Scott took a pass today onacountta he had himself too much work to do. The foundation of French Broad Place was getting poured, so he had to be Mr. Bossman.

While Scott worked, Mark, Bill, and I rode into Brevard, did a little loop around town, then rode over Rich Mountain (including a 4mi gravel descent), and up to the modestly named Pretty Place before returning home. We ended the day with beer, burgers, and a pile of Irish nachos at Dugan’s pub.

Mark walks down towards the cross at Pretty Place:
The view from Pretty Place:

A number of plaques with Bible verses line the rail around the altar:
We had a little snack on the ledge before heading back down. No rush.
Mark contemplates the view and gives Organic Valley some good exposure.
Irish nachos:
Frank (Scott’s dad) joined us for dinner:

Today, we went up 276 over the Blue Ridge Parkway, then up Scott’s Favorite Climb, back down into the lowlands, and up the new, hard way back to Latell d’Huez. Mr. Deluxe, Bill Koch, arrived yesterday and joined us for the ride today.

Mark and Bill climbing:

It was cold up on the Parkway – much like it is in Milwaukee right now. Ha ha!

Mark staged a protest against the intrusiveness of Scott’s doping controls:

Me, Bill, and Scott:

Mark and his post-ride recovery drink:

Mom – I wore the socks you bought me:

After the ride, Bill died.
Mark was so distraught, he took a shower, then snuffed it himself.

Wusses. All we did was 14,000 feet of climbing in 87 miles.

Today, we did Scott’s Parkway loop:

10,000 feet of climbing in 65 miles. Yeaaaah. We finished the day with hard-earned cerveza grandes at Cielito Lindo.

Also, Mr. Deluxe arrived today.

Yesterday was our first day of riding here in North Carolina. We did the Assault on the Carolinas route, which takes us over the Eastern Continental Divide, then my favorite climb, Caesar’s Head. We got rained on a bit, but finished dry. After the ride, Mark and I went into town to get stuff to grill, while Scott paid bills. We then watched Versus’ coverage of Fleche Wallone and Liege-Bastonge-Liege, and declared Davide Rebellin and the Schleck brothers dufuses for not attacking Alejandro Valverde in the final kilometers. Scott hit the sack early so that he could be up early to get some work done, and Mark and finished the day watching Major League.

It’s raining again, but looking to clear up in an hour or so. Today, we’ll do about 70 miles, including the climb up 276 to the Blue Ridge Parkway (my other favorite climb) to Wagon Gap, past Devil’s Courthouse, then back down towards Brevard and back up Latell d’Huez.

Our post-ride plans include a visit to Sycamore Cycles, dropping Mark’s car off to have its smoking catalytic converter looked at, and dinner at Cielito Lindo.

This being the South, the hospitality and the moonshine are flowing in equal measure.

Pardon the fuzzy iPhone pictures.

Also, I’ve upgraded my condition from cracked rib to bruised rib.

I just returned from a week-long trip to California for the Sea Otter Classic, a big cycling festival. I was there with the Hayes gang, representing the company in the outdoor expo. From a work standpoint, it was a good show. We introduced six new products and made good contact with all the key media guys. The weather was somewhat crummy – cold and windy – but it was dry, which apparently is atypical.

While we were there, I took the opportunity to open my racing season by signing up for the Pro/1/2 road race. I thought it would be fun to test myself against a strong pro field on a hilly course. Not only that, it was a beautiful area, and I looked forward to seeing more of it from the bike.

The race began on the Laguna Seca racetrack, then rolled out onto the surrounding roads. Moments after we passed through the gates, I flatted. Nuts! Fortunately, there was neutral support, so I was able to get a wheel change. Still, I wasn’t confident of my ability to chase back up to a pro field after a 30-or-so second delay. I managed to do it, though, and caught on just as the field hit the bottom of the first big climb. Thankfully no one attacked, because it was all I could to hang on, having already spent a good handful of minutes in the red zone. When we finally crested the top, I thought I was in the clear. Boy, was I wrong.

On the ensuing gradual descent, the road suddenly erupted in potholes. Not just inconvenient, bumpy potholes. Not even the kind that will dent a rim and cause a flat. These were the kind of potholes that can damage cars. Panic went through the field, and two guys in front of me went down. I had nowhere to go, and rode right into them, somersaulting over the bars. A fourth guy did the same, landing on me. I got up as quickly as possible to survey the damage. My right arm was sore, and my right knee was bleeding. I hurt bad enough that I knew my day was over. Thankfully, no broken bones. One of the other guys appeared pretty badly beaten up. He was conscious, but not moving much. Some of the race officials stopped to help and called for paramedics.

