This week, Joe Dadez and I revived my ole Trek 412 purchased in 1981 by yours truly.
The Brooks saddle came from Bill Leibman who just couldn't get used to it and graciously sold it to me. A new seat post makes for friendlier more comfortable adjustments.
Speaking of comfort, I took Bill's advice and installed Nitto's "Noodle" handlebars and their longer stem. Fresh brake levers permitted us to wrap the cables into the handlebars with Bontrager's simulated leather tape. The cocoa tape and honey brown saddle colors don't quite match-- yet.
The original Michelin tires still held their pressure, but to avoid flatting on Freeport's livelier streets, we installed new Bontrager tires and tubes.
My Vibram Five Fingers and Terra Plana "barefoot" shoes grip well enough over the MKS RMS Sneaker peddles from Rivendell.
Now, it's time to look for some touch-up paint. Master painter, Jason Sanchez from Milwaukee finishes Dave Wages' fabulous Ellis hand-built bicycles, and he suggested using Testors' model paint. Jason's good advice echoed that of my ole "geezer" buddy, Dan Dekoven, who rode his lovely Waterford with me in this May's Santa Fe Century.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Twenty Something Again
This winter, I made a New Year’s Resolution to maintain some familiarity with hill riding in our Upper Left Hand Corner. On January 16th, we explored ghostly rural roads between Massbach Ridge Winery and Hanover. On Sunday, the 24th, we revisited “Twenty Something,” a route we blogged last May.
Twenty Something begins and ends at the Salem UCC church just up the hill from the Slurp n Burp in Loran. We named it Twenty Something, because there is something close to a twenty percent assault twenty something miles into the ride.
This January, we were in forty degree wool piercing nearly dreary “sun please appear” weather. A southwest blow squelched the tinnitus in my ears as I rode into the stately Val de Loran towards Mount Carroll.
In Carroll County, I happened to look over my left shoulder to see an ominous looking earthen dam holding back Lake Carroll. I turned back to the road ahead and instinctively quickened the tempo.
Then, a deep baritone growl invaded my conscious. Glancing down through the handle bars, I was horrified to see water gushing over my tires. The peddles now turned in great earnest as I struggled to keep my rims above the rising water. This was now a race to get out the valley before being swallowed by the deluge.
Then, miraculously, the water vanished, and I remembered the possible side effects from the Analox antibiotic I was taking for a pesky sinus infection—“hear voices, see things, or sense things that are not there (hallucinations).”
Relieved, I ascended the west wall of the valley and pressed through the wind to the corner at Meyer’s Road. Now, the blow barely hissed in my left ear as I rolled through the hills and valleys of one of the loveliest roads in the Upper Left.
Meyers Road is unique, because it doesn’t follow through or cross perpendicular to the valleys. Like the path of a great mogul skier, it takes an oblique path sliding over the dales. And so, you receive a different perspective of the surrounding hills and woods.
I confess to being cheeky about a certain training camp in last May’s blog. Only recently did I learn that Blackwater’s facility trains law enforcement people in special weapons and tactics with an emphasis on tactics.
Mark Marti opened my eyes to how critical this kind of training is to preserving our freedom from fear and intimidation. Mark is recently retired from Freeport’s Police Department, and he shared his experiences as a volunteer officer for the United Nations security force in Kosovo.
There he received several letters of commendation for bringing down some truly bad guys without so much as shot fired. While producers of movies and television sell heavy armor and gunplay, real law enforcement strives to shield innocent folks like you and me from becoming innocent casualties of desperate gunplay.
Mark’s experiences echoed stories I had heard from a former Captain of the New Mexico State Police Narcotics Division. While the Cohen Brothers’ No Country for Old Men may be gripping in its entertainment, it would be refreshing to see a factual treatment of the hours of training spent by those who keep us from harm’s way?
