The Other Woman Has Two Wheels

Because I'm very busy this week laying around on the couch while I try to keep cookie crumbs and wine stains out of the pages of the books I'm reading, I'm going to reprint an oldie but (hopefully) a goodie - one of the first essays I ever had published. This piece first appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle on Feb 25 2006 and is responsible for my delusion that I have something compelling to say in print. Wishing you all a relaxing week and, as they say in Germany, a good push into the New Year!

My husband has a French mistress, and she is a beauty to behold -- a Look 585 road bike. Silver and black and weighing only 16 pounds, she was built for speed in a way I never will be. 

Andrew's affection for her is evident whenever he recounts, misty-eyed, their adventures on his Saturday group ride, and he is forever shopping for little gifts -- new tires, a jersey for himself that complements her coloring -- to show her how much he cares. 

It wasn't always this way. When we met in graduate school in Arizona he was strictly a recreational cyclist and a noncommitted one at that -- when his mountain bike was stolen from his apartment balcony, he expressed remorse but quickly moved on. 

Once we were married he began the drift into road biking, and I was an unwitting accomplice. When he took me to see my first professional road race in Philadelphia, I was captivated by the spectacle of these graceful athletes and their gleaming cycles. Soon I, too, was reading pro cycling magazines and watching the Tour de France while Andrew explained tactics and strategies to me. But his relationship with biking was still strictly platonic back then. 

Eight years ago we moved to the Bay Area, and that's when things got serious. With temperate weather year-round and access to some of the country's best bike routes right out our front door, he was able to indulge in his passion with new fervor. He joined a group of like-minded cyclists who have formed a support system for their biking co- dependencies. They're a competitive bunch, jealously commenting on one another's bike components and merciless when it comes to flat tires, winter flab or poor road handling. This crew has been on high e-mail alert for the past month, plotting optimal viewing spots for the Amgen Tour of California, the 700-mile race that concludes Sunday and saw some of cycling's superstars ride the same roads that the group follows every week. 

Taking care of Andrew's bikes -- the Look and her predecessor, a Belgian Ridley relegated to "rain bike" status when she arrived -- requires a phalanx of specialists. My husband spends a lot of off-bike hours perusing catalogs and visiting bike shops, searching for just the right component, tire or winter bibs. Walking into a local bike shop with him is akin to walking into Cheers with Norm. "ANDREW!" comes the cry from the bike mechanics and other shoppers. 

At one point I succumbed to the "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" mentality. It was mostly a punitive decision, made one sunny Saturday when Andrew pulled up a few minutes late from his five-hour ride. "I'm going to buy myself a bike, back in an hour," I screeched through clenched teeth as I gunned out of the driveway. It was the only way I could think of to make him understand my jealousy over the time and money he spent on Mlle. Look. 

I went to one of his favorite bike shops and uttered the words its owner longed to hear: "I want a bike, shoes, helmet and riding kit, and money is no object." They set me up with a beautiful rig and the latest-model helmet and riding shoes. My husband's jaw dropped when he saw my purchases. 

But then I had to ride the damned thing. The last time I'd sat on a bike was 15 years earlier when I lived in Germany, tooling around Munich's wide, flat bike paths on a rickety three-speed that I'd bought at a hardware store. My idea of a biking challenge back then was to ride all the way from one Biergarten to the next without sliding drunkenly off the seat. 

But where we live in the Oakland hills, a simple bike ride out the front door involves either a harrowing drop or a thigh- busting grind uphill. After a few months I'd progressed enough to take a one-hour ride and come back exhilarated -- but most of my elation came from surviving the hills and the traffic, not from having any fun the ride. When the winter rains came I put the bike away, and when spring returned, I kept finding reasons not to get on again. By July I was still giving the bike wide berth, and I had to face the facts; I just didn't love my bike, and it was time to end the relationship. 

So I put an ad on Craigslist and within a week was handing over the bike, helmet and all, to a buyer who lives out in the suburban flatlands east of Oakland. My flirtation with cycling was over. 

I do recognize all the good things that Mlle. Look brings to my relationship with my husband. He never goes out carousing at night for fear of showing weakness to his riding group. During the month of July I can count on him to be available to watch our kids anytime because he doesn't leave the house if Versus is showing anything related to Lance Armstrong. When he gets a good ride in, he shows his gratitude to me in a number of pleasing ways including, but not limited to, yard work. (Did I mention that his physique is as good as or better than when we met?) 

In the end, I found a way to make peace with Mlle. Look. Meet Mr. Toshiba. He's got a 17-inch screen, wireless access, excellent graphics and loves the caress of my typing fingers. With him I can pour out the stories that I've been meaning to write all these years, bringing me a level of satisfaction and accomplishment that is, I imagine, like completing a tough Saturday ride. 

