Understanding in the Giro.

It's hard to describe the reality of what happened yesterday. It's hard not to turn the tragedy of this unsung hero's death into some desperate, transparent excuse for introspection. I was at home, watching the italian feed of the Giro as I'm certain many of you were, casually working away on some email, or some photo, when I glanced back at the screen to see the familiar bottle-neck of cars squeezing by a crash in the Italian mountains. I pause, and strain to listen to the italian announcers impossibly fast voice, and try and figure out who was in the tangle. I am so used to seeing these crashes, and seeing tiny little men brushing the rocks out of their legs and hopping onto fresh new bikes to finish the race.

Then they showed Wouter.

I've been witness to things, either through circumstance, or though cruel morbid curiosity that, sometimes, I wish I wasn't. This was one of those times. I could tell by the sudden, uncharacteristic silence of the italian broadcaster that something was wrong.

Then the image was gone from the screen. Replaced with a shot of the ever-gracefull peloton arching and gliding through the mountains.

I still can't tell if it was the way he looked, or the fact that I knew the kit, or that I knew this race, or that I knew the names the announcer had begun to choke and whisper... but the image of Wouter Weylandt lying there on the ground is something I will never ever forget.

I can't speak for anyone but myself, but as a racer, I feel like I lost a team mate and by extension, a friend. It may sound like a horribly selfish thing to say considering what the people who knew him are going though, but it's the only way I have been able to accurately describe the kind of feeling I've had in my stomach all day.

For better or for worse, my life revolves around the 15lbs of plastic and metal that is sitting three feet away from me. I am wholly consumed by racing and training and living on my bike. I may not be a pro, or even a semi-pro, but I know that I share the same passion for my bicycle as he must have. As they all must at some point. I didn't know Wouter... but I knew him. He was a 26 year old kid, with a girlfriend, and parents, and friends, and who loved nothing more than to race his bicycle... I knew him.

The circumstances that surround his death are hard to even wrap my head around. I thought all day of his girlfriend, and what she must have been going through watching the same horrific thing on TV that I was. I thought of his parents, and what pride they must have felt knowing their son was among the best in the world, and then what sadness they are about to endure. I thought of his best friend, who was up the road unaware of his proclaimed brother's situation. I thought of my best friends. I thought of all of you, and if and how I could deal with something like this were it ever to happen closer to home.

I can't imagine how I could.

There's no bow to tie on this. No neat way to bring it full circle. I am still stunned about how deeply this has affected me...and I wish there was a better way to say it then on an unread internet blog... but I wish him, and everyone he surrounded himself with a dulled edge to this horrible pain.

I treasure you, my friends. I don't tell you all enough.

See you on Sunday.

Sam.

Marathon Mashfest.

The ride before the Boston Marathon is a tradition. It dates back years and years. Last year was the very first time I had ever participated. Tales of its toughness, constant attacks, and blinding speed were all anyone could talk about in the preceding days.

It did not disappoint. 

In the end 4 of us made it to the finishing line before they closed Boylston. 

It was the hardest ride I had done on a bike.. by far. It was important for me to do well because it was the first chance I had to really get out with the big boys (as I was still a 5 at this point) on our team, and see where I measured up. 

I have been looking forward to this ride since the minute it ended one year ago. 

A week or two before the marathon, Lane Turner, an editor at the Boston Globe (for whom I am lucky enough to occasionally work), called me up and told me that they would be interested in covering the ride! As if I wasn't anxious enough already. Before I had time to process what was going on, Keith, Kyle, A.J. and I were being interviewed, and go-pros were distributed like candy. Delicious 720p candy. 

I might want to pause here and address a now well-talked-over and hilarious miss-wording on my part. Darren, the videographer, asked me to introduce myself on camera: 

My name is Sam Rosenholtz.

"And, tell me about yourself." He says.

Stunned I stare at the camera like some sort of dazed gazelle:

I'm a bike racer

"What kind?" he asks.

...Road

"Uh..no... Like, are you a Pro?"

No... but I do race with Pro's

"So you're a semi pro?"

