It’s an excuse-making time of year. With apologies to our friends in the southern hemisphere, we are just thawing out of a challenging winter here in New England. At no other time of year is the gulf between my form and the form of my co-riders so evident.
Some of us have persevered, ridden through the snow and slush and ice, and still have our legs under us. Others of us (ahem!), were not so stout and imperious. Some of us still need miles like Europe needs solvent banks. Some of us need to do some sand-bagging.
Now let me be 100% clear. You should not be a sand-bagger. We here at RKP do not condone sand-bagging. What you really ought to do is show up for any ride you can, ride as hard as you can, and keep the excuses to yourself. That’s how you ride a bike.
No matter how many times I’ve told myself to shut my mouth and take what I have coming to me, for some reason, when I’m out of shape, I am constitutionally incapable of not sand-bagging, not uttering some pathetic non-excuse excuse before I roll out with a friend or group.
I will say, “Go easy on me. I didn’t sleep last night,” or “Don’t expect much, I played soccer last week (last year) and did something to one of my hips,” or “I think one of my rims is rubbing.” Of course, the last think I would want my companions to think was that I was actually just slow, or worse, lazy.
This week’s Group Ride is looking for your best excuses, your best sand-bagging. I am not saying that I want to put all your best ideas to use (I do), but just that I want to find like-minded souls, the folks who haven’t been keeping after it, to commiserate with, if not to ride with, a laughing group, if you will.
Yesterday morning I joined some friends for our standard Wednesday ride, a late-rolling affair that’s as much a refuge from the normal work day as it is workout. Most of them know the score and asked how the Deuce is doing. In most cases all I could do was shake my head and say “Not good. The doctor’s want to operate.”
I’m not always the chattiest of riders and this was an occasion when I quickly realized that things would be better if either I was at the front and pulling or at the back out of the matched pairs. On the climb up Mandeville Canyon, where residents are known to have all the friendliness of the Taliban (only one car buzzed me as I rode on the white line on this trip up), I made a heavy surge near the bottom and took my bloodstream to a beat below boil. The desire was less to see how fit I was than to inspect the toll the stress was taking. I reasoned that following a single hard pull I should be able to recover and stay with the group, unless the stress really was that bad. In that event, I knew after a single effort my body simply wouldn’t recover and I’d be left doing the bicycle equivalent of strolling through the mall.
At the top a friend said, “You held it pretty long.” That’s a polite way of saying I had had a single, foolish, pull in me and after hanging on the group for a while following my effort one tiny surge by another rider demonstrated that recovery was for people in hospitals, not me, and I shot out the back of the group.
When the group stopped for coffee in Santa Monica that gave me a chance to split off and head straight for home. I could only muster middling effort; 21 felt like 25, but I pressed hard as I considered what options the Deuce might have.
The surgeon hadn’t called. Why not? Would the doctors continue to tell us that it was okay to wait but they would suggest doing the surgery now? What would happen if we chose to wait?
Even as I was walking through the garage I was pulling my phone from my back pocket. I had a text from my wife and a message from the head of the NICU. The surgeon was at the hospital. He wanted to meet with us. He’d had back-to-back surgeries the night before which is why we didn’t get a call.
I drank my recovery shake in the shower.
The drive to the hospital seemed to be going well until I looked down and noticed I was doing 85. “Easy there chief,” I said to myself. “The hospital is likely to last another four or five hours, at least.”
The head of the NICU and I spoke on my drive and I told him I’d meet with the surgeon when he was available. “I’m really thinking about this, aren’t I?” I said out loud in the car.
Rapport is something for which there is no saccharine. No substitute will suffice. Either you build it with someone, or you don’t. I’d met the surgeon briefly a day or two into Matthew’s stay at the NICU so when he walked up, I recognized him, but what he said, “I recognize you. We spoke shortly after your son was admitted, I believe,” came from a personal place. It was something the doctor/parent relationship did not require, but it was just the thing to break the tension. With that, he asked me what questions I had.
“What I’ve struggled to understand is exactly what his current condition is, just how much effusion there is, how much fluid he’s giving off on a daily basis.”
“It doesn’t really matter. This is a binary problem. Either his duct is leaking or it isn’t. It’s leaking. How much isn’t really important. We’ve tried the two therapies there are other than surgery. Just waiting and letting him develop didn’t work. Adding Octreotide and waiting didn’t work either. In my eyes, we are out of options other than surgery.”
The hyper-logical geek in me loved that he’d used the phrase, “binary problem.” I couldn’t not see his point. Yet, despite his clarity and rational evaluation, he had a warmth to his responses and a relaxed manner as he slouched in the chair next to mine that was more disarming than that of a hostage negotiator.
