My Chariots Of Fire.

The correct number of bikes to own is N+1, where N is the number of bikes you already own, and 1 is actually 3. I've owned many bikes in my time in cycling. If I had the option, I would have kept each and every one of them. Unfortunately, money and physical space are limitations that plague even the most persistent lunatic cyclist. Each bike, as you probably know, has a story. It's own journey that has, for whatever length of time, intertwined itself with yours. 

I have a tendency to anthropomorphize inanimate objects.

I have an especially hard time with bicycles. 

So, with that in mind, I would like to take some time to tell you the tale of some my bikes. Each one has a storied history, which I think will add much needed depth and background to anything you are going to read on this site.  So, without further adieu, I present you with part one in a potentially endless series:

The Orbea.  

The Battle-Axe

Three weeks after moving to Cambridge for school, my first race bike, a bright yellow Univega, was stolen from Porter Square. The cut U-lock, still hanging impotently on the parking meter, seemed to snicker at me: "Welcome to Boston. Good Luck." It was as if they had stolen my teddy bear. It was my ticket to exploring the my new city, unencumbered by its hilarious excuse for public transportation. And it was gone. Forever.

Two weeks of suffering the Red Line later, I had replaced it with this. A used, aluminium Orbea Starship. It was a vast improvement over my Univega to be honest, and I was smitten, but it would have the impossible job of filling a void left by my first real bicycle. It was a monumental task. In the six years I've owned it, however, it has evolved into something undeniably important.

I've raced it.  I've crashed it (Twice).  I've rebuilt it (three times). 

It has been adorned with full grouppos from all 3 of the major component manufacturers, and in its current configuration, it weighs north of 25lbs. It has served, tirelessly, as my winter war hammer. Swinging the heavy bat this entire offseason makes me feel like I am stepping on bombs when I climb aboard my little plastic race bike.

If you asked me which is my favorite bike, I'd have to think about it, but I'd probably tell you it was this one. Which makes its impending journey a bit more special.

In two weeks, it will become my little brother's first road bike. His first real bike now that I think about it. The idea that I am in a position to (finally) share a little slice of cycling with him, and with this specific bike, is incredibly special to me.

Look at the size of that cassette!!!

He's not quite as sentimental as I am. I'm sure he wont name it... or wash it for that matter. But, if it's able stir his soul even a tenth as it does mine, he'll be able to appreciate what a special little machine this is, and what a gift this gift is to me.

I've bought it, and him, and entire new drivetrain, and will garnish it with ultralight wheels and every spare bit of carbon I can bare to part with. I will get it back down to fighting weight, return it to it's former glory, and give this, Il dono della corsa, to someone who means the world to me.

I'll be desperately sad to see it go, but I'm thrilled to know where it's going.  

Charge Pond.

Charge Pond is a body of water buried deep in the bowels of Myles Standish State State Park. It is traced by a small ribbon of tarmac. Tales are told of a Field Of Dreams-type scenario where dozens of skinny men on plastic bicycles converge, seemingly by instinct, on what has to be the most out-of-the-way-middle-of-nowhere-desolate criterium in existence.

I arrived, having taken a bit of a hurried, unwanted tour of most of the park. I quickly reg'd, dressed, and hopped on the bike with my teammate, Sean Casey. There is a funny thing that happens when you swing your leg over your bike moments before a race. Sometimes your legs say: "EFFFF YEAH BABY! LET'S DO THIS!" Other times your leg's say: "Ruh Roh..." Today, was the latter. The first few pedal strokes felt like I was riding in sand, and it didn't get any better. Usually I give myself a solid 30 minutes before I make any final decisions about how I'm actually feeling, but I didn't have that luxury today. We joked about how poorly we both felt, and how the strategy would be to sit in and play it by ear...

We lined up just after Ned Connelly stomped out a win in the B race, and were off sooner than I was able to process. Worse than that, it was IMMEDIATELY animated by a few jokers, including a traitorous brute by the name of Pete Bowring (we miss you Pete).

Lap one: Early attacks flurry off the front, and string out the field.

Lap two: More of the same. At some point the field reels in a break, and as they are coming back though the bunch, someone swerves and tensions begin to run high.

General antagonist and Metlife top dog Peter Bell, decides he's seen enough, and jumps clear of the field. Considering how fantastic my aforementioned sensations are, naturally, I chase him down.

Lap. Two. Great job Sam.

I'm not exactly sure what happened, but we suddenly had ourselves a solid little gap. We kept trading pulls, and I did my best not to look over my shoulder. My legs were already seizing, and I was wondering why the field was refusing to give me sweet relief and reel us in. We were alone for about a lap before Bowring, Pete's teammate Ben, and a Keough (of the famous Keoughs...) made the jump across. It was now five of us. I settled into the pain cave a little bit, as Bell took horrendous monster pulls, during which I would curse at him under my breath, and wish for his rear tire to go flat so that I could retreat to the field.  He was doing the lionshare of the work to be sure, and I wasn't about to change it.

The laps started to tick by. Eventually, Ben had to pull the ripcord and go back to the bunch, leaving the four of us to toil in the wind. I was going cross-eyed, but I was bolstered by the fact that we were well clear, and all I had to do was outkick these fools at the end. Yes. At the time, that was still a consideration.

