Fun With Graphics

© Clif Wright

Tales of the Tag a Long

My number one cycling partner, Henry, and I have been rocking the tag a long bike as of late. Now that’s a fun way to spend an afternoon. We spun it around Austin for the first time a few weeks back and the quote of the day was, “Dad, how come everybody’s smiling at us?” Nice.

Alison dolled us up for the Hyde Park Fire Station’s Halloween Parade and Festival and Henry took home first prize in the Best Wheels category. Sweet.

Last week we were up in the Texas Cross Timbers and hit the Lake Mineral Wells State Trailway for a sixteen mile day of mellow crushed gravel. We sighted a number of deer and a flock of turkeys along the way and Henry had his first bout of saddle soreness. Just a tinge but it made his father smile just the same. Get used to it boy. Arriving back at the ranch we spotted a bald eagle sitting in the top of an old cottonwood tree above the lower lake. A first for us in this area. Yes.

Happy Thanksgiving

Well, the Thanksgiving holiday weekend is coming to a close but, before it does, I’d like to give thanks… I’m thankful for not hearing “Go Lance” or “Say Hi to Lance” or “Faster, Lance” yelled by a passing motorist in the last three times I’ve hit the road.

And you thought we were lucky to share the city with Mellow Johnny…

"Go lance."

And my response...

Hard Men with Soft Bellies of Cycling’s Past

Henri Pépin

Henri Pépin. Hard Man with a Soft Belly.

In the early days, like now, the Tour de France was an event for hard men. In many ways, perhaps harder than now. Stages were longer, upwards of 300 kilometers, surpassing 400 at times. Roads were unpaved. Some, mere dirt paths in the mountains. The riders were not allowed to change bicycles or receive outside help of any kind. Bicycles were heavier and gears fixed. Stages were often begun in the middle of the night so riders had time to finish the next day.

Enter our hero.

After dropping out after the seventh stage in 1905, Henri Pépin must have done some thinking. Perhaps he thought long and hard about his chances of realistically competing with the likes of Trousselier, Georget or Faber. Perhaps the pain of seven stages of grueling, near inhuman racing burned an indelible memory upon his soul. Would he quit? Hell no. Would he compete? Well… no. Would he ride the 1907 Tour de France in style and pleasure? Hell yes.

Hiring two professionals, Jean Dargassies and Henri Gaubon, to accompany and assist him, Pépin promised to pay them more than if they won the tour. How could they resist? His plan was to enjoy gourmet lunches, sumptuous dinners and nights in the best hotels. If he couldn’t win the tour then he might as well enjoy it in grand style.

Beginning the first stage, Team Pépin set off a bit late as their leader was busy flirting with the ladies. Blowing kisses and tipping his hat, he announced, “Let us depart. But remember. We have all the time in the world.” And his leisurely tour began.

Singing songs and waving, our heroes took their time finishing the stages. Lunches were devoured, dinners were savored and wine flowed. Along the way, the crowds adoration and time keepers anger grew. In those days there were no cutoff times. Pépin and his cohorts finished the second stage more than twelve hours after the winner.

Coming across an exhausted and finished rider, Pépin ordered his men to help him out of the ditch he was lying in and invited him along. Why let hunger ruin a tour? Pépin rushed the man to the nearest inn where his hunger was vanquished, his bravery restored and the three were now four.

Journalists somehow got it in their head he was royalty and began writing of the “Baron Henri Pépin de Gontaud”. The convenient confusion evidently stemmed from the regal sounding “Henri Pépin de Gontaud” stamped on his trunk of belongings. Rather than hinting at any blue blood in those post revolutionary days, the stamp simply meant he was from Gontaud. No matter. A baron was born.

Somewhere during the fifth stage, Pépin decided he’d had enough. He paid his teammates the promised amount and caught the train back to Gontaud. Dargassies also decided to hop the train, dropping out of his last Tour, leaving only Gaubon to ride on.

Pépin would return to the Tour de France in 1914 only to drop out and die shortly thereafter. The cause of death listed as “athleticism”… As for Jean Dargassies and Henri Gaubon? They would enter history as cycling’s first domestiques, though the coinage of the word would be saved until 1911. But that, as they say, is another story for another day…

Sources:

The Story of the Tour de France. Volume 1. 1903 – 1964. By Bill and Carol McGann

Wikipedia – Henri Pépin

We Need a Train Like This

How about the Hill Country Flyer out to Bertram with our bicycles loaded on a car. Drop us off and we’ll take care of the rest.

Hmmm. Actually, maybe we really should do this. Anyone know anyone at the Hill Country Flyer office?

My Knees… Good News!

Visited the knee doctor today.

Along with the good news that my knees aren’t near as bad off as I previously thought, I also received doctor’s orders to build and ride a geared bike.

The plan is working.

The Metal Ride. An Opinion.

