Feedback Sports Repair Stand

Six months ago for Christmas I received the Feedback Sports Sport Mechanic Workstand.  Compared to other pricier options, the Sport Mechanic came in at $150.  Now I’m no pro when it comes to fixing bikes, in fact, I may know enough to be harmful.  Anyway, the stand has been a perfect fit.  No longer am I straining my back bending over for a repair.  And while hanging my bike off my hitch rack was convenient, the bike swayed too much and was useless in the pouring rain.  (You see, my garage, ahem shop, is so small my car and hitch rack can’t all fit).

I’m now able to replace cables, fix chains and a variety of other head scratching repairs.  The adjustable tripod legs, provide sufficient stability but I have had the rack lean on me a few times.

The height is adjustable and the arm swivels allowing me to move the bike to work at different angles.  The best thing is that the stand folds down compactly to store in the corner so I can at least fit my car in the garage.

Due to the reliability of the Sports Mechanic stand, I’m advancing into more difficult repairs and my trips to the bike shop have decreased.  If you’re in the market to be your own bike mechanic, the Feedback Sports Sport Repair Stand is the way to go.  PEDALS UP!

 

Book Review: We Were Young and Carefree by Laurent Fignon

In this autobiography, Fignon relates his experiences on and off the bike. He also tries to change how the world remembers him: not as the cyclist that lost by 8 seconds to Greg Lemond but as a cyclist that won the Tour de France twice. Through his narrative, he provides an insight into cycling before the sports over commercialization. The reader gains great insight on how cycling evolved through the 1980’s and how the dope culture overtook the sport. While Fignon admits to failing a dope control during his career, he steadfastly maintains that he was not one of the “regulars,” and attributes the fact that he had to compete against dopers as the reason for his ultimate demise in the peloton.

His work offers a deep perspective on how riders struggle to make it into the pro peloton and what occurs when a young rider develops into a team leader. The book is an easy read as Fignon does not hide his innermost thoughts and feelings. Central to his racing career was his ability to withstand pain. He proves that he was capable of enduring pain in his description of a childhood punishment in which he was the receipient of a daily belt lashing from his father: “I gritted my teeth. I didn’t make a sound. When he stopped, I looked him in the eye and said: ‘Is that it?’ Then I pulled my breeches up in silence. No tears. Not a drop of sweat on my face. I knew how to hurt.”

He takes the reader into the daring and epic rides in which a cyclist is a pedal stroke from being out of control. At times his daring failed resulting in nagging injuries that called his status as elite cyclist into question. He pulls the reader up the mountain stages and stage wins and into the resulting exuberant celebrations. But ultimately the reader sits on Fignon’s wheel during the final individual time trial stage in the 1984 Tour de France and the awkward silence that ensues when he crosses the finish line and no one has the heart to tell him he lost.

We Were Young and Carefree is book for any racer or cyclist that is intrigued by the history of the sport and wants to understand the man who will forever be known as losing the Tour by eight seconds.

Rode the Big Dam Bridge 100!

Months ago I blogged about preparing to ride my first century.  My girlfriend and I chose the Big Dam Bridge 100 to conquer our first century.  We found a training plan and started diligently following each day’s requirements, even the days that called for a hill ride that resulted in us having to use our imaginations to create “hills” in South Florida.  Then, like all mid-thirty year olds, life intervened in our training.  My father-in-law had medical complications that resulted in more time devoted to juggling kids, football practice, hospital visits and work.  Of course, cycling was the first thing to get the axe.

When he pulled through his ordeal, we were a month behind schedule and only weeks before our date with the BDB 100.  A lengthy discussion was held regarding whether we should go to Little Rock or not.  We opted for the trip as we had already placed our order for jerseys and we hold sacrosanct that you don’t wear a jersey you haven’t earned. As a concession though, we thought the 50 mile route might be better suited for our untrained legs.

It was also decided, just days before our departure, to rent bikes rather than incur the expense of traveling with our own.  Our amateur logic dictated that rented bikes would suffice for only 50 miles.

I contacted Dave at River Trail Rentals who could not guarantee two road bikes but had plenty of hybrids.  I asked him to hold 2 for us and we would decide what to ride once we arrived.

Now, we had never been to Arkansas before so we truly went blind as to riding conditions.  Upon arrival, we immediately discovered the friendliness of everyone.  Our hotel shuttle driver suggested must eat restaurants and sights.  After checking in, we set out on foot to find River Trail Rentals and to pick up our registration packets.  River Trail Rentals is not easy to find using a smart phone GPS as the phone does not recognize river trails and insisted that the shop was located under an overpass.  Once walking in every possible direction, we found the wood sided hut along the River Trail.  Dave was inside sorting through a Jenga stack of bikes.

