Gran Fondo- Fun With Levi!

Images are here
Just a quick GranFondo update,

Think of a century ride that has the Gibraltar loop in it with the
Camino Cielo section twice as long. Amazing roads, amazing views with
the best paved decent you have ever seen followed by a 30 mph tailwind
along the coast. If that's not enough at 75+ miles throw in a shorter
version of Old San Marcos climb. I was happy riding in my 34-28 on
alot of climbs... The pros finished under 5 hours. After Levi pulled
for the first 50 miles, he pulled off to socialize in a couple of the
rest areas. It was one of the most organized and well attended "fun
rides" we all ever attended. The Chickens finished from 5:12
(Craig), 5:26 (me) and everyone else was close behind. More from the
others..


Dave

fastrack@mindspring.com
http://www.fastrackbicycles.com/



http://granfondo.smugmug.com/2009/Carson-Blume/9744543_eqGpz#669502585_48VP7


Thank you,
Carson Blume
Carson Blume Photography, Owner
Digital Capture Systems, Owner Digital Production
Women's Cycling Magazine, Co-Founder / Photo Editor
Cat4Pro.com, Coming soon
888.680.2276


It was long.

The highlight for me was watching Lettreri try to pump up Bob Roll's
rear tire at the start and another guy walks up and says, "I can help.
I'm a bike mechanic." He then proceeds to try to pump the tire up and
stops and says, "He needs a new tube." At which point Lettreri gets to
say, "It's a tubular." Priceless.

Other highlights:

1. Levi seemed stronger than most of the other riders.

2. I felt a bit gypped. It turned out it was only 102 miles but they
advertised 103 miles. Maybe they made up for it by advertising 6,500
feet of climbing when it was really 8,900 feet of climbing.

3. The course was perfectly marked. You knew right where to go. All
hazards were marked including steep downhills.

4. Levi's wife is 18 inches taller than he is. She also descends into
oncoming traffic. It must be a Euro thing.

5. Axel Merckx couldn't try hard enough to avoid me. In our little
pack I kept sneaking up next to him trying to start a conversation. I
now hate him also.

6. Bob Roll was the best. A pick-up truck honked at us and he yelled
back, "Bunch of retards".

7. I've never seen so many people walking their bikes up a hill. The
hill from Highway 1 back to Santa Rosa was unbelievably steep. It's
used in the AMGEN Tour. The street was still painted with "Basso
Cheat". My group got a big chuckle out of that one.

8. Lettreri has mellowed in his old age. We were supposed to meet
outside of the hotel at 7:20. At 7:23, Mitch and Nikola still were not
out with us and Lettreri was actually calmly waiting for them.

9. We at breakfast at 6:15 am two hours before the ride. The majority
of the other riders were already in their chamois. Assuming they
finished their ride around 3 pm, that would be a 9 hour chamois day.
That can't be healthy.

10. Thanks to Carson for getting lots of pictures of me coming out of
the port-o-potty.

11. At the end of the ride there was no water or food.

12. Friden arrived back at the hotel after the ride to shower. No more
than 5 minutes later Lettreri's truck jams out of the parking lot to go
home with Friden in it. We imagined Friden was still in his towel with
shampoo in his hair sitting in the back of the truck. Maybe Lettreri
hasn't mellowed with age.

13. Lettreri has his name written all over his jersey and I still don't
know how to spell it.

14. No fewer than 5 people asked me if we are sponsored by a brothel.

15. I suck at descending. My deep dish carbon wheels really helped in
the strong cross winds. Great equipment choice. Next time I think I
might bring my disc wheel.

16. Jurist is the best to travel with.

17. Dano, Jurist and I had dinner with my old LA riding buddies. Back
in the day they used to dominate bike racing. They finished this ride
in 7 hours. I guess some things change.

18. Everyone wearing a Levi Gran Fondo jersey walked their bike up at
least one hill. Don't buy the ride jersey! It slows you down.

19. Who won the polo field sprint on Sunday?

20. At mile 95, they had you turn off the well paved road onto a gravel
bike path. True story. The sign said don't worry, it's only 1 mile
long. Only 1 mile? Try riding on rocky gravel for 1 mile after already
being in the saddle for 5 hours. Two of the local pros who had been
pulling my group for oh, about 2 hours straight, flatted on the gravel.
Sweet. I beat them.

21. I suck at descending. I was so bad I needed to say it twice.

Thanks to Lettreri for getting me my entry. I'd like to do more of
these rides.

