The Breaks

I don't normally post non-bike content. However, this trip is somewhat related because it was definitely in jeopardy due to my broken wrist. Which was, you know, totally bike related.

Our trip would be spent in Cancún and Cozumel. In hindsight we probably should have made some adjustments to our itinerary as soon as I broke the bone, but we figured in six weeks I would be in much better shape than I was.

Our flight was a red eye out of San Francisco, so we drove to Concord and took BART the rest of the way. Here Jenn is ready for bed at 10 p.m.

This is the "please stop taking pictures" face.

We landed in Cozumel sometime the next morning, hoisted our backpacks, and headed outside to find a taxi to the dock. From there we took the ferry to Playa del Carmen where we rented a car. From there we would drive to Cancún.

I took a number of pictures highlighting all the damage just to protect myself.

Jennifer wasn't keen on driving in Mexico, so I told her I would. Unfortunately, this was under the assumption the car would be an automatic. When I asked the rental guy he said, "No automatics, señor." So I had to utilize my left hand to drive, which I hadn't done since the accident.

I had driven extensively in Europe, which can be pretty crazy, but Mexico was a bit different. The Carretera Cancún-Tulum (Highway 307) was pretty straightforward except for the random speed bumps that came out of nowhere. One minute you're doing 110 km/h and the next there are bumps manned by heavily armed police. Why? No clue. Also, the speed limit changes seemed pretty random. I tried to stay around the speed limit, but most cars were flying by me going very fast. There were a LOT of nice cars, but also a lot of old beaters struggling to keep up.

Once we neared Cancún things became much more interesting. The roundabouts were a complete free-for-all with cars, scooters, bikes, motorcycles, pedestrians and even a donkey cart jockeying for position. It seemed crazy and chaotic to us, but I'm sure for the locals it's normal and routine.

We arrived at our hotel completely frazzled and exhausted from our very long and stressful journey from Sacramento. Here Jenn is very relieved to be there.

Me? Cool as always, baby.

The drive took its toll on my wrist, so I needed to ice it. I asked the girl at the front desk, "¿Dónde está la máquina de helado?" She looked at me like I was crazy and said, "No sé." I asked two more people with similar results. When we got to the room I plopped down on the bed frustrated, my wrist throbbing. I laid back and played the scenes over in my head. Then I realized my mistake. "Shit," I said, "ice is hielo. I've been asking for the ice cream machine!" We got a good laugh out of that. Once I used the right word, I had a bag of ice in no time.

This is El Shrimp Bucket. We ended up eating here a couple times. Maybe this is referencing the Chum Bucket from SpongeBob?

Cheesy tourist picture from El Shrimp Bucket.

Big fella on the lagoon side in Cancún.

The view from our room.

Crazy blue colors.

A little bit of the hotel grounds and the beach.

Our hotel was OK, but they were very aggressive about timeshare presentations from the minute we walked in. Finally they broke us down and we agreed to go to one.

They took us down the highway to a resort somewhere south of Cancún where we were essentially held captive for six hours. We enjoyed a nice meal and were given a bottle of tequila. Then the hard sell came. We said no to everything for hours, but they were relentless. Finally, they gave up on us and we were allowed to leave. It was an awful experience and we will never stay at the Gran Melia again.

One thing we really enjoyed was our morning fruit. Pretty much every fruit tasted better in Mexico.

One day the wind really whipped up and the red flags came out. No beach access.

Empty.

Another iguana.

I had to keep an eye on these two. Dude's a total clown, but he does have that nice head of red hair going for him. And really big feet . . .

After not touching the rental car the entire time in Cancún, we drove it back to Playa. The rental guy was really nice when we rented the car, so I handed him the bottle of tequila when we walked in. It must have been good stuff, because he was very, very happy. He asked us where we were staying in Cozumel and I told him the Palace. He nodded and said, "You will enjoy your stay, amigo." I thought, OK.

It turned out he was connected. We later learned that he had called ahead of our arrival at the hotel and put in a good word. When we arrived at the Cozumel Palace we were treated like VIPs and very much taken care of for our entire stay. It's funny what one act of kindness can do.

One of the things we did in Cozumel was a submarine trip. When we first saw it I thought, damn, that looks small. And it was.

When they first took us down there wasn't much to see. I wasn't immediately impressed.

Then we approached a reef and the fish started to appear.

As we crept closer the colors became more evident.

Jenn peering out the window.

Run silent, run deep.

Look closely and there is a sea turtle center frame.

Happy to have survived our submarine adventure.

Yet another iguana.

The view of the clear waters of Cozumel from our balcony.

If Jenn looks unhappy, it's because this is the last day.

Goodbye, Cozumel.

Overall it was a good trip. My broken wrist forced us to really kick back and relax more than we would have normally, and in a way it was a good lesson. Sometimes we try to cram too much into a short vacation and it ends up being a little stressful. Except for the driving, this was a pretty relaxing week.