He then told me about the surgery and how he would try to do it laparoscopically, via a tiny incision in his side and aided by an even tinier camera. Our consent would give him permission to make a big incision in his chest if necessary, but he would try to avoid that if possible. I drew half a breath. Next, we discussed just what the fix was; he was going for the triple-shot approach. First, he would attempt to find the source of the leak and suture it closed. Next he’d place glue over it to try to seal it, the way you might put tar on a leaky roof. Finally, he’d scar the lung so that it was stick to the chest wall, something it’s already supposed to do—stick, that is—but isn’t doing because of the fluid in that space. Finally, he’d insert a second chest tube, this one on the right so that if the leak persisted and began to fill the other side of his chest there would be a way for that fluid to escape.
He asked if I had any other questions.
“Not really. I’ll talk to my wife as soon as she returns from pumping and we’ll sign the forms; I just need to have a chance to talk to her before we sign them.”
The basic logic here is that you just want to go in once and be very, very thorough. I found that oddly appealing. I mean appealing the way I mean I find dying in my sleep more appealing than being eaten by a lion. You know, if you’re gonna get a choice and all….
Half an hour or so before Matthew was wheeled into surgery his nurse inserted a feeding tube in him and began to administer—if you can call it that—whipped cream. He might as well have been a bound goose given the way 40ml of the stuff was pumped into his stomach. Crazy as it sounds, the whipped cream was meant to put something fatty into his system so that—hopefully—it would leak out his thoracic duct and show the surgeon just where to scorch the earth.
What he did next was something everyone within earshot held in sympathy. He began puking up a bit of the whipping cream. He hadn’t had anything in his stomach in more than two weeks. However large it had been, perhaps the size of a cashew, it was even smaller now. What were we talking? Pea? It shouldn’t surprise anyone that stuff was coming up; it didn’t surprise the nurse, anyway, but our nurse was trying to catch and quantify just how much was rejected so she could consult with the doctor. Was this a problem?
The process of disconnecting the Deuce from each of his various devices and Medfusion pumps reminded me of taking down a computer network. Things were disconnected in an organized and systematic fashion. I looked at it and couldn’t tell where you would begin … or end. And then, in a coordinated three count, the nurses picked him and his assorted lines up and transferred him to the cart called “Transporter 1″ that would be used to roll him to surgery.
Damn, this is really happening.
I was aware that of the many decisions I’d made in my life that if this one went well, it would go largely forgotten except by my wife and me and only in our most private moments. But if this, to use the popular term “got sideways,” it was a decision that would haunt me to the end of my days, one that would rob my peace on those occasions when I would most need it. If this didn’t go well, I’d spend the rest of my life trying to forgive myself.
I followed the nurses out the door and to the elevator. Inside the elevator, I bent down to talk to the Deuce and try to comfort him. With my torso at 90 degrees to my legs I felt what must have been an alarming sensation for him as the elevator dropped. I’m not normally bent over when in an elevator, so the sensation was every bit as foreign to me as it must have been to him. We locked eyes and I kept talking. Down a floor, I followed the nurses to a doorway until another nurse stepped out and steered me down another hallway, signaling the end of my time with my son. I felt like I was driving a team car and the nurse was the commissaire that steps out to signal me to turn off the course in the final kilometer. No finish line for me. That was it. If things didn’t go well, that had been my last glimpse of that little guy. She guided me to the waiting room for family members of surgical patients and I quickly scanned the room, realizing that the collection of anxious people, rambunctious kids and sobbing mothers was too much for me to sit there in any relaxed way. I walked straight through and climbed on the elevator to head back up to Pod G.
That Shana has spent so much time pumping her breast milk is something I alternately envy and pity. I admire the effort she has made in pumping her breast milk. She has devoted a part-time-job’s-worth of hours to this. Bottle after six-ounce bottle goes into our freezer. All the space they allocated for the Deuce in the freezer at the NICU was filled more than a week ago. Yet, I’m aware that this has been a labor without reward. It’s hard to do anything this demanding without some positive feedback and while I’d like to think my praise is magic, I’m less than a pale substitute for the bond that comes from your baby at your nipple. My wife is the unsung hero in all this.
We sat beside the empty isolette to which we hoped the Deuce would be returned. I know we talked during that time, but I couldn’t tell you what about. Those hours are an erased blackboard—I can tell something was there, but I can’t quite read it.
In the way that all things we expect to happen happen, eventually the door to the pod opened and they wheeled Matthew back in. At minimum, we could relax because he had survived the surgery.