I really like the Metal Ride. I do. It starts stupid fast. Usually up the hill on Dawson. No warm up. Just Go. Into oxygen debt immediately. Single speed. Complete anaerobic in ten seconds or less. My head swells from the heat until I feel half crazed. And slightly worried. Red face. The usual suspects of thighs screaming, lungs searing, head swimming apply.

By the time we climb out of the river valley and approach Bannister I can barely speak. Yet somehow I yell, “Right on Bannister” and “Clear”.  The extra effort is exhausting but I decide ignoring it is my best option and plow ahead. We stop at the top and pretend to be letting everybody catch up. But breath is what’s caught. Heart rate slowing.

Now… Go! You don’t want to slow a Metal fitness ride down too much.

Somewhere along the way, Tim, the guy on the hybrid… with the stereo… attacks like a demon sent to shame and mock all those who would dare to think they’re fast on their road bikes. Usually there’s some pause as the fast guys assess the situation and try to figure out what the hell is happening. Though, by now, I think they’re getting used to it. The pace is pushed.

Around half way, the front group I’ve been chasing for the last forty five minutes, the ones continually receding into the distance,  start to slow a bit. Or maybe there’s some momentary directional confusion. I do have my tactics. I use the opportunity to attack. Everything I have is put into a sprint for as far as I can physically go until someone passes me. If it’s soon, I’ll try to jump on. If not, my resources will gradually wane. Four or five cyclist will pass me like I’m standing still and I’ll have to make the decision. Is there anything left?

Lactate threshold rising.

Closing in on the Bluebonnet Store the temperature drops to a comfortable ninety nine degrees but the cold beer is still welcome. Much nodding of the heads and mutual appreciation.

From here it’s downhill and watch the hell out for the debris in the bike lane. The speed in the darkness down Robert E. Lee with its roughness and oncoming headlights brings an involuntary ear to ear smile. Blinky lights descend.

And the cool, cool waters of Barton Springs. Sweet sweetness.

As the antitheses to all other riding I do, it’s a welcome change. I’m all about conserving energy to ride further. But at some point distance becomes a bit about speed. And so I welcome the Metal ride into my schedule and wish it a long life.

And of course. It’s always good to listen to Ronnie James Dio while sipping free beer at the Jackalope.

Thanks Keith.

The Heavy Metal Fitness Ride departs the Lamar Pedestrian Bridge Mondays at 7:30 pm. Prompt. Last time I heard, your Mother won’t be attending. So. Bring WATER, tube changing necessities,  a lock, a swim suit, your id if you’re a drinker and TIP MONEY. You might even check the route map. I wear a helmet as the ride is fast and in the dark. Remember. Head injuries slow rides. And you don’t want to slow down a Heavy Metal Fitness ride. Now do you.

Starting The Week Right

Finished a little break from cycling with the Metal Fitness Ride last night. Felt good. Better than last week. It’ll be a good start to another week rather than the physical train wreck it felt like last time.

Great bunch of cyclist’s on the ride. Several new faces. Of 39 starting the ride we managed to keep 37 to the top of Mt. Bonnell. Cool. No one hit a deer. Very cool.

My break coincided with the delivery of Vol. 5 of Bicycle Quarterly along with the newest issue. I’ve indulgently had my head down the last week reading techie tire speed tests and stories of the old days of cyclotouring. The “Velocio vs. The Tour de France” article in the Winter 2006 issue is a gem.

I’ve also been researching a lugged touring frame I scored. What I thought was pretty common turned out to be a bit of a mystery. But that’s another post.

Ya’ll stay safe. I think it’s going to be a good week.

Gears.

“Gears are for queers.” ~  unknown but oft quoted source.

How many gears do you have?

One gear, dingle, three speed, 1×6, 1×9, 12 speed, 18 speed, 21, 27…

No, no. I mean how many gears do you have? Is the answer diluted by the gearing options on your bike? Is the reduction induced by a single speed the quickest path of inner gear awareness? The perfect platform for experimentation in output and recovery?

Or lack thereof.

Am I sorely suffering for the inner gearing choices I’ve made the last few days? Am I ready for the dilution of options?

You bet I am…

There can be only one... Or can there?

A Study In Anthropomorphism.

“How can I convey the perfection of my comfort on the bicycle, the completeness of my union with her, the sweet responses she gave me at every particle of her frame? I felt that I had known her for many years and that she had known me and that we understood each other utterly…

I passed my hand with unintended tenderness – sensuously indeed – across the saddle… It was a gentle saddle yet calm and courageous… Her saddle seemed to spread invitingly into the most enchanting of all seats while her two handlebars, floating finely with the wild grace of alighting wings, beckoned to me to lend my mastery for free and joyful journeyings, the lightest of light running in the company of the swift ground to safe havens far away, the whir of the true front wheel in my ear as it spun perfectly beneath my clear eye and the strong fine back wheel with unadmired industry raising gently dust on the dry  roads. How desirable her seat was, how charming the invitation of her slim encircling handlebars, how unaccountably competent and reassuring her pump resting warmly against her rear thigh.”

From the novel The Third Policeman by Flann O’Brien, 1967.