He's the perfect companion for when Andrew's out with his French mistress, and has added the balance we need to keep our marriage rolling along.

Manly Motivation

My husband has been a serious cyclist since high school, getting more regimented about riding once we moved to northern California, where world-class cyclists train on the roads just a few miles from our house. When he first began riding with a local bike club more than ten years ago, he would come home and tell me that the guys - no women in this group - suggested he needed to lose weight, buy a new bike, and get better bike clothes if he really wanted to be any good.

"They sound awful," I'd tell him. " You don't need to go out with them again."

"Are you kidding?" he'd respond. "It was awesome. They're picking me up tomorrow morning at 5:30."

I had completely missed the point, that the secret coagulant to male bonding is a healthy dash of insult. It's what the Brits call "taking the piss" - cutting someone down to size with humor, the more sarcastic the better.

Over the past decade I've come to trust and cherish Andrew's bike buddies. Like the Marines, they never leave one of their own behind with a flat or a dropped chain, and they goad each other into achieving things they'd probably never even attempt on their own. An annual highlight is when they all ride in the Gran Fondo race in Santa Rosa, which was held last weekend. Pro cyclist Levi Leipheimer leads 6000 riders over 103 miles of gorgeous Sonoma County roads, with 8,500 feet of climbing, all of it to raise money for local charities.

I am a bad wife. Last year the house that we stayed in during the race was so nice that the other bike wives and I never left the deeply upholstered chairs around the infinity pool with a view of the vineyards to cheer on our men. So sue me.

But this year one of Andrew's cycling buddies, Paul, has the quintessential cyclist injury - broken clavicle, thanks to a SuperShuttle van that decided to use him as a hood ornament a few months back. He offered to take us to a spot where he knew the cyclists would be coming by slowly and could use some encouragement - Coleman Valley Road, which starts right next to the Pacific Ocean and seems to climb straight up to the clouds.  

I've never felt the urge to call a hill ugly before - especially not one covered in tall, golden grasses with a view of the Pacific - but this was u-g-l-y . Here's a video from last year's ride - if you skip to 4:53, that's exactly where we stood to watch the cyclists making the grueling climb. It was hot, and a bit windy, and by the time the cyclists reached us they had already gone 75 miles. Most of the riders were staring straight down at their handlebars in prayer position, appealing to whatever power would help them finish the climb. My nine year old daughter was walking uphill faster than a lot of the cyclists were riding it, and the cyclists' entreaties for her to give them a push were only half in jest. 

photo: Louisa Tallarida

I come from what I once heard actress Jamie Lee Curtis refer to as the "Good Climbing Johnny!" school of encouragement. She was deriding parents who praise everything their kid does, including how they scale a backyard jungle gym. But I figure in life I'd rather cheer some effort than sit silently by expecting greatness. So I stood roadside yelling things like "Looking strong!" and "Way to go!" and "You can do it!" Even if the riders looked like they were going to have a coronary or had been training for the previous six months by lifting meatball subs to their mouths, I at least said, "Hey, nice jersey!"

It didn't seem to do much. When I said, "Hey, you're almost there!" many of the cyclists snapped "No, I'm NOT!" and then I felt ill-informed and kind of mean.

Paul, however, knew what these men really needed to hear. "Levi is only a half-hour ahead of you! Of course, he's only riding with one leg - his bad one!" he'd yell. If they were wearing a cycling jersey with a college logo on it, he'd immediately shout "Go (whatever that college's main rival was)!" A race photographer pulled up and Paul began  to call out, "Hey, what are you complaining about, if this hill was hard they wouldn't have sent a race photographer out to take your picture here!"

That nonstop flow of insults seemed to work better than a Gu shot at kicking the rider's energy up a notch. Some even got enough of a second (third? fifth?) wind to hurl insults back at Paul. "Easy for you to say, standing there by the side of the road!" shouted the lead rider of one weary-looking bunch.

"Yup, that's me, just standing here drinking a nice cold Pepsi!" he roared, tilting back the can dramatically as condensation dripped down his hand. That whole group of overheated riders shot by, rocket-fueled by pique. Paul knew exactly what he was doing.

I can't pretend to understand the male penchant for insults-as-encouragement, but I'm sure I can emulate it. And as for you three-speed riding, flabby whiners with substandard alma maters, when you see me midway through the Coleman Valley Road climb next year, I am going to motivate you like never you've never been motivated before.