When I’m not at the hospital, I pine for the smell of Matthew. Newborns have a smell that is as fresh as fruit and as mammalian as a dog’s. The smell is pleasant in direct proportion to how clean they are. One hot afternoon in a car seat and a baby can ripen like an old water bottle with protein smoothie. I’ve been sitting by his side for most of the last hour watching him sleep. Twice, I’ve opened his isolette to get a whiff of him. Despite the faint smells put off by all the medical equipment, that aggressively sterile air that occupies an incubator, I can still discern that inimitable newborn scent. It’s rose petals and dreams, talc and mother’s milk.
I’ve still not held my son. Here we are, more than three weeks since his birth and I didn’t even hold him long enough to pass him from the obstetrician to the neonatologist. The best I’ve managed so far was one afternoon late last week when his nurse turned him on his side and I was able to rub his back. It was the largest patch of his bare skin I’ve been able to caress. Those lazy afternoons of shirtless naps with his older brother Philip when he was an infant seem less memory than fantasy, like I borrowed a memory from someone else who told the story so well I imagined it into my own life.
I’ve been watching him sleep, studying him, trying to memorize him. Tonight my wife and I will take a phone call from the head of pediatric surgery for Kaiser in Southern California. We are going to decide tonight whether we are willing to allow this doctor to perform surgery on our son.
I’m studying my son because I want to know him. I’m studying my son because I’m afraid of the surgery. I’m studying my son because of that clichéd “if something happens.” I’m studying my son now, so that if we lose him, I might better remember him.
Our doctors have come to the conclusion that the Deuce needs surgery, that the best outcome for him is if they perform a ligation of his thoracic duct. The prospect of someone cutting open my three-week-old son scares my like no Stephen King novel ever could.
I don’t feel like we have as full a set of data as would help any of us make this decision. Certainly, I don’t know enough to feel good about the decision, and by “good” I mean confident that this is absolutely what we should do. The amount of fluid draining from him has been both significant and fluctuating wildly. Three days ago he drained 59ml, the next day 67ml and then yesterday 40ml. The fluctuation dispenses hope like an empty vending machine.
Our doctors—Matthew’s doctor’s—are willing to allow us to wait, to see if the effusion decreases. No one knows what to expect. The head of our neonatal unit says that prior to the Deuce, he’d seen maybe a dozen cases of chylothorax effusion. Yet even as they are willing to allow us to wait, they say their advice would be to operate now. Kaiser’s best neonatal surgeon will be in Downey today and he’s not available very often, as in no one knows when he will next be at this hospital to do non-emergency surgery.
Which brings up an interesting point regarding the Deuce. His case, because he is stable, is considered non-emergency. Even though were we to remove him from his isolette he would die in a matter of hours, his situation isn’t an emergency because he doesn’t need the surgery immediately in order to survive. This surgeon may not return to this hospital for weeks, we’re told.
I peppered a different doctor with my questions regarding how we should evaluate Matthew’s current state, the long gap in data, the potential harm leaving all that fluid in him for so long, his chances with the surgery and without. I made the point, “For us to grant consent, we need a clear picture of how he’s doing and I don’t believe we have that. How do we get it?”
The doctor capitulated and said we should talk to the surgeon. He left and when he returned a few minutes later he said the surgeon would call us later that day, some time after 5:00.
The call never came.
My friends in project management and startups like to talk about “the critical path.” For those unfamiliar with the term, it’s the real world’s answer to the crux move in climbing, the hors categorie climb in a Tour de France stage. What these doctors don’t seem to appreciate is that we—our consent—is their critical path. If they give us bad information, incomplete information or ignore us, they don’t get consent.
While I can’t say if they’ve been giving us the soft-sell or not, we’re able to count and every doctor we’ve talked to at this point thinks surgery is a good idea. That detail brought me around to a point of willingness, willingness to discuss the surgery.
Weighing on this is what my wife told me a nurse said of the surgeon in question. She said, “Melinda thinks he’s amazing. She said he has ‘magic hands.’”
I’m in a space where I know I would benefit from a ride. I don’t feel like I can go hard, but I am aware that there’s considerable steam in the boiler, that I need to blow some of it out of my system. Yet I’m concerned that what I need to do is pull on cotton, not Lycra and head to the hospital and see if I can’t talk to this surgeon. Emotionally, I’m still not ready for the surgery, but they’ve put this fear of availability into where I tremble at the thought that The Who might not come to my town on their next tour.
Nature does not abide the straight line. Perfection in nature is rare and what it looks like can be surprising. Imperfections can be just as hard to recognize; often hidden by what we expect to see, what seems normal, they can be the most mundane of details. So while in a straight line we see consistency, constancy, the absence of error, a mathematical precision that suggests a kind of mastery to please the human mind by reassuring us and banishing fears, nature takes its own course, one where the route might be no less imperative, but a path without the arrogance to pass all things undisturbed.