He pulled out a Giant Cypress hybrid bike, tweaked a few spokes and said it was ready to go.  I gave it a quick spin on the trail and discovered that didn’t really shift.  He swapped that for another Giant Cypress which rattled along but was rideable.  After riding my Scott CR1 carbon fiber bike, sitting on an aluminum hybrid felt like I was pedaling my sofa.

My girlfriend ended up on a Giant TCR road bike that was a weee bit too small.  But she felt more comfortable on familiar geometry than sitting straight up on a hybrid.  She also chose to ignore the quick release tire lever that was held together by packing tape.  As we pulled away from the River Trail, we laughed at our plight.  50 miles on borrowed bikes on unfamiliar terrain with little training.

Saturday morning greeted us with blue skies and a tinge of a chill that motivated the legs to turn just a little quicker.  We joined the masses at the start area and promptly at 7:30 were on our way.  The course was great as the 2000+ riders had ample space to pedal.  The first few miles were closed to vehicles which made for plenty of room to pass slower riders, or as in my case, be passed by faster riders.

The entrance to the Big Dam Bridge resulted in some bike handling skills as the road narrowed into an extra wide sidewalk.  I found my rhythm punishing each pedal stroke as I lumbered my bike up onto the bridge.  From behind me I heard cheers and encouragement.  Of course, I imagined it was for me until I turned slightly and saw a young girl, about 11, chugging up the incline in a red cardigan.  As her legs tired, the yells increased and she was able to pedal up to the bridge.  Of course, no one can be considered a true cyclist unless they are harassed by a rude, overzealous cyclist that has a tire around his midsection as well.  As the girl in the red cardigan was passed, this 50ish old man sneered, “You’ve got to learn how to pedal in straight line.” A chorus of boos and tsk tsk resulted.

Shortly we arrived at the first rest stop.  Having skipped breakfast, I gobbled up a peanut butter square and banana.  I was about to take a deep slug of Gatorade when I retched from the smell.  Pickle juice.  I hate pickles just about more than anything else.

We pedaled on towards the next stop and eased into the routine of not having to worry about turns as everything was well-marked. Further, the police presence was impressive as every cross-road was dotted with officers and patrol cars stopping traffic to provide riders with the right of way.

During this portion of the ride, my girlfriend began complaining of left knee pain and attributed to the too small bike.  My thighs were burning on the slight uphills as I pushed my “sofa” against gravity.  The adrenaline of the first few miles were giving way to the reality that we were overweight, out of shape, and completely unprepared for this ride.

At the next rest stop, we opted to swap bikes.  While I tried desperately to figure out the shifting, she shrilled her disbelief in the riding position of the hybrid.  I immediately broke out into hysterics as I saw her riding so high.

We determined that if we were going to enjoy our time in Little Rock, we needed to turn around and opt for the 30 mile route.  Since our goal of riding 100 miles had evaporated over a month before, it didn’t make sense to ride on poorly fitted bikes.

The ride towards the finish was uneventful but scenic.  Our route took us along the Arkansas River and we seamlessly pedaled away.  We snapped photos and even caught a sun beam!

The finish line was strangely deserted when we crossed around 10:30 in the morning.  After a post ride snack and massage, we joined throngs of Razorback fans to watch the football game against Alabama.  As the day wore on, our bodies stiffened and muscles ached.  But our laughter continued and even though we failed the century, we never had more fun on 2 bikes before.

Scott Cr1 Team er … Pro

Last year I bought a new carbon fiber road bike.  I wanted a Felt, but the owner of my LBS put me on a Scott CR1 instead.  The geometry of the bike was better matched to me (at least that’s what he said.  I don’t think he wanted to put the Felt I liked together.  The only one he had on his floor was a size too big).

I immediately liked the smooth feel of the bike and how it absorbed road shock.  I had been riding some sort of aluminum Trek that I never really took to.  The Scott had me.

My Scott CR1 Team Bike.

 This bike took me through the Tour de Kota as well as Bike Virginia.  Although, during the Virginia tour, there were moments I would have been happy to leave the bike by the side of the road.

After two week-long tours in June, I took considerable time off.  When I started riding again in the fall, I noticed a crack in the frame, right along side the water cage bolt.

Crack by the bolt

I took the bike back into the shop and they promptly sent it back to Scott.  Scott was great and provided immediate feedback once they checked out the bike.  Apparently this had been a problem with the CR1 models and Scott thought it could be repaired.  However, the crack couldn’t be fixed so Scott provided me with a new frame.  They no longer had the CR Team model, so I got the CR 1 Pro model.