Always grateful for a tail wind, I pressed up the 20 (something) percent grade on East Loran Road. A sweet looking lady in a shiny new Chevrolet Traverse rounded the corner as I crested the hill. She gave me the look like, “wherever did you come from?” I don’t believe she was an Avalox induced hallucination.
Finally, it was all down hill to Loran past the Slurp n Burp tavern to the little church and the heated seats in my trusty slightly rusty Blazer, Ruby.
Twenty Something begins and ends at the Salem UCC church just up the hill from the Slurp n Burp in Loran. We named it Twenty Something, because there is something close to a twenty percent assault twenty something miles into the ride.
This January, we were in forty degree wool piercing nearly dreary “sun please appear” weather. A southwest blow squelched the tinnitus in my ears as I rode into the stately Val de Loran towards Mount Carroll.
In Carroll County, I happened to look over my left shoulder to see an ominous looking earthen dam holding back Lake Carroll. I turned back to the road ahead and instinctively quickened the tempo.
Then, a deep baritone growl invaded my conscious. Glancing down through the handle bars, I was horrified to see water gushing over my tires. The peddles now turned in great earnest as I struggled to keep my rims above the rising water. This was now a race to get out the valley before being swallowed by the deluge.
Then, miraculously, the water vanished, and I remembered the possible side effects from the Analox antibiotic I was taking for a pesky sinus infection—“hear voices, see things, or sense things that are not there (hallucinations).”
Relieved, I ascended the west wall of the valley and pressed through the wind to the corner at Meyer’s Road. Now, the blow barely hissed in my left ear as I rolled through the hills and valleys of one of the loveliest roads in the Upper Left.
Meyers Road is unique, because it doesn’t follow through or cross perpendicular to the valleys. Like the path of a great mogul skier, it takes an oblique path sliding over the dales. And so, you receive a different perspective of the surrounding hills and woods.
I confess to being cheeky about a certain training camp in last May’s blog. Only recently did I learn that Blackwater’s facility trains law enforcement people in special weapons and tactics with an emphasis on tactics.
Mark Marti opened my eyes to how critical this kind of training is to preserving our freedom from fear and intimidation. Mark is recently retired from Freeport’s Police Department, and he shared his experiences as a volunteer officer for the United Nations security force in Kosovo.
There he received several letters of commendation for bringing down some truly bad guys without so much as shot fired. While producers of movies and television sell heavy armor and gunplay, real law enforcement strives to shield innocent folks like you and me from becoming innocent casualties of desperate gunplay.
Mark’s experiences echoed stories I had heard from a former Captain of the New Mexico State Police Narcotics Division. While the Cohen Brothers’ No Country for Old Men may be gripping in its entertainment, it would be refreshing to see a factual treatment of the hours of training spent by those who keep us from harm’s way?
Always grateful for a tail wind, I pressed up the 20 (something) percent grade on East Loran Road. A sweet looking lady in a shiny new Chevrolet Traverse rounded the corner as I crested the hill. She gave me the look like, “wherever did you come from?” I don’t believe she was an Avalox induced hallucination.
Finally, it was all down hill to Loran past the Slurp n Burp tavern to the little church and the heated seats in my trusty slightly rusty Blazer, Ruby.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Byrne's Bicycle Diaries
In his book, Bicycle Diaries, David Byrne circles his feet over his peddles and writes about cities he has visited around the world.
Santa Fe, New Mexico is as close as I’ve been to urban cycling. Even the central plaza in peak turista season seems a quiet neighborhood compared to Byrne’s experiences in Berlin, Buenos Aries, Istanbul, London, Manila, New York, San Francisco, and Sidney.
Although they impinge with all manner of vehicular and pedestrian traffic, Byrne finds these places worth seeing from the seat of a bike. Several cities, like Berlin, Paris, London, and New York are actively promoting bicycle use with special lanes, creative racks, and short-term rentals.
Recently in Paris, I saw locals in business attire straddling loaner bikes. Renting from Velib is as simple as swiping your credit card and plucking one of their bikes from the rack. Peddle into the Parisian traffic, and if you persevere for thirty minutes, vous payez rien.