When the housing market took off in the early 2000s, a friend laughed at me for putting what little money I had into a magazine, when—of course—any sane person would buy a house. And if they already had a house, they’d buy another. There can be little doubt it would have been a better use of my money but when my interest rate would have shot through the roof and I couldn’t afford to pay my mortgage—something I considered so distinct a possibility I refused a loan I was offered—as it turns out, I would have been able to keep my house because other tax payers would have been forced to rescue me from my bad judgement. It turns out that my responsible judgement was worse than everyone else’s bad judgement. Who knew? The point being that as he and other friends laughed at me for missing out on what everyone was saying was going to be a permanent escalation in real estate values for all time with prices gaining double digits annually until the sun burned up all its hydrogen. That whole linear function thingy.
Only it didn’t play out that way. But because so many people banked on exactly that impossible scenario (among other factors) our economy still hasn’t recovered.
The Deuce is now a corollary to that fundamental truth. Based on the confusing, incomplete and occasionally contradictory information we’re getting from the doctors, our son either hasn’t improved in a week or he’s worse. Or maybe something else entirely. We’re not sure. But my mind keeps going back to the dissatisfaction I experienced with the housing bubble because though I wasn’t rewarded for good judgement, I knew the market wouldn’t continue to go up, that the bubble would burst, that there would be hell to pay for all those people who bet the farm on a linear function.
What ought to be giving me smug satisfaction right now is just a source of irritation. I knew that the Deuce wouldn’t get better every day until finally he’d go home. But what is really hard to deal with is knowing that he may or may not have gotten any better for a week, but we really can’t be sure because doctors waited six freaking days to decide to inspect his chest tube that was draining no fluid.
Six days ago they told us there was fluid in his chest. Six days ago they told us the fluid wasn’t draining. Six days ago they told us they weren’t sure why the fluid wasn’t draining. Six days ago they admitted the tube might be clogged.
Yesterday, I repeat, yesterday, they pulled the tube out only to discover that—lo!—all three openings in the chest tube were clogged with a thick, pussy gunk.
In my previous discussions with the doctors I made it clear that they had my trust. I made it clear that all I asked was clear and frequent communication based on the facts. In those circumstances in which we didn’t have a complete set of facts, talk to me about statistics and percentages, what was most likely to play out. I know that no one sinks the 8-ball on their opening shot. Just tell me how many shots are likely to elapse before someone calls “corner pocket.”
Don’t bullshit me. Ever.
The request I didn’t make because I didn’t think I needed to make it was, “Stay on top of your patient.” Okay, so that’s not a request, but I could have asked, “Would you please stay on top of your patient?” I’ve received a great many nice notes from medical professionals and regular folks like me who encouraged me to stay chill and let the docs do their thing.
Which I did. I stayed chill.
And what did they do? Well, I’m not sure, but it wasn’t “their thing.” I consider “their thing” to include getting any and all stray fluid out of my son. If his primary problem is fluid leaking from his thoracic duct into his chest and thereby compressing his right lung so that he can’t breathe properly, then they should do their shit and get the fluid out. Proto, or in their terms, STAT.
Look, if this was a carwash and someone missed hitting my tires with the Armor-All, it would be no biggie. My tires aren’t going to go flat. I’m not going to lose control of the car in a turn. My gas mileage isn’t going to fall to M1 Abrams.
But this ain’t Armor-All. This is a rare and otherwise fatal condition in my son. My son who is relying on their skill and know-how to hopefully one-day leave the NICU and move to Redondo Beach. For him to go home, he needs to be well. For him to be well he must improve. For him to improve, he needs optimal treatment, that may or may not include surgery. But we can’t know exactly what treatment he needs if his doctors don’t really know what’s going on with him. And I’m sorry, but if you’ve taken five days to decide to pull out a chest tube that hasn’t removed any fluid from his body to the little measuring receptacle because it is clogged with some sort of puss-like gunk, then I think I have a right to tell you to your face that you aren’t operating with a full set of facts. And if you aren’t really operating with a full set of facts, but those facts are there to be gathered—all they needed to do was pull that tube out to know—then you aren’t really doing your job. That’s an important detail and I have a right to ask why and receive a straight answer.
Look, if I show up for a hilly bike race with a cassette meant for the flats because I didn’t bother to read the course description or look at the course profile, and I have trouble getting up the climbs because I’m over-geared, that’s my fault and I deserve to have my ass handed to me. There was data. I could have made decisions based on it. I didn’t do my due diligence.
My understanding is that once my son has been here 30 days, he will be evaluated for progress. That seems reasonable. However, if his progress depends on treatment that requires a complete set of facts, it’s unacceptable to spend 20 percent of that time wondering why fluid isn’t draining out of him.