I mean, I guess it's something like that... You see there are these categories...

"Semi-Pro. Got it. If you could just say that back to me for editing..."

Before I could say "elite amateur," which actually sounds way better, I was solidifying my fate, and speaking brainlessly into the camera. "I am a semi-professional bike racer." While in essence it is very much the truth, and more importantly, I am not the first to say it (Creme Bruley), I can tell by the internet backlash that it will be something I regret phrasing the way I did... but in a fun way. Sadface.

The video can be found here: Boston.com

Onto what you are probably more interested in reading about: The Ride.

Photo: Shopengarten

I arrived at Honeydew with Teammates Hughes and Smith, and Joe from Threshold cycling. Tardy and frozen, but in good spirits. We had our coffee and donuts, and chatted about the "pre-race-race" they had on the way out. The traditional "leisurely ride out" was apparently up for some interpretation. There was, apparently, an uncharacteristic flash of brilliance from Steve Hoppengarten that separated the enormous group, and allowed the antagonists to finish their own ride presumably mired in traffic and miserable. 

Photo: Shopengarten

With the baddies gone, we all made our way out towards the start line. All 60 of us. Having taken over our weekly group ride, and therefore feeling fairly comfortable addressing the spandex-ed masses, and because I had a trillion cameras attached to and directed at me, I made a few quick announcements reminding everyone not to be jerks, and to make our furious tear home a safe one.

Once we set off, our suggested neutral start was short lived as Mike Mckittrick and Andrew Krulewitz (who, I maintain, is on the wrong team) of Cambridge Bike kicked off the first of what would be an unceasing barrage of attacks. I knew the first town-line was only two miles from the start in Ashland, and I really wanted to set the tone for the ride. At the time there was a  mini break-away which contained A.J. Moran and Mike Farrar, who is also on the team. It's a pretty well established rule that you don't attack your own breakaway, and you don't chase if you have a guy in the 'move,' but as the theme for the day was: ATTACK, I decided it was a good time to begin the festivities. No later than the moment I caught poor AJ, his bike (more specifically his front derailleur) exploded magnificently. We both knew he was fated to ride the entire ride alone, as no-one on the ride was about to slow down. I had to keep drilling for Ashland because it was the all-important first, and I wanted it... And I got it.

Mike Farrar seemed to have something against riding with the group, because literally every time I looked up, he was attacking like a total lunatic. I mean that literally. Sometimes to bridge. Sometimes for a town-line. But most of the time, just for the sake of putting the hurt on everyone. It was awe-inspiring.... Very dumb... but very fun to watch. He told me later that he just wanted to get on camera.

I did my best to get on the front often and make the ride as challenging (hard) as it deserved to be. This is not normally how I ride my bike. Usually, I'm cowering behind the biggest dude I can find... but not today. I was gunning for every single town line, and to reduce the pack to the hardened few that would earn it.

We came into Newton together, and I was tired. Again, I am usually a much smarter (see also: selfish/ wheelsucking) racer. We were approaching the hills; for which my talent is world renown.

Peter Bowring, who at that point had been conspicuously absent from the days festivities, arrives at the front. I realize, quickly, that he is fresh and is about to make a move. Before he can, Mike Mckittrick Guns it on the first rise, and I counter. Pete reels us in and begins to just casually hammer up the rest of the climb. Realizing that he has all the go we need, I close my eyes and bury myself to stay with him up the rest of the climb. Ian from Back Bay, and Mike Shinall bridged from the remaining 10 chasers.

The bridge proved to be a bit too much for both of them (unsurprisingly as they had been attacking on the front all day too) as Pete and I began to hammer out a decent gap. I would pull on the flats, and Pete would drag my lifeless body over the last two hills, including heartbreak. Once the beast was done and dusted, we really got moving knowing there was nothing left to save up for. Down comm. ave, we're pushing 33. The wind is at our backs and it's all downhill to glory.

