KROGG VISIT SKY!

Krogg get opportunity to take ride in sky car. Amazing! Krogg love sky car. Drive around sky like brontosaurus drive around land.  

SKY CAR!

INSIDE OF SKY CAR!

FASTER SKY CAR!

VIEW FROM SKY CAR!

BEAUTIFUL VIEW FROM SKY CAR!

PILOT AND CO-PILOT!

BEAUTIFUL DEADWOOD RESERVOIR!

SNAKY RIVER!

KROGG IN SKY CAR!

Wherefore Hast Thine Blogging Waned?

What's wrong with me? My desire to write in my blog has all but dried up! This latest drought, not surprisingly, coincided with the start of my new job at Trademark Sign Company. I've been working there full time (or very close to it), for over a month, and it's been hugely satisfying. I'm learning a new craft, making a valuable contribution to a promising little company, and really enjoying myself while I do so. My hope is that, by the time the season starts, I'll be competent enough in the skills necessary for this job that I'll be able to maintain my position there throughout the year. Naturally, training and racing will call me away for much of the year, and Trademark has agreed to be extremely flexible about that when the time comes. But for now, alas, my free-time is no longer. I'm feeling swamped in a way I haven't since college -- and I'm not even training heavily yet!

But it's not just the job. The flow of mindless drivel found here at Gliderbison waned to a trickle long ago. Why? Was it just the lack of time? Has my desire to express myself lessened? Isn't there still interesting stuff happening that I have an opinion about? What about Red Bull Stratos? What about the massive implosion of Pro Cycling?  What about all the interesting work I've been doing at Trademark Sign Company? What about my friggin' knee (and the damaged ligaments therein), the triathlon I'm racing tomorrow, Exergy's financial woes, or my overwhelming excitement for the 2013 cycling season?

Perhaps I've simply found a substitute for the satisfaction my blog used to provide me. I've always acknowledged that writing a blog was simply a way to make myself feel better about what I do (i.e. selfishly spending all my time training and racing). That, and my greedy little appetite for emotional connection with other humans was hardly ever fulfilled, and spewing words into the void somehow sated that hunger.

Over these last few months, it's not like I haven't been creative. Or felt satisfied. But I miss the blog. And I'm not done blogging --  I'm sure that once I return to the cycle of training and rest, of preparation and perspiration, I'll also be compelled to share my silly thoughts. Hang in there, dear readers.

People do Things

The world is a crazy little place. People are crazy little creatures. Right now, people everywhere are doing things. Some of them are doing awesome things. For instance, an astronaut floating high over our heads just fixed the goddam space station with a goddam tooth brush, like some kind of goddam spaceman MacGyver. Look: 

But some people are doing idiotic things. For instance, there are skilled humorous writers who lack both common sense and a willingness to read (or follow) directions are applying powerful chemical solvents to their genitals -- much to my online delight. 

Happy Tuesday. It's going to be a good one. 

It Happens Fast

It happens fast. One minute you're locked into the rhythm of the stage race, the rhythm of racing and recovering, of meetings and massages, of eating and eating and endless eating. The next minute -- bam -- you're driving back to Boise so you can watch the race on TV.

It can be a tough pill to swallow.

Yesterday morning I awoke in a lavish hotel room in Beaver Creek, Colorado. I stayed quiet for nearly two hours and stared at the ceiling, ruminating; after all, my roommate Serge was still in the race. I was not. I'd be a very poor teammate indeed to deny him any extra sleep. Finally Serge's alarm started bleating, and we both arose and packed our bags. Serge placed his outside the door for the soigneurs to bring to the van, and trundled off to the dining hall for breakfast, whereas I brought my bags down to one of our team cars. The car was loaded with the bikes and bags of racers who'd abandoned, bikes and bags, no longer needed, bound for Boise. Bikes, and bags, and racers. I said my goodbyes -- this is the end of my season after all -- who knows when I'll see my teammates again, or our staff. I wished the mood were celebratory; it was almost morose. It's odd: I certainly didn't want to leave, and nobody wanted to see me go, but driving back to Boise was the only thing I could tolerate.

I had to get out of there.

On my way to the highway, I stopped for a(nother) coffee with Daniel and Emiliano. We waxed philosophical about racing bicycles, about getting dropped, and about the close of a season, the last paragraph in an exciting chapter, the other bookend. After another round of goodbyes, I flicked on the radio, found the on-ramp for I-70, and headed west.

Somehow, the cosmos united me with a fantastic radio station, and a stunningly gorgeous stretch of road to send me off. Here's a slice:

A poem, read to me by Garrison Keillor.

