Riding in LA is Not Relaxing: The Most Craptastic Bike Ride Ever

Riding is supposed to reduce stress, right? RIGHT!?

Not in Los Angeles.

I usually try not to cuss. But in the event that someone tries to kill me, a steady flow of very colorful language begins to bubble in my brain, and it's only a matter of time until it comes out of my middle finger, or my mouth.

I cannot describe the bus that came within a quarter of an inch of running me over on a sweeping right uphill turn today. It looked like a purple 1960s VW van on steroids--twice as long and twice as tall with twice as many wheels. I thought the front of the darn thing came too close to me--then the rest of it cut the corner where I happened to be riding.

(Kinda looked like that, without the fancy paint job.)

I turned to look left, and it's a good thing I didn't swerve in the direction of my head, or I'd ve been flattened. The thing kept coming and coming and getting closer and closer and I was between it, a curb, and a nice tumble down a hill.

The finger emerged. And things I wanted to say to that mother... started brewing in my brain. He turned to park in the Malaga Cove parking lot, and I, a usually non confrontational person, decided he needed to be ripped a new one.

I waited while he wedged his purple beast into a parking spot. Back and forth. Back and forth. Finally he put it into park. Then, slowly, he opened the door on my side, apparently where he exits from the beast, and slowly put a foot onto the step down.

It was at that moment I realized I had every intention of laying it into a 60 year-old man with a cane and Mr. Magoo glasses.

My opening line, "Hey a-hole, was it really that f-ing hard to see the neon yellow vest?" would've been completely lost on the guy. He probably didn't see my acid-pee colored yellow vest. At all. Or have the spatial capacity to know what the 20 feet of bus behind him does when he turns a corner.

I gave up my adrenaline-fueled potential tirade and continued on my ride, later thinking I should've had a cop investigate the validity of the guy's driver's license.

Just when I neared the right turn from PV Drive East onto Crest, the final ascent of the "PV Loop", some guy laid on his horn. He apparently could not wait 2 seconds longer to turn right. My middle finger got antsy. My brain started churning. What I would say to that guy if he hadn't sped away like a sissy...

"Hey, a-hole," (I need a better opener) "I realize you and half of the other people who live here can't afford the houses you live in, and you're probably rushing home in your '90s era Lexus to see if there's a "Bank Owned" sign in front of your property...blah blah blah."

It's probably a good thing I always keep my cycling rage zingers to myself. I only come up with them because I have the time while I'm riding. If forced to come up with something on the spot, I'd probably have to settle with a, "Hey!...Jerk!" Not quite as snappy, but way lower on the "Erin's gonna get her arse whooped-O-Meter".

Being angry got me to the top of the climb in record time.

Finally, one mile from home, completely frazzled from what was supposed to be my "happy time" cycling, I nearly became the victim of a suicide squirreler, as described by Steve Madden in a Bicycling editorial not that long ago.

The little thing darted out at me and I thought for sure he was going to attempt to commit suicide in my wheel, terroristically killing me with him. Or mangling me. He screeched. My breaks screeched. The fuzzball wussed out at the last moment and we both went on our terrified ways.

Oh, Silver Bullet, why do I love you so? Why must I ride you every chance I get, when eating chocolate cake can provide the same endorphin rush without the piss-offifying, near-death experiences that come every time we get together?

Are You Really Supposed to Be a Triathlete?

Boulder-based ATLAS Sports Genetics (ATLAS standing for Athletic Talent Laboratory Analysis System) believes they can determine which sports a person will excel in--even if that person is an infant.

Using genetic testing for the ATCN3 gene, dubbed the "sports gene", the guys over at ATLAS Sports say they can tell you if your kid is going to be better at endurance or power sports--for only $150! If you have two R577X variants in your ATCN3 gene, you're an endurance sports winner!

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I'm not the only skeptic who believes this gives controlling, psycho parents one more reason to push their kids into something the kids might not want to do. What ever happened to the good ol' power of the human spirit in making ourselves what we want to be? Or to the character building and sense of accomplishment that comes from figuring out your strengths on your own?