The group behind began to get themselves organized eventually, and started to stop the bleeding. When we hit the corner of Chestnut hill ave and Beacon, we still had around 15-20 seconds on them. It's three or four miles from Cleveland Circle to Boylston, but Pete and I are averaging 35mph. We had a shot.

This is pretty much where the train comes off the rails. Unfortunately, in our impossibly fast blast home, we've arrived too early, and the roads in Boston are not yet closed (end to end 26.2mi in 54 min... you do the math) Pete and I hit Every. SINGLE. Light. (so did everyone else). It made our totally heroic breakaway win (or not win) slightly less so. Our gap tumbled from 20 to 10 to... less than ten. To rub salt in the wound, we were swallowed up by the group just as we slowed down for and then missed the correct turn onto Boylston. Tragedy.

As upset as I was that I missed the opportunity to duke it out with Pete 1 on 1 for victory on an empty Boylston street,  I was MORE upset that I didn't get to give it a go in the bunch sprint. I did get a spectacular view of the fireworks. And really, upset is wild and dangerous overstatement. I was grinning like an idiot peddling by myself down that road.

This ride remains one of the most intensely fun things I do all year. I did pretty well for myself in "real" races last year, and while winning is certainly a great time, getting out with your friends and riding with your heart on your sleeve with nothing to lose makes this ride incomparable. Hearing comments like reflect the ones I felt after my first ride made me feel tremendous too. "Way faster than any road race I've done," and "Speed Vomit in the House of Rosenholtz" affirm that it was, in-fact, an epic ride.

This is a long entry, so if you've stopped reading by now I don't blame you. I do, however, want to reflect briefly on how strangely positive our little city becomes on Marathon Monday. Leaving Shinall's house after playing with a puppy and barbecuing, I began turning my tired legs down Beacon street, where hours before I had torn through like I was on fire. Hours before, there were thousands of people lining these streets. Hours before the leaders had stormed past on their record-setting runs. Literally an entire day had gone by, and yet, there were still people out cheering on TOTAL strangers as they now walked by towards Boston Proper.  They were achieving milestones, just as we had, and there were still genuinely enthusiastic people there to watch, and urge, and cheer them on. I'd say Boston is filled with d-bags a good 350 days of the year the way any city is... but every once in a while, we come through in a big way.

Good job you guys.

Photo: Shopengarten

(check in later for extended footage from all of those go-pros when we get the cards back from the globe!)

A Return to Bike Racing.

I'll begin this post as I will undoubtedly begin countless others: I have not been keeping up with this blog. Not for lack of anything interesting, and certainly not because I have had too little time... I'm not sure why really. But now that race season has unofficially officially arrived, there is suddenly a reason to chronicle my exploits beyond:

I woke up.
I got on my bike.
Four hours later, I got off my bike.
I am out of shape.
Repeat.

In the interim, I have done many exciting things with some of my favorite people. I took a training camp (vacation) to Florida, where I was able to put in the first real miles of my training since my injury. I was joined by my girlfriend Lacey (who was arguably the only one that actually needed a vacation), perpetual protagonist and general facilitator Smith Anderson, and Adam Bernstein who is ready, more often than not, to leave Boston on a whim for excitement. I also met up with all around good guy Ned Connelly, who also happened to be taking refuge from the total hellish shit-storm the North East was unleashing at the time. The trip could not have come at a better time. I was able to spin my legs for hours in the warm, return to wherever we were staying, and let the stresses of whatever was troubling us melt in a sea of over-indulgent eating and copious amounts of lying down.

Magical.

The trip to Florida was closely followed by an event that always has a big red X on my calendar. The Landry's Indoor Time Trial. It is less of a target race, and more of a great excuse to hang out with your friends, inside, drinking before 12, and calling it exercise. The goal of the day was to embarrass Smith with unrelenting power and fury that I know my legs can produce. I lost. I refuse to let it go. It was a great day.