Bling.

1. No Problem on the porta pot shot!
2. I think I would have been less wiped if I had done the ride than shot it.
3. Welcome to NORCAL!
4. Levi's wife beat Dave, and kicked Allison Sterns but down the hills and most of the guys, that is hot!
5. Could we get sponsored by a brothel?
6. We, David Walls and my self, on the moto also got waived onto the dirt path, that was "fun"
7. tubular! that is priceless!

Thank you,
Carson Blume
Carson Blume Photography, Owner
Digital Capture Systems, Owner Digital Production
Women's Cycling Magazine, Co-Founder / Photo Editor
Cat4Pro.com, Coming soon
888.680.2276


The list has gotten exhaustive, but let me add:
Great photo #158 Paul next to Levi. Great job just to get that close to him, let alone timing it with Carson to be there. Dave seemed to be more preoccupied with riding next to Levi’s wife and the other blond pro. Other reports:

1. Bling, the people you saw walking up the final climb were the medio fondo riders who had ridden only about 25 miles up to that point. By the time I got to there, it was all gran fondo riders, and to my amazement no one was walking even though that seemed to me to be the more sensible thing.
2. I was just lucky that I was able to shower and get a towel around me. Last one back rides home in a wet towel.
3. Mitch spent most of the ride taking in the amenities at the rest stops and he still beat me in.

-Friden



Hats off to Dave for orchestrating the "Great Train Robbery" start strategy. After getting the distinct feeling that the 2 by 2 start of the ride might take several hours to accomplish, Lettieri gets our group to stage around the corner from the start in front of a fire station. There was already a large group there and we figured they were interested in the same "drop in". Turns out they were the marshals for the ride, but were cool enough to recognize the incredible athleticism and riding savvy that a whore house cycling team represents (not to mention that Blinger had already built a reputation as a Santa Rosa bar fighter) and allowed us to stay put. Dave went back to the start, glad handed his way to the front of the pack and as they came around the corner starts yelling for us to jump in. Thusly, we were excused from the mayhem, shouting and carbon crunching sounds heard a ways back in the field.

As far as the best to travel with, it's an old story: easy trumps pretty.

David

Here is a little video from my Fondo experience... it's on You tube.
(shot on my iPod Nano, produced on iMovie)
------ look for Dave's cattle call: "go go go" - Priceless.

Mark

The Easy Button

Enjoy the ride, this one in from one Mr. Jurist, it's pure humor.

Some observations on Callville and a race report:

In response to Mr. Benko’s assertion that I can cast an “evil” spell: Evil spelled backwards is “live” and as Mr. Lance Armstrong has encouraged all of us, “live strong.” My interpretation is “make mine a double.”

If you have only ridden your TT bike three times around Goleta, don’t use it for an uphill time trial at your first stage race, no matter what some bike genius says.

Houseboat toilets need descriptive lines printed in the bowl to achieve proper water volume levels for the projected fill rate. From bottom to top: “just passin’ through,” “midday snack” and at the top perhaps “3 plates of pasta at the free spaghetti dinner.” (We did not have venison on our boat or perhaps a fourth line would be necessary.)
People who race bicycles are always cold when not on their bikes. Again, this could be solved with “make mine a double.”
So now that I have almost as many road events under my belt as the number of wheel sets shoved into Dan Rudd’s and Blinger’s car for the race (oh wait, I’ve only done 4 races), it would be fitting that I preface any bad race results with excuses. Sooooo, Tuesday prior to the Callville Classic, I chaperoned a bus load of kids to the Long Beach Aquarium and scored a classic case of elementary school dysentery. Wednesday was sleepless and Thursday was only slightly better. It was obvious that my expectations for the weekend would need to go from yellow jersey to perhaps a single five minutes of glory within a race. I was thinking maybe a prime in the Sunday crit, but unlike the adult races, THERE ARE NO PRIMES for Cat 5 (never mind that I got yanked before the race finished.) So I had to leave with only the Thurston Howell III award for dedication to cocktail hour (a Gilligan’s Island reference for those under 35) and my bike pump tucked between my legs with the only solid thing my body produced for the weekend being a personal worst in the time trial.