As we waited, I picked up my bike and checked it over. The wheels were still true, but the front tire was flat. My shifters were scratched up, but functional. The saddle was slightly scuffed, but not torn. I thought I was in the clear. Then I stepped around to the left side of the bike, and my heart sank. There, on my brand-new bike’s downtube, was a two-inch-long hole, just in front of the bottom bracket. My bike was dead. Thankfully, I wasn’t.

I and the other victims got a ride back to the festival grounds where we received excellent medical care. The woman cleaning me up asked me to fill out a form with my name, address, etc. She then began asking me the standard head-injury questions. When I expressed my surprise, she told me to take off my helmet. I did so and discovered a line of eight punctures, obviously put there by the chainring of the bike upon which I had landed head-first. Whoa. Add one new helmet to the day’s body count. I endured a thorough and painful scrubbing of my knee, elbow, and shoulder, then wheeled the remains of my bike back to the Hayes truck.

In all, about an hour and a half elapsed between the crash and my return to the truck. I began to worry that the race organizers might have already called Kelley to notify her of the crash. Fortunately, I got to her first and assured her that I was okay. Having done that, I was finally free to clean up, get dressed, and regale my coworkers with my tragic story.

My next mission was to see about replacing the bike. I wasn’t expecting anything more than the good deal I’d already gotten through Crank Daddy’s. Of course, I was hoping for something even less expensive.

Naturally, Specialized had their own huge area in the expo grounds. Having obtained the name of a potentially sympathetic marketing comrade, I marched over, carrying the remains of my bike. I found him talking with two other Specialized employees. I introduced myself, showed them the bike, and explained what happened. One of the other Specialized guys took the bike, saying, “let me put some duct tape over that so you don’t get a splinter.” So I don’t get a splinter. Okay. And maybe so no one sees a brand new Specialized with a big hole in it. He came back with the bike and instructed me to call customer service to get a crash-replacement frame. Sigh. Well, it was worth a try. Duct Tape Man then excused himself, and Marketing Guy and I continued to talk – about the bike, the crash, and then just the show itself. Finally, he said something along the lines of, “don’t worry, Mike’s got his way of doing things, but I think I can help you out.” Sweet. Then a spark of recognition. “Mike… Sinyard?” I asked. Affirmative. I had just gotten my dead Specialized duct taped by the owner of the company, whom I had failed to recognize.

I walked back to the Hayes truck feeling relieved and encouraged.

As I write this, I’m back in the office. My wounds are healing, although a cracked rib appears to be among them. I’ve also got bruises developing all over my body like a bunch of dark, blurry Polaroids. However, I’m very thankful to have gotten off relatively easy. My guardian angel has probably earned a promotion to guardian archangel. Hopefully he doesn’t celebrate with a week-long vacation while I’m riding in North Carolina!

Pictures of the helmet and bike to follow.

Although I got over it years ago, I still realize that a cyclist in bright, skin-tight lycra looks kinda silly. Even more so when you add a funky aero helmet that looks like it was made from a alien egg. But tattoos on your face and neck pretty much max-out the ridiculosity.

I’ll tell ya what time it is. IT’S GIGANTERRIFFIC WATCH TIME! I just received this from a buddy of mine who reps for Formotion - a company that makes gauges for custom motorcycles and hot-rods. Obviously, they also make ridiculously cool wristwatches. He’s an avid mountainbiker, and a prolific Hayes advocate on the Information Superbikepath. He’s been spreading the word about our brakes, so now I get to do the same for his watches. Not a bad deal, huh?

I have two possessions that make Wisconsin winters more bearable: my snowblower and my snow tires. Both pose similar dilemmas, though. In the case of the snowblower, I have to decide when to burn off the remaining gas and stuff it in the back of the garage, making room for such things as the lawnmower and the grill. In the case of the snow tires, I have to decide when to swap them out for the normal tires. My wife has a set, too, so this means removing and installing a total of 16 wheels. I do these things when I’m confident we won’t get another appreciable accumulation of snow. Of course, I could wait until June to be sure, but that would be dumb. So this week’s poll question is, have we seen the last of this winter’s snow?