I just returned from the last of this three-part allegory: The Virginia Training Camp. We tried to organize something similar last year, but we failed in a rather spectacular fashion. This year, however, I had 5 other intrepid souls that thought spending their spring-break in the mountains of virginia with nothing but bikes and bro's was better than getting sloppy drunk in south Florida. I can't say I don't question their decision, but I sure as hell appreciate it! The trip started for me in Plainville CT, where I entered my first race since the Mayors cup. Expecting nothing more than to be dismissed from the peloton quickly due to my hilarious fitness level, my plan was to sit in the field and do absolutely nothing. I told Keith and Mark, two teammates who joined me, that this was my plan. I had every intention of sticking to it. I would imagine, at this point, you can infer what happened.

You're right!

On the second lap, there was an attack, and I went. I went for several on the day. I've replayed the secnario in my head over and over. It wasn't that I was feeling particularly strong, it was that I had completely forgotten how to race a bicycle. Every time someone attacked, I went. It was horrible. I was horrible. After 50min of me losing feeling in my legs, we arrived with two to go. There were two away when we were on the finishing stretch. Then someone clearly saw me struggling and graciously took it upon themselves to end my race early. It was the only humane thing to do. Somewhere in between the moment he came across my wheel, and my ceremonious ejection from the race and my bicycle, I became very sad and angry. Mostly because tumbling to the ground at 28mph is unpleasant, but also because I was in fantastic position. While I know it would have been a sprint for third, it was a sprint, and I like those.

The very next day, I drove to New Jersey to meet the band of brothers with whom I would be suffering in the mountains. We consolidated our gear into two cars, and departed. 5 hours later, we arrived. Our house was much nicer than expected. Three beds, three aero beds, and a TV... what more could you ask for? The first day of riding was Epic. Far too epic for me. 77mi, 5.5 hrs, and probably somewhere in the vicinity of 3,000,000ft of climbing made for one of the hardest days I've ever had on a bike. It was followed by an 87mi day, with as near as makes no difference, the same amount of climbing. The only distinction was that most of the climbing was done in the first half of the ride. Two big BIG days, and I was
already beginning to feel it. Mercifully, it was pouring the next day, so we donned the rain gear, and did one 10mi loop of recovery. Satisfied with ourselves, we returned home to play video games and eat a disgusting amount of food (it's origins I will not mention out of sheer embarrassment). We rounded out the week with two more medium-length rides due to similarly threatening weather conditions. The first was the same 10mi loop as the previous day, however, we were able to repeat it. At the end of the loop, there is a town-line. Having been throughly embarrassed by Kyle Bruley on all but one climb (on which he still beat me, but not as  badly), I decided that it would be a good time to remind him that I am indeed faster. Once the excuses had settled, we divided the group into teams on the final lap, and designated Shopengarten, and Mike Shinall would be the anchormen in a sprint to the death. Kyle Butler and I would lead Mike, and A.J. and Bruley would lead HOP. Long story short, Mike won handily after Bruley made a slight miscalculation, and began his lead-out with 1200m to go. It was a really fun way to end the day.

It was a proper training camp. We went down with one goal: Ride our bikes. Everything else was secondary. It wouldn't have been nearly as successful or fun without the group of guys that went, and I cannot wait to do it again.

I've ridden over 1200 miles in the past two and a half months. Depending on where you stand on the spectrum of insanity that is bike racing, that falls somewhere in between "holy shit you are halfway across the country," and "you haven't been doing enough- man up." Considering the three months before this my total milage hovered right around 150, I'd say I'm doing a damn sight better than where I was in December. My goals for the remainder of this month, and the majority of next month remain the same: Big miles. I have no big priority races in March or April. I have a solid two months to continue to build my base, and come out swinging in June.  Things are looking up.

It's cold outside. Part #2

My teammate Hughes rolls up along side of me as we enter Dover center, our designated halfway point for our ride of the day, and asks this simple question: "Training with tubular tires... Great idea? or Greatest idea?" Cut to less than two miles later, where he and two others are on the side of the road peeling a newly flatted tubular tire from his front rim.

You can't make this stuff up.