Later.

Back

I finally got back on the bike yesterday for the first time since the surgery. I had to keep my tiny little arm elevated to keep it from swelling.

This morning it's sore and stiff. I'm told this will be the new normal going forward after workouts and physical therapy.

Tonight we leave for a vacation to Cozumel and Cancun. This was already scheduled before the crash. The situation isn't optimal, but we'll make do and try to have fun anyway.

Later.

Cutting Update

 I had my four-week post-op appointment today. Apparently things are looking good?

Looks like a freaking mess to me, but what do I know.

Later.

Knife

 I had surgery last night. Successful, I guess. Pics or it didn't happen.

When someone cuts through your skin and tendons and whatnot, and puts a bunch of screws in your broken bones, it sort of hurts. Who knew?

Later.

Race Report: 2008 TBF Challenge #1

Not a great day at the races.

The day started well enough. I was looking especially dapper before the start, and perhaps a little menacing—the unshaven mystery man in black.

The picture above probably doesn't look that special, especially to anyone familiar with mountain bike racing. It's just a racing picture, the likes of which you could see on hundreds of racer-guy blogs just like mine. To you, it says very little.

You can't see any skin, so it's probably cold. The trees are void of leaves. Some guy is glued to my wheel. I'm either smiling or grimacing. Our numbers are pinned to the front of our jerseys. We're on single speeds. The course looks boring. That's about it. Far short of the requisite thousand words a picture should tell.

I can add a few details. January. Completing the first lap of a two-lap race. A bitter north headwind. A flapping number. I muster a smile for my cheering spouse. I'm oblivious. Care-free. And minutes away from my first real injury in 29 years of racing. Wrist. Broken. Shattered. Shadoobie.

It was a TBF race held out at Granite Bay on Folsom Lake. I had done a number of TBF races in the past. They are expensive, and the course isn't very exciting, but they are only 30 minutes from my house. I used to live less than a mile from a ride that included parts of the race course, so I know the area well.

Race day began like any other except for the bizarre request at registration to pin our numbers to the front of our jerseys, something I had never done in all my years of racing. The front? Really?

It was windy that day, and the number flapped about and made a lot of noise. It crackled with nearly every pedal stroke. Did it distract me enough to make a big mistake on the course? Maybe, but probably not.

I don't want to go into a blow-by-blow account of the race, because there isn't much to tell, so I will get to the juicy part. Basically the guy you see on my wheel was there for about eight miles, and he was really getting on my nerves. When you are racing against a guy with similar ability with just one gear, it's not uncommon to ride together for prolonged periods. It's not like you can put it in the big chainring and attack. But to sit behind someone for that long on a windy day and not take a single pull is not cool.

So unfortunately I lost my cool. I decided to either get rid of him or blow up trying. I knew a little area with some technical sections was coming up, so I hit the gas. If I could get a gap I thought I could hold it to the finish.

There was an S-turn with a big granite boulder in the middle of it that you ride up and over. I went into the first turn way too fast, swung too far outside over the top, then ended up too far inside on the second turn. I clipped a smaller rock and went down.

Typically one wants to tuck-and-roll in this situation, and I always have in the past, but there was a rock heading straight for my face. Instinctively, I put my left hand out to protect myself and that was that.

The stolen pictures below tell the story:










I popped up quickly and grabbed my handlebar with my right hand as I stood up. As I tried to grab the left grip I totally missed. I thought, hey, that's weird. When I looked down I realized why: my hand wasn't anywhere near where it was supposed to be. I actually tried to start riding but the photographer who took these pictures stepped in front of me and talked me out of it.

I have been riding a bike since I was four years old, and racing since I was 12. Crashing for me is fairly rare, and even when I do it's typically been mostly minor—a scrape, a bruise, a cut, a separated shoulder. I broke some ribs once, but I don't really count that as a "broken bone" per se. No, this was a full-on major injury, my first.

It did not hurt that much, so I didn't actually think it was broken. I figured my wrist was dislocated and we'd make a quick trip to the doc, get it popped back into place, and I would be riding the next day. But the X-rays showed the radius broken into four pieces.

The result was surgery, a plate and I think 12 screws. I will be in rehab mode for a while with significant time off the bike. It's a bummer from a cycling standpoint, but it's also going to greatly affect day-to-day life and put a burden on my family. We also have a vacation scheduled that is now in jeopardy. We'll see what happens with that.

Later.

Race Report: 2007 Sacramento Cyclocross #5

Question: What is harder than racing cyclocross?

Answer: Racing cyclocross on a single speed.

Friday on the way home from work I suddenly had a thought pop into my head out of the blue: I wanted to race cyclocross on Saturday. The only problem I could see with the plan was the complete and utter lack of a cross bike.