I found Byrne’s socio-cultural, artistic, and, yes, musical commentaries thoughtful once we got through the Bush Bashing. This “Talking Head” has his views and is not bashful about bringing them along on the bike. But can you think of a better place to talk politics?
The author closes with a discussion of urban planning and future travels along the streets in his home town, New York City. He peers over the horizon where technology and legislators promise to curb automobile driving freedoms in Manhattan. And what will become of urban cycling if rallies like Critical Mass “cork” in the paths of others? Will we jeopardize control of our bicycles? More of that later, and permit me to digress.
The first time I saw the New York City was on a bright Saturday in my “72” BMW 1600. Riding shotgun was David Lipp, a fellow Army classmate who was born and raised in Chicago’s near north.
We emerged from the Holland Tunnel and drove into an empty financial district not yet shadowed by the World Trade Center. Then, only stately Trinity Church stood guard over Wall Street. Lipp and I waived off a proposition from una Madonna della strada and walked over to Fraunces Tavern where General Washington bid farewell to his officers. On the way, we passed Delmonico’s Restaurant, when a ghost appeared in my imagination. It was a cigar smoking Samuel Clemens eating sautéed sweetbreads.
Back in the Bimmer, we headed north on Lafayette where Midtown’s congestion swallowed us whole. I had driven in downtown Chicago but had never experienced anything like this cacophonous gridlock.
Lipp was a huge astronaut groupie and worshipped adventures in Outer Space. His eyes grew wide, and he cried out over the din, “I can’t believe they live here.”
Even after reading Byrne’s book, I tend to agree. Permit me to paraphrase Walt Whitman:
“Take your Manhattan streets with its powerful throbs, beating drums and the endless noisy chorus.
Give me fields where unmow’d grass, fresh corn and wheat grow and serene-moving animals teach content. Grace me with solitude and glorious hills as I cycle the Upper Left-hand Corner of Illinois.”
Santa Fe, New Mexico is as close as I’ve been to urban cycling. Even the central plaza in peak turista season seems a quiet neighborhood compared to Byrne’s experiences in Berlin, Buenos Aries, Istanbul, London, Manila, New York, San Francisco, and Sidney.
Although they impinge with all manner of vehicular and pedestrian traffic, Byrne finds these places worth seeing from the seat of a bike. Several cities, like Berlin, Paris, London, and New York are actively promoting bicycle use with special lanes, creative racks, and short-term rentals.
Recently in Paris, I saw locals in business attire straddling loaner bikes. Renting from Velib is as simple as swiping your credit card and plucking one of their bikes from the rack. Peddle into the Parisian traffic, and if you persevere for thirty minutes, vous payez rien.
I found Byrne’s socio-cultural, artistic, and, yes, musical commentaries thoughtful once we got through the Bush Bashing. This “Talking Head” has his views and is not bashful about bringing them along on the bike. But can you think of a better place to talk politics?
The author closes with a discussion of urban planning and future travels along the streets in his home town, New York City. He peers over the horizon where technology and legislators promise to curb automobile driving freedoms in Manhattan. And what will become of urban cycling if rallies like Critical Mass “cork” in the paths of others? Will we jeopardize control of our bicycles? More of that later, and permit me to digress.
The first time I saw the New York City was on a bright Saturday in my “72” BMW 1600. Riding shotgun was David Lipp, a fellow Army classmate who was born and raised in Chicago’s near north.
We emerged from the Holland Tunnel and drove into an empty financial district not yet shadowed by the World Trade Center. Then, only stately Trinity Church stood guard over Wall Street. Lipp and I waived off a proposition from una Madonna della strada and walked over to Fraunces Tavern where General Washington bid farewell to his officers. On the way, we passed Delmonico’s Restaurant, when a ghost appeared in my imagination. It was a cigar smoking Samuel Clemens eating sautéed sweetbreads.