 Hughes took it all in stride however, pumped up his spare, and we were back on the road in no-time. He had to endure me telling the story I just shared with you to both sets of riders scattered along the road, but we heard no complaints. He even took the last town line sprint on our way back home. Partly out of sheer determination, but mostly because everyone was too scared to contest for fear of him rolling his tire and taking down the entire group.

The thermometer said it was ten degrees warmer than yesterday, but with the two extended stops for flats, I was in just as bad a shape when I limped home this afternoon. Jens Voigt I am not.

SHUT UP...toes.

In other news, after much pondering and posturing,  I placed an order for a Powertap today. A BLACK SL+. As it stands now it will be laced to a DT Swiss rim, but I may swing by Landry's tomorrow and tell them to just put it in my Reynolds... I'm still on the fence. The point is, it's on its way, and soon I will be posting meaningless power data numbers to go along with my infinite ramblings.

Big shout-out to Ned Connelly who is officially my first subscriber! Thats right, before my family, girlfriend, teammates... teammates girlfriends... Ned thinks what I am writing has some value. So thanks Ned! More to follow as he and I and others embark on our winter training camp in Florida. It has yet to be titled, so any epic name that you can think of that encompasses friends, cycling, old people, and probably too much alcohol, feel free to pass along suggestions!

100+ miles in my legs this week. That's 100 more than last. Cautious optimism remains my battle cry... until it's time for battle.   Bon Nuit!

Hey. Guess what? It's still cold outside.

    Today I went on a ride with teammates AJ and Pete on what was a simultaneously beautiful, and unrelentingly cold day. Usually, if the temperature dips below 20 degrees, I shut myself in for yet another mind numbing hour or two on the rollers. But, as it was 21 degrees when we departed at noon, I was willing to overlook protocol to avoid spinning inside.

      The sun shone brightly all day, and in between my complaining about my worsening case of frostbite, and picking mud out of my teeth, I couldn't help being a little awe-struck. We were riding down roads we had ridden hundreds of times before as if it were the first time. It was gorgeous. We only pass two sets of other hard-men the whole ride. Everyone, it seems, has the same mentality when it comes to passing someone else on a potentially pneumonia inducing day such as today: "Hey! You are a total monster too! Have a good ride!" I am a bit of a stickler about when people don't wave or say "hi" as we pass on the road. I don't understand it... We are both doing the same thing! It's awesome! Hooray bikes! The point is, you almost never pass anyone out riding this time of year that won't first commiserate, and then acknowledge your general bad-assery. The cold makes it's own selection, and generally, only the heartiest will take up the call.

    Riding in the winter is a funny thing. Obviously, it's miserable. On the right day, you will lose all sensation in your hands and feet, not before, however, they provide you with an intense amount of pain. Your water bottle will freeze solid before you are 30 minutes from home (you may add vodka to a drink to avoid this... but you need to add enough so that you are constantly reminded of the mistakes you made the night before). You will be covered in mud and water, which in the cold, is more than a little unpleasant. Your nose is instantly useless, and your lungs will burn with each breath.

     On the other hand, riding your bike in the cold is what this ridiculous sport is all about. We don't have picturesque mountains in the North East. We don't have endless col's or cobbles. We have snow. A ton of snow.  All the time. Yes, it makes for challenging training schedules and arguably dangerous conditions, but it also makes for character-hardening, soul strengthening experiences with your friends. It's supposed to hurt. You're supposed to suffer. And at the end of your trial, you will be rewarded beyond what many others will experience in their lifetimes. Cycling is grueling and painful, but also devastatingly beautiful, not unlike this time of year...


I'm just now regaining feeling in my toes. I can't wait for tomorrow.

First Ride. Second Ride. Third Ride.

Enough is enough. It is 55 degrees on the last day of 2010. I am going for a ride. With or without my right knee. It is undramatic to everyone around me. Even my girlfriend, who has witnessed my decent into madness off the bicycle, has other things she needs to be doing.

It's dirty. And thats how I like it. 