Changing a chest tube is no picnic. If Maslow had a hierarchy of discomfort, this would rank way higher than, say, a bagel cut or road rash. You’d rather have the stomach flu than a chest tube. And you’d rather have a colonoscopy than have someone remove or insert a chest tube. But that’s no reason not to do it. Matthew was on a witches brew of drugs yesterday after they did, finally, change his test tube. Dr. Drew Pinsky has made a career out of treating people who think the cocktail Matthew was on—Phenobarbital, Lidocaine, Lorazepam and Naloxone—would make for the ultimate party. He slept the entire afternoon and evening.
We’re three weeks in and our reality is one I struggle to accept. The Deuce’s nurses know him and his preferences better than we do. I hate that. Having a nurse tell me what my son likes makes me feel like the most absentee dad since … I dunno, name the father of some mass-murderer. Most days, I feel like I’m the parent of one-and-a-half kids, if even that.
I learned that a friend of my wife’s used Matthew as motivation while she ran a half marathon last weekend. She said that every time she faltered, she thought of him and that gave her strength. That a little guy who can’t survive outside an isolette can inspire someone to run 13.1 miles is one of those outcomes no one could guess. Finding out that the Deuce could give someone strength even as his situation robbed us of ours humbled me to my core. I felt as if someone else was experiencing more love for him than I was, and in that I was both embarrassed and filled with hope. If that’s not a fresh take on Keats’ notion of negative capability, I don’t know what is.
I am a 48-year-old masters’ racer. I have a degenerative lower back problem that causes me a lot of pain. I have tried everything to control or reduce that pain, from yoga (which has helped) to prescription pain killers, including Vicodin (which has some ugly side-effects and is addictive). My son finally convinced me to try medical marijuana. It worked and, because I live in Colorado, it’s even legal.
I’ve been using it for 14 months now and I have not really noticed any major effect on my riding, since I don’t use that much, use it orally, rather than smoking it and continue to exercise.
My big question is whether I can get popped for a “doping” positive, if I get tested at a bike race. I’ve heard that marijuana is not banned when it comes to cycling, but I’ve Googled up contradictory information.
I have a Colorado prescription. Should I try to get a TUE (Therapeutic Use Exemption)?
On a side note, I am planning on coming back to your part of the world and racing in the Dead Dog Classic this summer. Should I assume that my Colorado ‘script won’t do me any good in Wyoming?
Let’s start with your TUE question. The short answer is a simple “NO.”
Colorado’s medical marijuana provisions do allow for prescriptions, but those “prescriptions” have a rather unique legal status (more on that later) and are not recognized by the World Anti-Doping Agency, the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency, the UCI or USA Cycling. There is no provision to have a request for a TUE approved. (That said, if you want to give it a shot some time, give me a call. It would be an interesting test.)
Marijuana’s status when it comes to sports doping has been interesting to follow. Clearly, when it comes to cycling, it’s going to be hard to argue that marijuana’s active ingredient, tetrahydrocannabinol (THC) is, in any way, performance-enhancing.
Since the early days of the World Anti-Doping Agency, cannabinoids – like marijuana and hashish – were included in the list of substances banned under the agency’s “in-competition” provisions. That meant that as long as you weren’t under the influence of marijuana while competing, you were okay.
WADA pretty much left enforcement up to the individual governing bodies. In cycling, where no one gets much of a competitive advantage from marijuana, testing for the substance is pretty minimal. In snow-boarding, where being completely ripped might actually be an advantage, the governing body has taken a stronger position.
In cycling, there are only a few examples of riders being popped for detectable THC levels. In 2007, there were two riders who tested positive for cannabis, the Ukraine’s Svitlana Semchouk and Poland’s Rafal Kumorowski both tripped the Dopo-Meter™ for pot. Frankly, I’ve had trouble finding any others. In both of those cases, by the way, the riders’ results of the races in which they tested positive were negated and each received a warning. There was no suspension in either case. And no, I have no idea how well they performed in those races, although I have to imagine it wasn’t that great and that these two were each random test subjects.
It’s important to keep in mind that the marijuana you consume today may show up on test for quite some time. THC is retained in body fat. Unlike alcohol, which is quickly metabolized, marijuana may show up in a urine sample for up to two weeks after it is consumed – either by eating it or smoking it.
Off hand, I would say that your occasional use of medical marijuana will probably not cause you major problems in cycling. If you did test positive, your most reasonable defense would be that your levels were such that it doesn’t constitute “in-competition” use. I wouldn’t guarantee that your defense would be successful, but it’s worth making the argument.
If it helps you control the pain, I’d say it’s worth the risk. Out-of-competition use is not barred under existing rules and history seems to show that marijuana is not considered to be much of a factor in cycling. Of course, those could be famous last words. I would exercise some caution and discretion when making the decision to use medical marijuana.