Fast forward to the departure of myself and “nameless” (sometimes known for his bladderific spontaneity) from Callville on Sunday. Of course, we missed the little cut off for the 15, and stayed on the 215, passing dangerously close to the south end of the strip (talk about casting an evil spell) before steeling ourselves and heading onto the 15 southbound. Nameless and I started talking about what a shame it would be to have driven within a mile of the magic and not have been able to breathe in just a quick bit of the rancid smoke filled air, stale alcohol charm and slot machine chiming of the sanctuary of sin. We decided to feed our jones and stomach’s at Whiskey Pete’s at the state line.

I’ve been to Vegas a time or two and I can tell you now, Whiskey Pete’s is no Vegas. It is to the Bellagio what influenza is to the Bubonic Plague. No matter, if you close your eyes it’s all the same. And in this case, tightly shut.

When we walked in, I felt changed. The disappointments of the weekend started to fade and I could almost feel my appetite returning. There would be one last chance for redemption! Our plan for the fourth and final stage of Callville was a big sizzling platter of beef to celebrate nameless’ top 11 finish in the un-incentivized Cat. 5 melees. Drat, strike one, the Silver Spur Steakhouse course had been closed down, probably by SPCS (Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Steak). We sought out the race director who pointed his soda gun at the new venue, The Trail’s End Coffee Shop. A long line of racers was already staging behind the stanchions and we jockeyed for good position in front of two female racers who looked bleary and hung over (for the life of me I couldn’t remember them from our houseboat). We chatted a bit with the two ladies who revealed they had come to town from Bakersfield supporting Big Head Todd and the Monsters for an event at the House of Blues.

They were sending racers off in groups from the front when all of a sudden we were chosen out of the middle of the pack. The official looked at our group, “We’ve got a spot for four near the front…” The Bakersfield team eyed us and asked if we were up to the challenge. Little did she know that I still had my smelly kit on under my clothes and was ready for anything they could throw down!

We were shown “race bibles” for the stage and there were some tense moments of strategizing before each racer showed their cards. Shelly, who was in desperate need of a cigarette, went with milk, orange juice and after being denied oatmeal, went all in with scrambled eggs. Looked like a lightweight climbing strategy to me. Diane showed she was in it for the field sprint, steak and eggs with coffee. I was dying to sneak a peak at her power meter to see what she had in the tank. Nameless, who had faced the brunt of a full crit went mega calorie with the “steak” dinner. Knowing that my heart rate had exceeded maximum for all three events previously, I went full deep-fried to slow it and make sure I stayed under max, so nameless and I could make a move if it presented itself.

I should mention that our opponents had chosen their positions in the four top formation before we could get a wheel in. They were aligned opposite each other, which forced us to do the same. I believe this is the same start position that Matteus Chickarino and his wingerman, Cragio Zipperholder, found themselves in at the start of the Tour de les Cafes in the air raid shortened 1943 race in Nice, France. Of course, they had chocolates and nylons in their back pockets and soloed to, um, victory. Phil Liggett could confirm.

Our task would be much tougher as we felt like we were on their turf with no pre-ride. There was some early consternation with nameless’ order that caused a restart, but after being quickly handled by the neutral feed we were ready for battle. And off we went. Nameless and I paced ourselves with the group, but because of the positioning at the four top we were limited to eye rolls and spoon Morse code to signal strategy. Shelly and Diane went chatty after the first few kilometers and we stayed right on their wheels with Chicken Ranch lore. The group settled into a rhythm for the next twenty. I sensed trouble when we reached the climb leading to the finish. With only small portions left, nameless was trying to list country bands he liked and I could hear the lead in his voice. Desperate, I shoved the last fried bits in my mouth and felt my heart rate slow to defibrillator levels. Cresting the final climb (the first time during the weekend I managed to stay with the lead group) I jumped in with a blizzard of fluff. I smelled bad decaf coffee and knew that nameless had managed to get on my wheel. Bam, the finish check hit the racecourse and nameless and I dived into our pockets. Diane graciously picked up the check despite our objections, she and Shelly thanking us for the company. Bingo, I mean Keno, I mean Blackjack….. a prime in Cat 5.

