigue me. I have used mass transit all over the place, including once figuring out the bus system of Managua, Nicaragua. In 2004 when I went to Europe five times for OLN, I managed to turn in a $42 expense report which covered transit from Geneva to Sion to cover the Tour of Romandy. They were confused by the report because most of their on-air talent routinely turned in hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars in cost to renting cars, fueling cars, parking cars, insuring cars, using taxis, etc. I just walked off a train and found the hotel.

Although a strong advocate for bicycles – especially in cities – I feel that bikes work best when augmented with great mass transit. I get somewhat frustrated when cycling mags heap a ton of praise on communities that are isolated as being so bike friendly. To truly be bike friendly communities need to have a lot of intermodal options that enable people to actually get where they “need” to go, not just “want” to go. Of note is that even though Boston is routinely shat upon as not being that bike friendly, it has a higher cycling usage rate than a lot of so-called bike friendly communities. Why? For starters it is the world’s largest college town. Boston also has a compact design that pre-dates automobiles. But a major reason is that Boston has some of the best mass transit in America.

So here is my trip log for Jan. 27-28, 2010!

So let’s start with Washington DC.

This is one of the greatest transportation cities in America. And they have some amazing bike facilities thanks to the hard work of the group WABA. But during a walk home with my colleague Hilary, she described witnessing a car smack a cyclist the day before. And two years prior she saw a cyclist killed when struck by a car.

DC has great bike lanes, rail trails, tow paths and bike specific paths. Although I personally love to ride in this city, I find it somewhat daunting at night. The roads are super wide. One would think that could make it safer for cycling. But the opposite is true. Wide roads encourage drivers to speed. I thought of this while walking with Hilary. Narrow roads choke the speed down below 30 mph. In DC I saw a lot of cars screaming by at 50-plus mph. And with a ton of out-of-towners driving in the District, there are some truly bone-headed moves being pulled.

But the city is a great walking city. I emerged from the Hotel Liaison at 6 a.m., turned right, turned right again and walked two blocks to Union Station, a magnificent temple to American rail. One can get Amtrak, Maryland Area Rail Commuter lines, or the Metro subway. I took the Metro for about $2.30, changed lines at Fort Totten, and took the green line to Greenbelt. There I waited for the B30 Metrobus to the Baltimore-Washington International. While waiting I discovered a bank of about 14 bike lockers at the bus stations. These are the fully enclosed, weatherproofed bike lockers. They’re all being used. Once on the bus, I had an enjoyable 35-minute bus ride to BWI. My tickets to BWI cost half of the rate charged to Ronald Reagan Airport in the District. But Reagan (aka DCA is the only airport in America to which you can ride your bike entirely.

At BWI I hopped Jet Blue to Boston’s Logan Airport (another airport to which one can ride provided one uses the MBTA Blue Line to get to the airport ring road).

Then I land at Logan. From there, I use the newly developed Silver Line, which connects to the Red Line. I take that to Alewife, where I connect with the 62 bus to Lexington Center. I have ridden my bike to Alewife, where they have pretty good bike lockers for the thousands of commuters who pedal down the Minuteman Rail Trail to Alewife Station, especially in the warmer season.

From home, I swapped bags and got some much needed time with my wife and family before departing again. I arrived home about noon and would have to leave again at 7 p.m.

By nature traveling is an anxious experience. I try extra hard to keep that anxiety at bay. Here I am about to leave for five days and I am short-tempered with Grant, my wonderful 15-year-old son who has just worked so hard to salvage his grades. He's brilliant but fell behind on homework. The make up process required an arduous 3 week effort. I felt bad.

I look forward to more travels with him. He's become a best friend.

Deb drives me to Alewife. It's a painful separation as too much of my marriage to this wonderful woman has been saying good by at this subway station.

Then it's back to red line, silver line and Logan Airport.

I climb on board Swiss Air 73 without much fanfare. I LOVE the European flights. I got good at them in 2004 when I did a lot of work in Europe with OLN. I settle in and we get airborne. Out comes the cart, two mini-bottles of wine, a Benadryl, dinner, and I watch The Matrix from the beginning (which I had never seen). After 20 minutes of that I am out.

I awoke to sunlight in the cabin. I had piled on a solid 5 hours of sleep thanks to an eye mask, neck pillow, and my wife's Christmas present, a pair of Sony Noise Canceling head phones. (By now, you get a clue as to what a jerk I am, eh?)

From there came the Zurich Airport and hunger during the transfer. I searched hopelessly for an American-Czech electrical adapter. I boarded the flight frustrated and afraid that I could not bore people with blogs and insult Eastern Europeans with my music without that adapter.

After a brief flight I touched down in Prague. We'll pick it up there next.

Thanks for reading. Tabor is next.