So what to race? I could have raced the geared Karate Monkey, but it's just such a tank; nobody should have to carry that thing over a barrier. I considered changing the gearing on one of my single speeds and racing that. Then it occurred to me what would be the perfect bike for the Granite Bay course—my grocery store bike.



I figure my Miyata 210 hails from the 1970s. It's so old, it has no water bottle or shifter braze-ons. I had already converted the front end to a somewhat cyclocross configuration. I just needed to figure out how to get it shifting right; downtube shifting wasn't going to cut it. After thinking about all the work involved in changing out all the parts, I decided it would be easier to just strip the gears off.

So as I was driving I tried to figure out what would be a good single speed gear. A 2:1 on a mountain bike is everyone's starting point, but I figured it needed to be a higher ratio for cyclocross. I thought a 39x18 might be about right. I jumped off the freeway and hit the only bike shop on the way home, Bicycle Planet. They had a great selection of Surly cogs—everything except an 18. I grabbed a 17 instead.

Since it was payday, we went from the bike shop to Costco for our monthly shopping. As usual, the store was a complete zoo. After shopping, unloading, making dinner and eating, I wasn't in the mood for working on the bike. It would have to wait until morning.

The next morning I stripped off the rack, gears, etc. I borrowed the solid axle from a single speed and installed it in the rear wheel. I eyeballed a good chainline and put the 17t cog on there with a bunch of spacers I cannibalized from a spare cassette. I shortened up the chain, re-adjusted the brakes and installed the clipless pedals. I finished the bike about 20 minutes before I had to leave. Sweet.



I ran around the house grabbing what I needed, threw Spencer (and Jenn) in the truck, and headed out. We arrived at the race with 25 minutes to spare. I registered, dressed and hopped on the bike. The gearing felt a little tall. The seat was a bit low with clipless pedals. After a quick saddle height adjustment, I was ready to go.

I rode a bit of the course to get a feel for the bike, and did one set of barriers. It was the first dismount I had attempted in three years. It was not pretty. I rolled to the start line with four minutes to spare.

I was racing in the open single speed class, which means that any age or ability is welcome as long as you have one gear. Typically you have a couple guys who are A-level racers. We were racing with the 18-34 Bs and would do 45 minutes, which equated to five laps. There were seven single speeds and 18 Bs for a total of 25. Pretty low turnout, but probably typical. I think most cross racers are over 35 years old.

We took off and I was sitting in the top five. Blazing down a wide path three abreast, I was surprised how fast I could go with the 39x17 gearing. As the road funneled down to a right turn onto some singletrack, I let a number of people cut in rather than get tangled up in a crash. After about a half lap, I took a peek behind me to see nobody. Once again I was the last guy in the first group.

One of the single speed guys pulled away and was never seen again. He was very fast, and won the overall race. There was one other single speeder in front of me, and he too was quickly pulling away.

On the second lap four of us fell off the back of the lead group, and I would stay with this group, all geared racers, for the rest of the race. My barrier technique was as rusty as the bike I rode. There were two sets of barriers per lap. Every time we hit a set of barriers, I would lose ground to my three companions and have to chase back. My sloppy technique cost me a lot of time.



When we hit the line for the fourth lap there wasn't a soul behind me. I figured I had third place single speed locked up. My group was slowing and really holding me up in the singletrack, but I wasn't worried because I couldn't catch second place and there was a huge gap behind me. All I had to do was ride it out. Or so I thought.



Towards the end of the fourth lap, I looked back and a guy on a white bike was coming, and moving fast. Where the hell did he come from? As I neared the finish he got close enough that I could see he was rolling one gear. Damn! I put the hammer down and cursed my lackadaisical attitude. I should have been on the gas instead of sitting in.

Going through the barriers at the end of lap four, my group started playing cat-and-mouse to see who would lead up the long straightaway into the strong headwind. They had me boxed in, so I made a little bit of a reckless move to get between them. As I squeezed through, one of the guys punched me on the hip. I really wanted to tackle his ass, but I was more concerned with putting some distance between myself and the guy coming up behind me.



I dropped the geared group on the wide path, and the single speeder chasing me also got around them. He made up ground quickly and nipped me right before we turned onto the single track. I was right on his wheel when we hit a hill that was pretty tough the fifth time up, and he gapped me. I was on the verge of blowing up, so I backed off the throttle a bit. He quickly pulled away. Bye-bye podium finish.

Now the three musketeers were back, and I held them off as long as I could, but eventually all three went around me during the last lap. I let them go; they weren't in my class anyway, although I would have enjoyed beating the guy who punched me.

At the finish I was fourth in the single speed class, and 10th out of 25 overall. I was pleased with my effort, since I'm certain I was the oldest guy out there, and I hadn't raced cyclocross in three years.

Later.