Chicken For A Day

Having received the bad news that my Platinum Performance pal and cycling mentor/motivator, Mr. Mortgage, wasn’t heading up for the Big Bear Shootout June 1 reminded me that my bicycles currently out-value my autos and none qualified as appropriate (read: reliable) transport to the start line. Enter one Former Olympian. I was down at the shop buying a really fine seat bag for the race rig (you know, the ones that come with a yellow bag with a square hole (I thought it was a free with purchase “Elephant Man”Halloween mask) when I mentioned needing a lift to the big day. The FO said he’d mention it around town and give a shout if somebody had an open seat. Seemed like one of those things that gets said and then floats off like a smoke ring. To my great shock and pleasure FO called at the beginning of race week and said that there was a cancellation and did I want to ride with---drum roll---the great chicken ranch trinity. Now, I have only been riding on two wheels without a beer in my hand for about a year and am new to SB, but not so new that I don’t know when my life is about to change! The fam and I relocated to Goleta last year from the Alamo City (clap, clap, clap, deep in the heart of Texas) last year and so we know a thing or two about ranches. I pulled up at the biggest chicken’s coop at the crack’o for the get-a-long and sure as heck, them boys showed up all a wearin’ stretchy pants, just like back in the Republic. I knew I was amongst kin.

Loaded up with the big one and the bling one, we went to Milpas and picked up what appeared to be a homeless man on a bike. But, whoa moses, there’s those stretchy pants again, spare that brother a dime! You can imagine the amount of cataloging my newbie mind was doing given this “all access” pass to observe the super chickens pre-race routines. Let’s see: there were the TWO cupcakes and a bottle of water for the homeless guy; a mysterious, peanut buttery smelling mixture eaten out of a plastic bag for the bling one and damned if the big one didn’t eat a peanut butter and jelly an hour before the race like it was 2d grade lunch period! All that restraint made me question the Belgian waffle, sausage patties and Frappacino I had slowly eaten precisely 3.4 hours before the race start.

One unfortunate episode on the way to the race, a spirit woman named Gigi, who’s voice seemed to be channeled through the bling one, gave us totally bogus directions that had us perilously close to losing almost 7.3 minutes of drive time and the homeless guys sanity. On the bright side it did give us a chance to check out Jeff’s white Yeti, TWICE! Not to fear, the troops landed with mucho tiempo to spare.

Once on the mountain everyone got right down to the business of race-preparedness, which way to the port-a-potties?!? After registrating and getting free-taco ticketed we got our collective arses in the saddle for what seemed like a 45 minute climb to the race start. The weather was fab-you-los, maybe 70 and almost no wind and the staging area was pleasantly cool. The big one was made to start early as he is big and must go further. Then off went the bling-y one with the FO on the medium loop. Sometime later, off I go with a huff and a puff or I’ll blow at altitude on the small one (and it was just right)!

The course was super fun, a long climb out of the start and then some rolly fire road. Things got interesting when the trails merged and I was greeted from behind by blingy and the FO who gave a much needed “atta boy” to the slaving limbs below me. There were some nice single track sections with varying degrees of difficulty from soft loamy dappled shade prettiness to sharp rock, pick your line or you gonna hurt, bomb-a-thons. My “glory” moment was chasing down my category foe, Mike Rauls, from team SHOW-OFF on a single track section. We had passed each other several times on the course and he made a move and got to the single track ahead of me. When we got to a fairly large spot of water, he decided to dismount and go around the edge. I quickly reflected on the situation, “what would the b team do?” I hopped off the war pony and went cyclocross through what turned out to be knee deep water and never looked back.

About 2 miles from the finish after panting up yet another climb and coming down some fairly sketchy fire road, I felt something falling on my legs. Was that thirty minute port-a-potty visit not enough to clear the bulkhead? When I looked down I saw my “Elephant Man” mask from the new seat pack wrapped around my cassette. I also realized that the recreational bikers on the trails were going to score some nice tire levers, a tube, patch kit, multi-tool and the overdue DVD’s from Blockbuster that I was going to return on the way home. Ten seconds into the argument with myself about whether to stop and clear it the jury came back: There was no flippin way daddy-o was pullin over. So I managed to shift into a gear and got a pedalin’, single-speed style. The chicken karma worked its magic and I got across the finish 4 minutes ahead of the dreaded SHOman.

The big one came in fifth in the papa category, just 7 minutes off the pace and is truly a spectacular captain of the good ship chicken ranch. FO and the bling one crossed the line 6th and 7th closer than a slow dance at the high school prom in the mama category. I, dear reader, managed top of the boxes , but then, I was chicken for a day.

PS One last amazing moment from the trip. On the way home, the FO, who is not one to camp in the outdoors, showed us how he makes “urban” s’mores. To celebrate the big right turn at the ocean and the home stretch, he produced a perfectly melted Almond Joy from his stretchy pants! Who knew the power?