To me, however, the earth is shaking. Fireworks are exploding with every pedal stroke. I am not even off of my street yet, and I can't wipe this disgusting smile off my face, or the tear from my eye. The air is crisp, but not uncomfortable. The sun sits low in the winter sky, casting shadows of the buildings and trees and wheels on my bike. I am listening to my brother's mix of house music (which, to this day, I am a little embarrassed to even admit), and my skin erupts into goosebumps as I stand and climb for the first time in months. People shouldn't be allowed to feel this good.

The euphoria subsides, though maybe not completely. I am aware of my knee. I am not in pain per se, but I cant stop focusing on every twinge, ache, and tickle. It is especially noticeable because my left leg feels fine. I try and analyze why, and mimic my right to the left. I twist my foot in all kinds of directions. I watch how my knee tracks. It is everywhere but where it should be.

On the return stretch, I turn my music up slightly and slow down. I focus instead on how incredible it is outside and on how much I love this.

I finished my one-hour-out-and-back ride. I have ridden 16 of the slowest miles I have ever done.

I am now cautiously optimistic about getting back on my bike. If all things go well, I will be doing base miles in no time. Fingers crossed folks.

Injury and the New Year.

It's approaching 2 months since I've been on my bicycle. A twinge in my knee has frightened me enough to abandon my two wheeled refuge in hopes that it doesn't develop into a true injury. The first month is one that almost any sane cyclist welcomes with a fair amount of glee. A season that begins in January and ends in October is sure to wear on even the most dedicated strongman. By the time the Mayor's Cup was rolling around, I was completely and utterly burned out.

This was evidenced by a ride I did one week to the day after my last race. It was the longest stretch I had been off the bike in 9 months. As I made the turn onto Beacon street, a turn I had made hundreds of times this year, and began to climb towards Cleveland Circle, I was absolutely floored. I felt incredible. I hadn't felt this much snap in my legs in months. I had no idea that I was in such a bad way! I rode out and met my teammates Mike Shinall and Brian Crosby, who were both gearing up to race The Jamestown Classic (my first and last race last season, and one that I wish I was gearing up for too).

It was that ride that I hurt my knee. At mile 20. The back of my right knee started to ache. I finished the ride. I didn't pay too much attention to it, as knee aches have come and gone all season for me. Two more days off the bike, and then a very stupid Century ride with the team and two new recruits. Same issue, except this time, I finished 65 miles after my knee began to ache.

Stupid.

More time off the bike, Halloween, the Rally for sanity, and then THE CROSS RACE. The same twinge. The same pain when I bend. This would be the last time I touched a bike. November 6th.

So here we are in the new year. Still no improvement in my stupid joint.

It's worse than that though. My legs hurt. They are sore every day. As if I have been doing intervals. When I flex. When I go upstairs. When I go down stairs. When I am sitting down. Both my thighs, calves, shins. My muscles are dying. I can feel it. It is a constant reminder of a persistent loss of fitness.  It keeps me up at night.

I weigh 165lbs. 15 lbs heavier from the end of the season. Thats big for any Cat 2.

This is a backstory to a very large, very frustrating realization. I have become obsessed with bike racing. Books and other literature tell you that this is an inevitability, and a necessity to attain any form of success. Looking back on my season last year, I can say with absolute certainty that this is true. I logged 5876 miles on my bike since mid January of last year without any hesitation. That is more, I would wager, than I drove this year.

Yes, seriously.

While I am, for the most part, unapologetic for my absolute devotion and compulsion, I have realized that I have forsaken friendships. I have missed out on opportunities. I have maybe put too much stock in this one (albeit large) aspect of my life. All of my eggs are in this cycling basket, and with it suddenly unavailable to me, I have become somewhat of a recluse. Hours and hours of my day that are otherwise occupied by a focused period of time on the bicycle, have been replaced with feverous worry and anxiety. I don't know what to do with myself. I can't seem to translate the time and energy spent on being fast into anything remotely productive.

The New Year is a saving grace for many. It is a punctuation mark which can serve as a catalyst. I haven't decided what road to take just yet. My joints still ache. My mind still wanders. My heart still races when I think of going toe to toe with anyone. I know what I want to do. It's going to be a matter of if my body will allow it...