Back in the Bimmer, we headed north on Lafayette where Midtown’s congestion swallowed us whole. I had driven in downtown Chicago but had never experienced anything like this cacophonous gridlock.
Lipp was a huge astronaut groupie and worshipped adventures in Outer Space. His eyes grew wide, and he cried out over the din, “I can’t believe they live here.”
Even after reading Byrne’s book, I tend to agree. Permit me to paraphrase Walt Whitman:
“Take your Manhattan streets with its powerful throbs, beating drums and the endless noisy chorus.
Give me fields where unmow’d grass, fresh corn and wheat grow and serene-moving animals teach content. Grace me with solitude and glorious hills as I cycle the Upper Left-hand Corner of Illinois.”
Monday, January 18, 2010
Call of the Wild
I confess I have never read Jack London’s classic. How could Buck (a dog) be “called” from sunny Santa Clara to the greed-fed violent frozen emptiness of Alaska?
January had me hoping for a little sun and light winds to explore a few rural roads that caught my attention while glancing over the Galena & Jo Daviess Road Guide. When I “Googled” these roads, I discovered Fitzgerald Lake, which lies just below a long 15% climb up Gamble Hill. And so on Friday, as I drove back from Woodbine along well cleared Brown and Bethel Roads, my hope became a calling to the wilderness.
On Saturday, winds wheezed, and the predicted sun merely peaked through the foggy frost as I swung a leg over my Salsa Las Cruces at Massbach Ridge Winery. Massbach and Derinda Roads were clear as a bell, but what would we find on Heer Road? Ice? Slush? Slop? All three?
The air nipped my nose as I turned off S. Derinda Road. To my great delight, the surface of Heer Road was chip sealed with a just a dusting of snow, salt and sand.
Curtiss Hill Road was gravel but hard packed, and Las Cruces’ Schwalbe tires gripped with confidence as I descended into a hushed valley. Halfway down, I stopped to photograph a barn and met a Peacock clinging to the peak waiting, as I was, for the sun to show itself.
Around the corner, I turned left on Gamble Hill and soon was riding along the north shore of Fitzgerald Lake. At last, the sun appeared to punctuate a particular solitude and mystery which only occurs in the hoar frost of winter.
There is a story about the ghost of an Indian chief which appears around the lake in early morning. I shifted down and commenced climbing in ernest through dark woods up the steep hill to Hanover Road.
During warm easy June cycling days, we sometimes take nature for granted. Only in January when we scarcely have a day or two together can we say we were truly called.
January had me hoping for a little sun and light winds to explore a few rural roads that caught my attention while glancing over the Galena & Jo Daviess Road Guide. When I “Googled” these roads, I discovered Fitzgerald Lake, which lies just below a long 15% climb up Gamble Hill. And so on Friday, as I drove back from Woodbine along well cleared Brown and Bethel Roads, my hope became a calling to the wilderness.
On Saturday, winds wheezed, and the predicted sun merely peaked through the foggy frost as I swung a leg over my Salsa Las Cruces at Massbach Ridge Winery. Massbach and Derinda Roads were clear as a bell, but what would we find on Heer Road? Ice? Slush? Slop? All three?
The air nipped my nose as I turned off S. Derinda Road. To my great delight, the surface of Heer Road was chip sealed with a just a dusting of snow, salt and sand.
Curtiss Hill Road was gravel but hard packed, and Las Cruces’ Schwalbe tires gripped with confidence as I descended into a hushed valley. Halfway down, I stopped to photograph a barn and met a Peacock clinging to the peak waiting, as I was, for the sun to show itself.
Around the corner, I turned left on Gamble Hill and soon was riding along the north shore of Fitzgerald Lake. At last, the sun appeared to punctuate a particular solitude and mystery which only occurs in the hoar frost of winter.
There is a story about the ghost of an Indian chief which appears around the lake in early morning. I shifted down and commenced climbing in ernest through dark woods up the steep hill to Hanover Road.