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If you're a gearhead questioning your Kona bound probability, however, $150 is a lot less than an Ironman entry.

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I, for one, will keep dumping money down the M-Dot drain until I make it on my own will, double R577X variants or not!

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Check out this New York Times article, detailing the whole scenario.

To Poocasso Or Not? How to Dispose of Human Waste in the Wilderness

Perhaps I am speaking from past experience as a camp counselor in this article I wrote for TriadCamping.com.

Should you find yourself on a multi-day mountain biking adventure, or in an adventure race, this might come in handy!

"It’s natural. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You gotta do it. In fact, if you don’t do your business when you’re camping in the wilderness, you might get sick from holding it in (and wrongfully blame your stove buddy for your stomach pains!).

But it’s not always clear what you’re supposed to do with you poo. Should you make a “Poocasso”, smearing it on a rock exposed to the sun to kill the bacteria? Or is that just something a prankster camp counselor told you when you were 12 and gullible? Leaving it out doesn’t seem very civil. Packing it out doesn’t seem very fun.

If you’re on a multi-day backpacking trip in the backcountry, responsibly disposing of your waste should become second nature to pitching your tent. Remember the old camping adage: Leave only footprints, take only pictures? (Though some images would be best left to the imagination…) It’s time to practice minimum-impact, green camping!"

Click here to find out what you need to know to enjoy your trip to the fullest without harming the environment—aesthetically or bacterially...

Wear Your Freaking Helmet, Egghead!

Driving up PCH yesterday, I could not believe how many helmetless cyclists I saw.

(Still not cool in '93.)

In the words of Coachubby last night when he was given less than a full "Gotta Have It" cup of ice cream at Cold Stone Creamery, "COME ON, SERIOUSLY?!"

Riding without an helmet is the cycling equivalent of public nudity. It's like you're mooning us all with your embarassingly bare head. Or a head you think looks cool because you're wearing a cyclilng cap à la Tour de France riders in the '90s and early 2000s.

Surprisingly, most of the moronic riders I saw were men in their '40s and '50s. Having realized a sense of my own mortality in my late teens, I'd think these guys would have realized they are not Superman by now.

Even if you think you have nothing to live for, which I seriously doubt, otherwise you wouldn't be out enjoying a gorgeous ride up PCH (unless you're there for the sole purpose of blaming your death on an errant RV who can't drive between the lines), there are still a lot of people who will be adversely affected by your splattery demise.

Nobody wants to spend their Sunday scraping your brains up off the ground.

Sound gruesome? Well, that's what's going to happen if, I don't know, you accidentally hit a rock while admiring the view (like coachubby did a few years ago--he was wearing a helmet. It cracked, he didn't.), or your aerobars suddenly snap off of your bike, like what happened to David Superlucky as told by Brian Melekian in his blog. This lucky guy only became a helmet convert that morning after enduring constant heckling from his buddies.

Accidents happen. Ones that don't involve cars or other people. And while CHP officers sometimes refer to helmets as "head caskets", they're talking about the helmets of motorcycle riders who crash doing 80mph.

Unless you're going for a land-speed cycling record, a helmet might be the only thing standing in the way between you and the afterlife. And don't think you'll be going to heaven---you were highly inconsiderate in your last waking moments by not wearing a helmet.

No, helmets can't save your life all of the time, but they have consistently been the only thing sitting between cyclists and permanent purgatory as a living vegetable.

Just ask David.

The Silverman Triathlons: The Planet's Toughest Tris Just Got Tougher

Participants in Nevada's Silverman half and full iron-distance triathlons don't get t-shirts that say "World's Toughest Athlete" on them for no reason.

Each grueling race starts off with a plunge into Lake Mead, followed by endless climbs and descents on the bike and run courses. The full-distance participants will have climbed and descended 10,000 feet before starting the marathon.

But the gods didn't seem to think the course was tough enough on its own this year (either that, or they didn't appreciate the race announcer's endless sarcasm) , and threw some lightening, hail, torrential downpours, relentless headwinds, freezing temperatures, and wind gusts into the mix.