Scott CR1 Team

I was a bit nervous since this was all happening around the holidays and the focus for both Scott as well as the bike shop was making holiday sales, not swapping out a busted frame under warranty to an out of shape, weekend warrior cyclist.

Overall it was about a three week process and now I have this slammin’ bike. It kinda felt like I got a new bike even though I still had my old components.  The frames are exactly the same but with a different paint job.  Quite frankly, I’m a fan of black and red so I’m satisfied.

This is my steed that I will be using for the Big Dam Bridge 100.  Woo Hooo!

Big Dam Bridge 100

In searching for a century to ride, I was pointed in the direction of the Big Dam Bridge Century on September 24 in Little Rock Arkansas.  It looks incredibly interesting.  I have never been to Arkansas so this might be a great excuse to check it out.  From the map, it looks like the course follows a river and scoots around a lake.  The elevation map looks like it’s a gently rolling course with only a few climbs.  The steepest appears to be a set of climbs sandwiching the 60 mile marker.

I will have five months to prepare for it and get these legs in condition.  As a bonus, if I could be 25 pounds lighter by the time of ride, I will already feel accomplished!

Check out the map here bdb100_100_map.

Selecting the century to ride

Now that I’ve decided to ride a century, I need to find the century to ride.  Since I’m a transplant from Pittsburgh to South Florida, I do not get to experiene autumn very often, if ever.  Ideally I would love to ride a century during fall in a place where the leaves are at peak color.  Any suggestions?

Faster

My father helped me “pimp” my bike.  He bought me a light that attached to the handlebar.  But with the click of a button, I could remove it and use as a regular flashlight.  It was as large as  a family sized can of soup and ran on four “D” batteries.  Clearly I was not considering the weight factor of this additional accessory.  The first night I had it, I rode circles in our two car garage with the lights off and the door down.  I rode for hours with the alkaline charged light skimming the walls.  Occasionally, I would remove the light and explore the “little room” which was nothing but a closet that served as a mish mash of my father’s tools and sporting equipment.

After the handlebar light, my father set up a speedometer.  The face of the speedometer was about four inches in diameter.  A gray needle twitched behind the glass and hovered over the tick marks that were punctuated by a number in ten mile per hour increments.

Since we lived on a rather large hill, it was expected, if not encouraged, to see just how fast I could go.  Using the yellow fire hydrant as the start line, I stood and jumped on each pedal urging bike and gravity to work in concert.

As I roared down the street, my father cheered from the driveway as I passed, and I watched the needle rock higher and higher.  Just before the hill leveled off  I lifted my feet as the pedals  whipped furiously beneath me and gray needle crossed the number 20, before settling over 30 miles per hour.  My stomach tumbled in delight as I blew through two stop signs, completely unaware of my own mortality.

After maximum speed was reached,  I pedaled back to my anxious father, the summer heat seeming to push back against the bike.  Each pedal stroke issued new sweat that plastered my wind knotted hair against my forehead.  I gasped for air but it was so humid that I felt like I was drowning.  For a few pedaled strokes I pondered whether I should push the bike, but that felt like more energy than just suffering through the climb.  Once back at the driveway, I bleated  “Thirty” before sucking in another breath.

My mother, sitting on the front steps, elbows on her knees and cigarette dangling between two fingers, looked up and took notice.  “Oh God, Jackie.  Be careful,” she extolled before turning away to make out with her cigarette.  My dad, arms folded across his beer belly, turned to walk away, “Ok then, tomorrow try to hit forty!”

“DAD!”

The challenge was on.  Tomorrow I would go faster.

Countdown to a century

I want to a ride a century.  This year.  I’ve been saying that I want to ride a century for the past decade.  Not a metric century.  100 miles.  In fact I want to ride 105 miles in case my wireless computer isn’t calibrated correctly.

As a young girl growing up in Pittsburgh, I coveted my brother’s bike.  Since he was 7 years older than me and considerably bigger, riding it involved a delicate balance of fear and determination.  Each ride involved a running start alongside the bike with a death grip on the handlebars as I smashed onto the pedal vault myself  onto the seat.  Needless to say, the bike would sway to and fro until I could center its gravity.  I could sit on the seat but my feet didn’t reach the pedals, so to turn the cranks, my only option was to stand and pedal with the nose of the seat poking me in my back.

Finally, after watching too many near misses as the bike crazily jumped along the pavement while I tried to steer, my father took me to the local department store and bought me my own bike.  She was powder blue with a white saddle.  “Blue Angel” was set in script along the chain guard.  The blue banana seat was adorned with clouds. Summer days were spent riding the course my mother carefully laid out: from the fire hydrant at the top of the hill to the second stop sign on the street behind ours.  Within the confines of that those landmarks, I began to dream of actually riding far to someplace other than the fire hydrant or stop sign.