During warm easy June cycling days, we sometimes take nature for granted. Only in January when we scarcely have a day or two together can we say we were truly called.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Centurion Candidate
Just this week, I engaged in an email debate with a dear friend edited as follows:
Dave, please circulate. I am in Colorado. Liebman may be interested, Rick Long and others. http://www.centurioncycling.com/
We've been talking about this, Lyle. The admission fee is pretty steep as I recall. We can have more fun on our Tour for Cancer Century and the Cercle les Vignobles for a lot less $ ($150 for the 100 miler) and raise money for a good cause instead of lining the pockets of organizers outside our community. Nevertheless, we'll pass it on.
Certainly this is a race not a ride.
No kidding?
It is patterned after similar events in Italy. For anyone with a few competitive juices this should be investigated.
Lyle, our Cercle les Vignobles is patterned after the L'Eroica epic event in Tuscany. http://www.eroica.it/index_en.php Come ride with us around the Galena wineries, and we'll keep your heart rate at a competitive level.
It is close and an event to aim for as we do our winter training and start our Spring riding.
The Centurion isn't until August. How bout joining us closer in June for a "tune-up" at the Tour for Cancer Century?
Remember Italy has been the home for the Giro for nearly a century.
Lyle, then let’s plan to ride the 15th stage of this year's Giro which starts in Mestre just across the lagoon from Venice and finishes at the top of historic Monte Zoncolan in the Dolomites. I've talked with Trek Travel, and they will rent us bikes for the occasion. Yea, for real! If you really wanna be a stud, forget Madison; go to Italy!
Happy New Year!
Epilogue -- By definition, a Centurion is a commander of an ancient Roman company consisting of 100 men. What I wouldn’t give to have 100 people riding the Tour for Cancer Century and another 100 in our slightly epic Cercle les Vignobles. That’s $4,000 directly to our Ferguson Cancer Center if our riders each donate $20.
Dave, please circulate. I am in Colorado. Liebman may be interested, Rick Long and others. http://www.centurioncycling.com/
We've been talking about this, Lyle. The admission fee is pretty steep as I recall. We can have more fun on our Tour for Cancer Century and the Cercle les Vignobles for a lot less $ ($150 for the 100 miler) and raise money for a good cause instead of lining the pockets of organizers outside our community. Nevertheless, we'll pass it on.
Certainly this is a race not a ride.
No kidding?
It is patterned after similar events in Italy. For anyone with a few competitive juices this should be investigated.
Lyle, our Cercle les Vignobles is patterned after the L'Eroica epic event in Tuscany. http://www.eroica.it/index_en.php Come ride with us around the Galena wineries, and we'll keep your heart rate at a competitive level.
It is close and an event to aim for as we do our winter training and start our Spring riding.
The Centurion isn't until August. How bout joining us closer in June for a "tune-up" at the Tour for Cancer Century?
Remember Italy has been the home for the Giro for nearly a century.
Lyle, then let’s plan to ride the 15th stage of this year's Giro which starts in Mestre just across the lagoon from Venice and finishes at the top of historic Monte Zoncolan in the Dolomites. I've talked with Trek Travel, and they will rent us bikes for the occasion. Yea, for real! If you really wanna be a stud, forget Madison; go to Italy!
Happy New Year!
Epilogue -- By definition, a Centurion is a commander of an ancient Roman company consisting of 100 men. What I wouldn’t give to have 100 people riding the Tour for Cancer Century and another 100 in our slightly epic Cercle les Vignobles. That’s $4,000 directly to our Ferguson Cancer Center if our riders each donate $20.
Passed Winter Solstice
We’re on the other side of the Winter Solstice, and the festival of light is upon us. Well almost.
Rain all day on Christmas Eve, and I circle Ohare’s terminal waiting for Katie and Scott to retrieve their bags. Meanwhile, Satchmo Louis Armstrong recites “Night Before Christmas” on the College of DuPage’s jazz station. Finally, my Santa Feans appear at Vestibule 3E, and we are off to the Upper Left-Hand Corner of Illinois through a steady rain and holiday traffic express.