Now, to your last question. I am quite pleased to hear that you are thinking about coming to Laramie to race the Dead Dog, which our local shop owner, my racing buddies and I started … let’s see here … twenty-nine years ago?!?!?!?
Well, my answer is much clearer on this one. Don’t do it.
Just say no … to crossing the border
That Colorado “prescription” is useful only in Colorado and the only reason that it is useful in Colorado is that the Federal government has pretty much stayed on the sidelines. In response to last fall’s decisions by Washington and Colorado voters to legalize the recreational use of marijuana, President Obama quipped that the Federal government has “more important issues” to deal with than to go after states in which voters approved the recreational use of marijuana. I’m sure the President also realized that while he carried Colorado in the last election, that state’s marijuana initiative, Amendment 64, had a bigger margin of victory than he did.
That’s a tentative status, though. A change of attitude or a change of administrations could put both medical and recreational marijuana laws at the state level at risk.
No matter what, though, you will not be welcomed with open arms (unless those arms are holding handcuffs) when you cross into Wyoming or other states without such laws. I’ll address Wyoming’s approach, since you’re planning on coming here and I have a bit more experience with the issue in this state (as a lawyer, folks).
Back in the day, Wyoming Statute 35-7-1031 (c) was at least a little unclear as to how the state would handle prescribed marijuana.
It is unlawful for any person knowingly or intentionally to possess a controlled substance unless the substance was obtained directly from, or pursuant to a valid prescription or order of a practitioner while acting in the course of his professional practice, or except as otherwise authorized by this act.
But to underscore Wyoming’s position on its neighbor’s adoption of medical marijuana rules, the Wyoming State Legislature revised Wyoming Statute 35-7-1031 (c) to include “no prescription or practitioner’s order for marihuana, tetrahydrocannabinol, or synthetic equivalents of marihuana or tetrahydrocannabinol shall be valid.”
If you are caught with less than three ounces in Wyoming – and it’s a first offense – it’s a misdemeanor and you can face up to a year in jail and be fined up to $1000.
If you have more than three ounces, it’s a felony and the penalties go up to five years in prison and $10,000.
Keep in mind that if you were to bring, for example, brownies, to Wyoming the statute may cause you problems, because it notes that in determining weight, officials are to include “the weight of the controlled substance and the weight of any carrier element, cutting agent, diluting agent or any other substance excluding packaging material.”
Theoretically, a pound of brownies, even they include less than half-an-ounce of pot, could be classified as a felony, since flour, chocolate and sugar would fall into the category of “any carrier element, cutting agent, diluting agent or any other substance….”
So don’t do it. Colorado’s rather casual approach to medical and recreational marijuana use stops at the border. The laws in this state are, in comparison, draconian. Law enforcement is pretty amped, too, given that the Wyoming State Patrol, county sheriffs and local cops are all keeping an eye peeled for cars traveling up from Colorado.
If you are pulled over, don’t ever, ever, ever consent to a search of your vehicle. Politely decline and simply offer the following: “I understand you are just doing your job, Officer, but I never consent to searches.”
Don’t interfere with the officer if he or she does conduct a search. That will cause you even more problems.
Enjoy your trip to Wyoming, Roger. Just do yourself a favor and leave your herbal pain remedies at home when you do.
The Explainer is a weekly feature on Red Kite Prayer. If you have a question related to the sport of cycling, doping or the legal issues faced by cyclists of all stripes, feel free to send it directly to The Explainer at Charles@Pelkey.com. PLEASE NOTE: Understand that reading the information contained here does not mean you have established an attorney-client relationship with attorney Charles Pelkey. Readers of this column should not act upon any information contained therein without first seeking the advice of qualified legal counsel licensed to practice in your jurisdiction.
There will be chaos—keep pedaling
This is, perhaps, the wisest statement I’ve ever heard about riding in a pack. I’d love to know who first uttered those words. Who had wisdom enough to say to a friend what might as well be known as the Cyclist’s Prayer? What was the occasion? Better yet, what was the circumstance that first taught a rider that lesson?
A teammate said that to me before a race sometime in the early 1990s. I’m reasonably sure it was before the Bear Mountain Road Race that the West Point cadets held as part of their annual collegiate stage race. What occasioned the comment was a descent on the course in which simply freewheeling inside that pack was guaranteed to see you hit speeds in excess of 50 mph. For me, it would be the fastest I’d ever gone on the bike, probably by a good 10 mph. He said that as riders felt themselves accelerate, some would start to freak and that it was important to put fearful riders behind me. It was good advice.
