Quotation of the day:

"A strong rider will make most bikes look good, likewise the most beautiful racing bike in the world looks foolish struggling to ride 25 km/h."

Culture Shock

Today at work a lovely American girl who was walking by asked me, "Wanna give me a pump back to my office?" and motioned toward my beautiful Italian bicycle. I thought she was being serious, and I asked her to...how you say...become my wife. She laughed and smiled and broke my heart. I was being serious.

Thoughts on Shaving

For many in the road peleton, there are certain unbreakable rules that one must follow in order to be considered a worthy, reliable racer. And to a certain extent reliability is very very important. Sure, when you're riding along at 45+kph, separated on 2-4 sides by a cushion of air 6-18 inches wide from your fellow racers, you want to be able to trust that those fellows won't do anything silly that might cause you to crash and possibly muss up your splendid livery.

Yet a racer, if he is truly to be considered great, must never be afraid to distinguish himself from the herd. In fact, he should seek out opportunities to personalize and define his style whenever possible. For this reason, I choose to break with my teammates and convention by not ritualistically shaving my legs to a smooth sheen every night of the racing season. My hair is a sign of my overpowering masculinity, and no blade will ever touch it. It keeps my legs warm and muscles supple through the long months of winter training, and during the scorching heat of the main Texas season, it keeps the cooling sweat from running off before it can do its job.

All too often pale, sickly-looking riders in loose-fitting jerseys will come up to me and ask why I don't shave. In the event of a crash, they argue, bare legs will resist infection and heal faster. Riding with this mentality, this planning ahead for wrecks, is cowardly and unromantic. To them I reply, "Get on the front, and don't worry about crashing! If my tubular comes unglued because of a lazy mechanic or my chain snaps due to the overwhelming force of my finishing sprint; the rich, pure Basque blood that courses through my veins mend my wounds without fail!" A racer thinks of nothing but the beauty of victory and the warm embrace of glory. He has no time for what-ifs.

The only acceptable argument I've heard for shaving one's legs for the sport of cycling has to do with style, and this is the main argument put forth by my teammates. Specifically, "Shaving one's legs is traditional, and it allows your fans to better see and marvel at your sculpted leg muscles." I must say, this makes a whole lot of sense to me, and I've almost been swayed several times. Yet in the end, I know I will never mar the precious mane. It is part of my identity, I draw power and inspiration from its manly beauty. If other riders in the peleton see my hair and label me a Freddie, that's okay. Their viewpoint will soon change as their bare legs are destroyed by my constant attacks and overpowering good looks.

Race Report

Despite having very good sensations in the legs and riding with a beautiful and dazzling panache, I was foiled in my first foray into the world of cyclocross by the simple fact that I am neither a mountain-biker nor a bum. Translation: I got lost on the hike-n-bike trail.

Sometimes a truly romantic racer has to sacrifice precious moments that might be better spent memorizing the race bible when the tifosi and podium girls are calling his name. I am without regrets.