Ridiculous

Well, the old days of racing into shape are long gone.

The Land Park Crit was a bust. Tailgunning for five laps and then dropping out can't even be considered racing, can it. I had to soft-pedal on the lawn for ten minutes to regain my eyesight and Henry, my soigneur, held my hand the whole time to make sure I didn't fall over.

I took the DNF as a signal to build base and re-try racing in May. Weeks later, my teammate Chris took me on a soul ride in the Napa valley. Did some climbing and felt strong, but did it in apparently too big of a gear and aggravated an old knee injury.

Backtracking ensued, lots of stretching, easy spinning. Oh, and beer to lubricate the joint.

Then moving stuff in the garage last week I tweaked my lower back as a result of a bad lift. Probably a result of the dodgy knee messing with my form. Yep, now I'm pretty much hobbled.

Then, this morning, I got some keratoses frozen off my face at Kaiser. Lovely. I feel like a troll, replete with warty complexion and stooped posture.

Dang. I didn't figure I would become decrepit so quickly . . . this aging stuff is no joke.

Corner Turned

Last weekend I was in San Francisco visiting friends and dragged my host William to Golden Gate Park to check out the Dirt Criterium. Racing in circles in the dirt is about as fun as it gets so I had high hopes. We got a late start and thought we missed it because there were no bodies to be found at the Rose Garden.

But then a few yards down JFK Drive and we spotted the gathering. Bikes down in a clump and a crowd packed tightly, listening intently. LeMans start? This oughtta be good, I thought, and was just about to head down when a cowbell urgently rang and the racers began chugging cans of performance-unenhancing beverages. Clearly some of the guys had been putting in base miles because they were quickly on their bikes and off while others were glancing around with cans still aloft.

Ok, so we missed the start, but maybe we can follow the action? We continued down JFK and the race leaders came off the dirt, into the road, and full speed straight through a heavily-trafficked intersection.

Clearly I've turned a corner on this stuff because it looked unenticing. As the leaders raced off down trails typically crowded with dog walkers I rode as far away from the "criterium" as I could.

*Sigh.* I hate growing old and responsible.

So, no racing for us, we checked out Gestalt Haus instead. The bike parking and the nice guy working there were the best things about this joint. It's a second or third stop beer bar, just a bit too haggard for a sober daytime stop. Then again, I seem to be turning corners lately . . .

All Systems Go

Long periods off the bike are best when they end.

Today's Sacramento CX final was a hoot. After a two-month layoff to recover from vasectomy surgery (yes, ouch) the muddy banks of the Sacramento River were the perfect setting to try everything out again.

Lung-searing sprints . . . yep.

Leg-burning runups . . . got it.

Awkward testicle-smashing remount . . . oh yeah.

Cyclocross is not for sissies.

The after party is today at 4pm at Old Soul. I'm taking the boys so they can get some "culture".

Whoa, Easy There . . .

Sometimes slow, easy rides are are like baby bear's porridge -- just right. Sunday's ride was like that. Zone two heartrate, steady conversation, like a recovery ride from life.

Gotta do more of those . . .

The next random race is Sacramento CX # 2 at Hagan Park in Rancho Cordova.
http://www.sacramentocx.com/

Huh?

Here we go.

We are dads who race bicycles. When we can. If we have permission . . . you get the idea.

Random Dads ARE NOT guys who have free reign to race every weekend. Nor are random dads racing cat 2 or above on the road or expert class in mountain bike races. We call those guys "exceptional dads."

Random Dads ARE guys that line up in the masters road races with five hours of training per week and 15% body fat, hoping to hang with the big boys. We participate in a myriad of races: road, mtb, cyclocross, triathlon, duathlon, maybe even an alley cat now and then . . .

Based in Sacramento, California, we do our best to hang, with numbers pinned on (sometimes to our flesh), often dreaming of the after-race beer.

Stay tuned . . .