It snows all Christmas Day and all the Saturday after. We have a houseful, and grandsons Luca and Massimo make enough noise to drown out all ten adults talking at once. This is Christmas at “Condo Fondo” and surprisingly not as cramped as Linda and I feared.
Outside, the snow thickens, and we join Luca and Massi for a Saturday morning sled. In late afternoon, flakes fade, and the western sky glows faintly pink. I manage 40 minutes on the trainer imagining I’m out on Schapville Road in the glorious hills.
Now it is Sunday—the first in the last two that we won’t be riding out-of-doors. Alas, I sit at the computer thinking it will be several days until we ride in fresh winter air. Meanwhile, we’re on the trainer with my IPod time transporter.
I let music dictate tempo and intensity. The Thad Jones & Mel Lewis Jazz Orchestra drives “Little Pixie.” This is big gear high rev stuff. I “scat” along, fly my head and shoulders, and give the legs their freedom. Thad’s fabulous arrangement is nearly eleven minutes long and fills the workout time with a big sound.
We switch genres and gears to Ravel’s “Walses Nobles et Sentimentale” with solo piano by Abbey Simon. For fifteen minutes, we ride from the Noble monumental “Modere” to the sublimely Sentimentale “Epilogue.” I visualize a delicate light in the French countryside.
Finally, Butterfly and Pinkerton sing Puccini’s “Bimbi dagli occhi piene di malia.” This most lovely opera duet attests that this love and all indoor cycling are temporary. I am transported from a view of Yellow Creek to Nagasaki and hence to Tuscany.
So what would otherwise be 40 minutes of drudgery pass joyously through rhythm and imagination. Now, please let the sun come out and the thermometer rise.
Rain all day on Christmas Eve, and I circle Ohare’s terminal waiting for Katie and Scott to retrieve their bags. Meanwhile, Satchmo Louis Armstrong recites “Night Before Christmas” on the College of DuPage’s jazz station. Finally, my Santa Feans appear at Vestibule 3E, and we are off to the Upper Left-Hand Corner of Illinois through a steady rain and holiday traffic express.
It snows all Christmas Day and all the Saturday after. We have a houseful, and grandsons Luca and Massimo make enough noise to drown out all ten adults talking at once. This is Christmas at “Condo Fondo” and surprisingly not as cramped as Linda and I feared.
Outside, the snow thickens, and we join Luca and Massi for a Saturday morning sled. In late afternoon, flakes fade, and the western sky glows faintly pink. I manage 40 minutes on the trainer imagining I’m out on Schapville Road in the glorious hills.
Now it is Sunday—the first in the last two that we won’t be riding out-of-doors. Alas, I sit at the computer thinking it will be several days until we ride in fresh winter air. Meanwhile, we’re on the trainer with my IPod time transporter.
I let music dictate tempo and intensity. The Thad Jones & Mel Lewis Jazz Orchestra drives “Little Pixie.” This is big gear high rev stuff. I “scat” along, fly my head and shoulders, and give the legs their freedom. Thad’s fabulous arrangement is nearly eleven minutes long and fills the workout time with a big sound.
We switch genres and gears to Ravel’s “Walses Nobles et Sentimentale” with solo piano by Abbey Simon. For fifteen minutes, we ride from the Noble monumental “Modere” to the sublimely Sentimentale “Epilogue.” I visualize a delicate light in the French countryside.
Finally, Butterfly and Pinkerton sing Puccini’s “Bimbi dagli occhi piene di malia.” This most lovely opera duet attests that this love and all indoor cycling are temporary. I am transported from a view of Yellow Creek to Nagasaki and hence to Tuscany.
So what would otherwise be 40 minutes of drudgery pass joyously through rhythm and imagination. Now, please let the sun come out and the thermometer rise.
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