The beautiful, clear 75-degree day before the race was just a lure to get last-minute entries.

Coachubby and I were there to cheer on several friends--one of whom was brave enough to go for full-distance glory. That race started at 6:30am sharp. Though the skies looked dark, the water was calm and a comfortable 70 degrees. It all changed at the turn-around.

The wind started a strong current against the returning swimmers. Then came the rain, and the swimmers struggled to breathe with waves crashing into their faces.

Almost two hours after they started, the majority of the full-distance racers exited the water. The half start was postponed from 8am to 9am, but the weather continued to worsen.

Robyn, my full-distance superstar, looked beat up coming out of the lake. She said she was tired. Coachubby and I told her she'd feel better on the bike--hills are her element.

Then we sprinted to the car to get out of the cold and rain and watch Robyn take off in her little spandex outfit while our other friends awaited their race start.

Just as the half participants made it to their swim turn around, two huge bolts of lightening streaked across the sky.

When they had all finally mounted their bikes for the beautiful, but relentlessly hilly, desert ride, coachubby and I drove the course to find them so we could cheer them on, and I could play race photographer. Ah, the joys of an open course.

By the time we caught Robyn, she was already at mile 40 of the bike. She told us it had hailed on her, but she was feeling ok now--pretty impressive considering I immediately froze upon rolling down the car window to talk to Robyn, and she was wearing a soaking wet spandex outfit. The uphills were good for heating up, but the downhills would chill her to the bone.

Somewhere down the road, coachubby got food poisoning. So after cheering Robyn through the turn-around, he high-tailed it back to the hotel for some face time with the toilet, taking a few minutes to help a peppy guy named Aidan fix a flat.

After a pep talk with his gastrointestinal system, coachubby exited the bathroom so we could be there for Robyn for the rest of her epic journey.

At 4:30pm, she came in off the bike--with a new red cycling jacket. In a final act of chivalry, a fellow participant gave it to her when his legs perished at mile 100.

The sun set soon after, and although Robyn thought she might not be able to run when dismounting her bike, she charged out of the change tent and onto the run course just as the race announcer called out the names of several of our half-distance friends as they crossed the finish line.

With only 143 participants, the full-distance race gets pretty spread out by the time the run starts, accentuating coachubby's point that it's a mental race. You're all alone much of the day. There are no m-dot crowds. Just you, your thoughts, and a few close friends if you're lucky.

When Robyn came by on mile 17 of the run, we walked together for a little bit. The run course was amazingly calm. A strange lunar landscape popped up at the top of a hill, and the turn around was just a sign in the middle of a deserted, dark residential street. Descending a large hill, she could see all of the lights of the Las Vegas strip. It was awesome.

Robyn kicked it in the last half mile to ensure she'd beat the two dudes behind her.

Unfortunately, I could not find triathlon legend, Dave Scott, to get a picture with Robyn. It seems he pooped out a couple of hours before she finished!

All in all, Silverman is a first-class race. It captures the original spirit of triathlon--about friends coming together to enjoy the outdoors--without giving off the over-commercialized aura from which many other ironman events now suffer.

Silverman has better swag than any other race I have ever been to. Racers and spectators are encouraged to help an athlete in need. The course is tough enough, so it's ok to get out and help someone change a tire. He won't get disqualified. If you want to jog the run course with a friend who's racing and wants your support, you won't get your friend in trouble. If a racer throws her clothes at you in a rare heat wave, she won't get in trouble for "abandonment". And the food at the end of the race is for EVERYONE, not just the racers.

The race is about finishing and the spirit of the triathlon community. Don't be surprised to see a guy or three in basketball shorts, with platform pedals, and down-tube shifters taking on the full iron-distance course.

So if you can make it out to Silverman next year, and believe you have the mental and physical tenacity to brave whatever the gods throw at you then to make the course even more interesting, do it. You bet I will, provided the hambutt heals by then. (And that I learn to not be such a cold-weather wuss.)

Robyn, you are my hero.