Landen, yet another Metlife teammate, flatted almost immediately, but remained in high enough spirits to cheer (jeer) us on, yelling gems like: "WHY IS ROSENHOLTZ STILL IN THE BREAK?!"

Thanks Lando.

Around five to go, Mark (The Shaaahk) McCormack, bridged to our happy little group, and that's about where it all started to unravel for me. I looked at the (nerd) data from the race, and our laptimes dropped by about 15-20 seconds when he joined us. I was already pretty close to thrashed, so this increase in speed was to be my death-nail.

I have immense respect for that dude, so every time I got to the front, I drilled it a little bit harder before I pulled off. I had no intention of sitting in. Unfortunately, it turned out to be my undoing.

I started to dangle with three to go... keeping them in sight for the better part of the lap.
With two to go... they were out of sight, and I was soloing, feverishly, holding off the thundering group behind me. Dreams of solo glory danced in my brain... even if it was for 6th, I was in the break! That would have been a great day for me.

Cruelly, I was caught at the last corner.

After I had collected my accidental midway prime winnings, P. Bell, Ben, Sean and I headed out for a bit of a cool down ride.

Despite their labyrinthian qualities, the roads at Myles Standish are ones that come to mind when you recall your favorite rides. Winding, rolling, sometimes beautifully paved, with nothing but trees and the occasional puppy riddled family.

Lovely.

Yes, today could have gone better. I could have sat on for a lap and limped home in the group. I probably should have done. I can't help but think... what's gonna happen when I feel good at the start of the race? What lunacy will unfold?

The fact of the matter is, it was, yet again, a tremendous day on my bicycle, with some great friends. You can't really ask for anything better than that.

I'm feeling good sports fans. Till next time.

We're getting there.

It's been almost a full year since I've written a blog entry. There are many excuses that I've come up with pertaining to the reason, though, none are particularly convincing. The plain hard truth is, I fell a little out of love with cycling last year. I had a bad start to my season with two dumb crashes and a broken wrist. My fitness and, I think, mindspace suffered as a result. I was struggling, and I wasn't having fun. You tend to avoid spending time thinking, let alone writing about something like that.

Some call it burn out.
I would be one of those people.

It wasn't an entirely unsuccessful season by any stretch. I had a bunch of top tens in big-boy-pro-races. I think in comparison to the preceding season, any amount of success I achieved would have paled in comparison. I told myself this numerous times, but I don't think I ever believed it.

Obviously, a lot has happened in my little bubble of cycling since the last time I felt like being outwardly introspective in blog form. So I'm going to bring you up to speed.

-The 2011 season ended, ceremoniously, with The Mayors Cup.
-I took 2 weeks off the bike.
-I started riding again. In November.
-I waited for the snow that never came, with the rest of you.
-My best friend moved across the country.
-I took my now annual pilgrimage to Florida to get some serious       miles in.
-I got rained on for 2 straight weeks, despite how that photo looks.
-I came home and kept riding.
-Some other trivial things happened.

There. You are now caught up.

Somewhere along the road, I started to feel stronger. I couldn't really place a time exactly, but I started to feel like I used to. Almost two years ago.

Then, Bethel. 

Something that probably deserves it's own post, but in an effort to not overwhelm, I'll try and give a cursory overview of the first race of the year.

If you were to ask me the big question of where it all started, I would probably tell you: "Bethel." The Bethel Spring Series is a hallowed set of races. It is probably the most serious you are allowed to take a training race. Teams arrive 10 deep, in new kit, glistening in embro, eager to notch their first results of the season. This is true for everyone, regardless of what they say about how it's "just to get some training in" or how "poor their fitness is in the early season." Men come to The Bethel Spring Series to win The Bethel Spring Series. And that's and end of it.

I know this, because I had donned the yellow leaders jersey once before. Yes, it was as a CAT 5, but completely irrelevant. Shut up.

I'll cut right to the quick. I was having a tough race. I felt uncomfortable, and tired, and like my legs were made of stone. Twice I almost touched wheels, reminiscent of the early days on that oval. I had already lost the race mentally, as I tend to. It's a bad habit.

This concession eventually lead to my liberation, however. With two to go I was too far back. With one to go I was farther back than I would have preferred. This meant that I spent some unnecessary time in the wind when, generally, you shouldn't... more items I kept slotting away in my self-defeat-piggybank. I ended up in third wheel for the group sprint, and was forced into a very, very early attempt (final deposit).

Then, I uncorked a sprint. A sprint I had already deemed ineffective and poorly timed, and doomed from the start.

I was too busy being nervous about my mistakes to realize I had put 4 bike lengths between me and the field. Once I crossed the line I looked back and started to breathe again.

This one win has had a profound effect on me. In my first successful attempt, my confidence came flooding back, and I can't, for the life of me, remember why I was doubting myself.  

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I have wheels. Like I want to line up, elbows out, and demonstrate what I can do. I have something to prove. It's a great feeling.

So yeah. More to come I guess. 2012. The end of the world.