Friday's Music Moment - The Funeral by Band of Horses

Here's a dispatch from the Department of the Glaringly Obvious: professional cyclists spend a lot of time on the bike, repetitious training rides that take hours to complete. (The Gran Fondo race up in Santa Rosa in a couple weeks that has all the MAMILs talking power gels and bike shorts and training regimens? Yeah, that's a regular Tuesday training ride for its sponsor, Levi Leipheimer. Try not to get overexcited. )

All that time on the bike lends itself to listening to music, and I've found that over the years some of my best new music tip-offs have come from reading articles about what Lance Armstrong and his cohort are listening to as they train. Then there are the mountain bikers who like the thrashy stuff, and half the reason I follow the Facebook page of our friends at Eden Bicycles is because they post the titles of old school hip hop they're listening to while wrenching. The further you delve into cycling, the more ground you cover - both literally and musically speaking.

Someone once sent me a video of a trick biker on a single-speed frame doing all kinds of fancy stunts on his rig, up and down the hardscapes of the Bay Area, and this song played in the background. Its title - "The Funeral" - is really not at all the mood I'm going for when I'm waiting home on a Saturday morning for the family biker to return. But I love the contrasts in the music and the delicate guitar work. I'll be seeing Band of Horses tonight at the Greek Theater in Berkeley - and as for you guys, please try to  see the cyclists on the road this weekend.

Bike-ku

Of the many cycling mags that come through the mail slot here, my favorite has to be the UK publication Cycle Sport . They can call it Cycle Sport America, but the editorial content is grade A prime British humor (or humour, as it were.) Plus they cover riders BESIDES Lance Armstrong, so it's a dead giveaway.

Last night - somewhat belatedly - I was flipping through the Tour de France preview issue and came to the section where they profile the Favourites for the 2009 tour. And here's where their coverage really diverges from Bicycling Magazine or VeloNews: besides tour stats, analysis of vulnerabilities, and quotes from the riders themselves, they include each rider's tour prospects, in haiku.

For instance, this about 24 year old Andy Schleck, who ended up winning 2nd overall but really is built like a 12 year old girl:

Looks like a small child
Rides up mountains fast
Likes staring at girls

or this about the Manx Missile, Brit Mark Cavendish who is well known for his potty mouth:

Cav has won the stage
"Fook, is that microphone on?"
Same again next day

And the Denis Menchov haiku was so perfect that I can't even start. So before next year's tour, consider a Cycle Sport subscription. Perhaps they'll be busting out the sonnets in 2010.

Friday's Music Moment - Tour de California edition

The Tour de California wraps up this weekend and what a week it's been - rain, rain, and bit of sleet to keep things interesting. The die-hard fans are out there, of course, because despite the precipitation it's one of the best fields I've ever seen for the California stage race: Armstrong gets the headlines but Levi Leipheimer, Michael Rogers (AUS), Tom Boonen (BEL), Ivan Basso (ESP), Thor Hushovd (NOR) - it's a Tour de France field for sure.

One interesting trend in the race coverage has been that sports journalists are using the rider's Tweets as their source info. It's a great way of keeping up to date on the inner thoughts of the cyclists but...isn't the job of a journalist to synthesize information? If I want to read Lance's twitter feed, I'll follow it myself, thanks.

Andrew is, of course, one of the fanatics and braved the rain to see two stages, including the one that ended in Santa Rosa. He told me that the Astana team tent, where Lance and Levi were warming up after the race, had about 500 people gathered around including a middle aged lady screaming "I saw the back of Lance's head! I saw the back of Lance's head!" Meanwhile next door at the QuikStep tent, Belgian champion and European superstar Tom Boonen had about three people talking to him, so Andrew sauntered over for a quick chat. He asked for an autograph for the kids but Boonen said, indicating his cold-stiffened hands, "I sink it ees not possible."

In honor of the cyclists we are going old school in the music moment, both in the choice of song and the riding gear that Paul Weller and Mick Talbot are sporting in their Tour de English Countryside. Anyone want to guess why they flee in terror at the site of the dancing podium girls at the 2:50 mark? I think most bikers would stick around for that (as George Hincapie can attest.)

The Path of Least Resistance

I have about 20 topics I'd like to be posting on this week, but between the surreal feelings around my father in law's passing, getting ready to travel to the funeral, the last four days of school (half days, no less!) and getting two bedrooms painted so that the girls can finally each have their own room, there just aren't enough hours.

Hence I am taking the lazy blogger's way out and just posting a video that I found Oh So Entertaining. VeloNews is out with its big Tour de France preview issue, and leafing through it I found reference to this clip...Bjarne Riis riding for Telekom in 1997 (the year after he won) and running into what is euphemistically termed "a mechanical problem." After watching the clip you may not be surprised to learn that Riis, who now owns and manages Team CSC, admitted to doping during his 1996 Tour win, and tour officials retracted his win from the record books. Looks like he had a little agro problem, just possibly.

Also, were the announcers being paid for each use of the word "rate"?