Two years later another teammate said it to me, though the circumstances are less clear to me now. It struck me because this teammate had never met the previous teammate. Their lives were separated by years, degree programs and geography. And yet, it was the same advice in a different situation. Many years would pass and then in the comments to a deeply personal post I wrote for Belgium Knee Warmers a reader shared that a teammate had once told him before a team time trial, “There will be moments of chaos, keep pedaling.”
For most of the time that quote has rattled through my gray matter, it has served as a rule of thumb, much like the advice to race car drivers to always aim at the crash because by the time you get there, it will be elsewhere. The advice to keep pedaling is comprised of layer upon layer of wisdom. In it, there’s the simple physics of a bicycle, that under power your weight will be centered and the bike will handle better, that if you’re not slowing down, the gyroscopic effect of the wheels spinning means you’re more apt to stay upright—even if you are bumped. There’s the reality of bike racing, that the worst expression of chaos is a crash and if you are pedaling then you’re probably not crashing. Another great truth buried in this little koan is that bike racing is, at its very core, chaotic. If you are to make peace with bike racing, then you need to make peace with chaos. The final kilometer of any race is the ragged edge of disaster itself, one narrowly missed explosion of metal and bone after another, resulting in personal glory for one rider and something approximating relief for another hundred or so survivors.
In the last few weeks, I’ve been thinking about that quote the way I like to think about my favorite quote by William Faulkner: “I never know what I think about something until I read what I’ve written on it.” There is no truer statement that gets to the heart of what makes a writer tick. We write our way into opinions, epiphanies, existence itself.
There will be chaos. Of that, I’m certain. There was a time when I would have railed against that idea. I’d have insisted that life didn’t have to be that way. And I was right; life doesn’t have to be that way. But it is. Chaos is beyond my ken, beyond my control. And it’s in every corner of my life. It is the work of entropy itself, that second law of thermodynamics that stipulates everything breaks down.
Some chaos isn’t so tough to deal with. The chaos of my son Philip’s toys on the living room floor? A bit uncomfortable if one is caught underfoot, but not a biggie. The chaos of the Deuce’s biology? Not something I’m at peace with. The real struggle is the in-between stuff. Modern life is sometimes compared to those Chinese acrobats who spin plates on the ends of wooden dowels. In my case, one plate holds Philip. Another holds Matthew. There’s one holding my wife Shana and a separate one for her mother, who will be with us another week. There’s what ought to be my work life and for much of the last week, I’ve added to that pressure a fresh dose of tasks in the form of everything I’m doing for an upcoming Kickstarter campaign. This afternoon, I was handed yet another plate to swirl into the air when the “check engine” light on my car came on as I was trying to drive to the hospital for some time with the Deuce. It was all I could do to nurse the lurching beast home. Not a bill I want … or need. Damn entropy.
Chaos was what I felt when I realized there would be no seeing the Deuce today.
So, yes, there is chaos. But that’s not how that quote goes. It states, “There will be chaos.” In that I hear the lesson of acceptance, that no matter how much I want to get through this particular chaos, the future will hold more chaos. Acceptance is my reminder to myself that I might as well chill; any plan I have isn’t going to it—the plan, that is.
The second half of the quote—”keep pedaling”—is an imperative. It isn’t an invitation. It isn’t a suggestion. It isn’t a request. It goes Nike’s “just do it” one better because in order to keep pedaling, one must already be pedaling. In as much as this is an imperative, it is also an assurance; you’re doing it right. Now just keep doing it.
I have begun to see this little koan in increasingly large contexts. Several weeks ago, when I was trying to spend every waking hour at the NICU, it became an admonition to stay on the bike, to keep logging miles. The drive wasn’t for preserving fitness, of course, it was just about stress relief, getting out there and clearing my head so that I would be more useful to my wife, more at peace when at Matthew’s side and more centered when talking to doctors.
It has come to serve an even larger role in my life, though. It’s a kind of moral north star for me, suggesting that what I’m doing is good and I can take heart in the idea that I’m on the right track and I needn’t change anything. It’s important to show up, to be present every day. It’s good for me; it’s good for my wife and it’s good for my kids.
Of the many things I need right now, a promise does me more good than all the kilometers I’d log in a month of Sundays. And that saying is nothing, if not a promise. This is going to be weird. It’s not really going to be fun. It’s not over, either—won’t be for a while yet.
But I’m going to get through and what I’m doing right now is what’s going to get me through.
I don’t know whether my belief that only Peter Sagan can win this weekend’s Milan -San Remo comes from my unabashed admiration for his swashbuckling style, or from an accurate analysis of the race and the current form of the top favorites. The guys here at the office pointed out for me that completely writing off Mark Cavendish, Fabian Cancellara and Philippe Gilbert, not to mention Matt Goss, is the work of a fan boy, not a commentator.
So sue me.