Debtors

by Jim Harrison

They used to say we're living on borrowed
time but even when young I wondered
who loaned it to us? In 1948 one grandpa
died stretched tight in a misty oxygen tent,
his four sons gathered, his papery hand
grasping mine. Only a week before, we were fishing.
Now the four sons have all run out of borrowed time
while I'm alive wondering whom I owe
for this indisputable gift of existence.
Of course time is running out. It always
has been a creek heading east, the freight
of water with its surprising heaviness
following the slant of the land, its destiny.
What is lovelier than a creek or riverine thicket?
Say it is an unknown benefactor who gave us
birds and Mozart, the mystery of trees and water
and all living things borrowing time.
Would I still love the creek if I lasted forever?

A song my math-dork friends would adore.



A winding highway through a misty canyon.

A Real Humdinger

TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC:

It is the object of this blog post to alert the public that the stretch of road to the South and and to the East of the township of Aspen, Colorado, commonly known as Independence Pass, has dealt tremendous harm to both my person and my mind. While several lesser offences have accumulated throughout the previous year, today marked an insult so grievous it is my civic duty to pronounce it a scoundrel and a brute! 'Twas not but six miles from the beginning of the race that the hostilities commenced: pain of legs, shortness of breath, fire of crotch, dizziness of mind, questioning of self worth, and hatred of Jens Voigt -- I suffered all of these and more! An honorable road Independence Pass is not! Upon my arrival at the summit, I found myself near twenty minutes abaft, a discovery as shocking as 'twas demoralizing. I place the full weight of my decision to abandon the race squarely upon the shoulders of that loathsome road.

Independence Pass, from hence forth, we are enemies. 

Despisingly yours, 

Sam Johnson

August twenty-third, two-thousand and twelve

Beaver Creek, Colorado

Made it to Aspen....

Well would you look at that -- I made it to Aspen. The course was hard: two hand-numbing, tooth-chattering dirt sections (totaling ~20 miles), two 12,000+ foot mountain passes, 130 miles, ~10,000 feet of climbing, and two hair-raising descents. All in a day's work. I'm going to share some pictures now: 

First thing's first -- at the start in Gunnison, I spotted this hilarious combination of things. 

A double-decker wiener wagon!

 The dachshund on the lower level was a mean one, and growled at me when I got near.

Next is a picture of my shins after 130 miles of racing. My legs are covered in sunscreen, and dust sticks to sunscreen. We raced through a lot of dust.

Next are these awesome kids who showed me to my room. They carried my bag, brought me a sandwich, and posed in this picture -- all in exchange for an Exergy cycling cap and an autograph from yours truly. Thank you, 12 year old porters -- you made my post race experience smooth and simple.

The same sunscreen-dust dynamic operates on my face too:

After a shower, I took advantage of the sweet pool they've got at our hotel. Yeah, we're in Aspen, and in case you can't tell, that's a waterfall behind me. I'm pretty sure I was the only cyclist (out of probably 50 staying in this hotel) to indulge in this luxury. Silly cyclists.

Lastly, here we are in Aspen -- but here I am in my hotel room! I wish I could go explore more of this town, it's bustling right now. I heard live music from a big park down the street, cyclists and cycling fans were everywhere, and there are clearly dozens of cool places to eat and drink here -- and yet here I am, preparing for bed and typing a blog post. This is my second trip to Aspen, and I still couldn't tell you anything about this place aside from what the hotel is like, and that people still rely on horse drawn carriages. Silly cyclists.

Highs and Lows

Over dinner yesterday, the conversation was pretty glum. We'd all just had a very hard day, so there was a lot of complaining going on. In an attempt to change the mood, one of the Manual for Speed guys said "hey guys, let's do highs and lows." At first I was resistant to this idea. "Hell no I'm not doing that," I snarled. But I've performed this exercise in the past, and know how helpful it can -- especially when I'm feeling negative. So, after further consideration, I changed my mind, and offered the following:

"My high was the time after the gun went off, but before we were released from neutral. We did a parade lap through downtown. All my stress and anxiety melted away, and I got to savor the delightful Durango crowd. The rest of my day was pretty much a flatline low."

Today was different. Today my low was definitely the second KOM. I fell off the pace of the group when we weren't even going that hard. I was the first, and pretty much the only guy to get dropped. I slid backwards through (almost) the entire caravan, suffering my way past dozens of team directors and mechanics, past officials and police and race doctors -- a very visible kind of suffering. Once again, I had to contemplate the fact that this could be it -- my race could be over. I had to take a good hard look in the mirror and ask myself: how bad do I want to finish this race? I think I surprised more than a few of those directors and mechanics -- they all thought I was a gonner (and with good reason).

My high was finishing in Crested Butte. Holy crap -- what an atmosphere! Thousands of people, costumes galore, painted roads, helicopters whirring overhead, the works. I wish I could share what it feels like to ride a bike through a crazy crowd in at this race. It's unique, and energizing, and nearly overwhelming. To the people on the side of the road today, a very heartfelt thanks, especially the ones who said my name!

Tomorrow should be very very hard.
G'night.