Let me tell you what I think. Mark Cavendish is still the fastest man on two wheels, despite Sagan beating him to the line in Stage 3 at Tirreno-Adriatico just last week. But the Cipressa and the Poggio will put paid to Cavendish’s hopes of sprinting for this one. Sagan and his Liquigas cohort are too smart not to push the pace high enough to eliminate the Manxman early.
Fabian Cancellara is the fast man in the world on any stretch of flat road, and he’s got a good sprint on him. But he doesn’t have Sagan’s top end speed. If the two come to the line together, the Slovak wins every time.
Philippe Gilbert, current World Champion, shares Sagan’s love of punchy uphill racing, but like Cancellara, who both Sagan and Gilbert can drop on the Poggio, Gilbert won’t beat Sagan in a sprint. He’ll have to get away earlier…but won’t.
That leaves Matt Goss. Matt Goss is maybe the third fastest guy mentioned in this post. He’s a canny racer and a worthy contender, but he doesn’t have the team to manage the end of this race successfully.
Sagan will win this race because he can climb with anyone and sprint with the best, but also because he has a great team, who could, if Sagan falters or is over-marked, put Moreno Moser on the top step of the podium instead.
This week’s Group Ride dares you to disagree with me. If not Sagan, then who will win 2013 Milan – San Remo? Explain your reasoning. How will they win? Or why will Sagan lose?
Image: Fotoreporter Sirotti
On a good day, you will find no reason to ride up Stella Road. It bends serpentine up and away from Pleasant Street, the top invisible from the bottom. It is steep enough as it twists up toward the tree line, that you need to go straight for your small ring rather than trying to work back up your cassette, short and sharp, like a punch in the nose.
At the top, you take a hard right onto Ernest Road, which is deeply rutted and potholed and only partially paved. Ernest also rises sharply before tipping over into a wide muddy free-for-all of a descent that requires staying back off the saddle, lest you find yourself burying a front wheel in a deep mud puddle and testing the more extreme effects of gravity on your fragile physiognomy.
Most days I choose Stella and Ernest as part of my way home.
In winter, our New England roadways get constricted by snow. Even with lights visible from outer space, I feel vulnerable in the heavy darkness. The headlights shear the night in two with a Dopplering whisper from behind. Safe cycling, or at least safe-feeling cycling, requires finding other ways home. Stella and Ernest are the other way, a crooked, rutted path that takes me out of harms way, if I can manage the climb and plunge with my meager handling skills.
I didn’t always do this, choose other ways. I used to just bull through by the most direct route. I was proud of my ability to take just enough lane to let cars know when not to pass me. I was pushy and fast, slaloming traffic when there wasn’t enough room on the right, pushing at the pedals to keep pace with traffic, taking chances when the reward didn’t justify the risk. Naturally, this led to some confrontation, some frank exchanges of views, some frantic hand gesturing, and in the end, a lot of anxiety I didn’t need.
I needed to find other ways of getting where I wanted to be.
It should not be a revelation to anyone that the bike is an ideal tool for exploring alternate routes. Stella and Ernest are but one way to traverse the relatively short distance between my home and office. There is another route that goes by an Audubon sanctuary. There is one that takes in two brief sections of rail trail. There is one that doubles my vertical gain.
Other ways are increasingly important to me. Between my way and the highway, there are a lot of other choices.
I seem to be out of that pig-headed young man part of my life, children and responsibilities and simple experience burring off my edges. I can accept a lot more bullshit than I used to. I can even, in the right light, appreciate some bullshit. This last represents, I think, some not insignificant personal growth.
Stella Road is bullshit, but suggests to me that there are many parts of my life in which finding other ways might make sense, other paths that, while initially steeper and more challenging, do a better job of getting me where I want to be.
In my efforts to (unsuccessfully) get back to my mandated editorial duties, which is to say posts in which cycling is the primary concern, I’ve flashed on a few different products I have reviewed previously and for one reason or another have felt a need to update readers with insights gained from my ongoing experience with them. I don’t normally feel a need to do this. I try to make sure that by the time I publish a review of something I’ve digested that product well enough that I am unlikely to have any further insight into its use or function in the coming months.
Every now and then I find out otherwise.
A great example of this is my review of Rapha’s shaving cream a few months back. I lamented how the high cost of the product ($20) was likely to keep some consumers away. At the time, I reasoned that the 150ml tin wouldn’t go far. In my head, I expected it would last me two months, tops. That made its per-use cost quite high—$10 per month for shaving cream is a bit luxurious for my household. Since my review, I’ve realized that I need far less of the cream to execute the perfect shave. I estimate that I used the first third of the tin in about three weeks. I’ve gotten through about another third of the tin (not quite, actually) in the two months since my review.
What I learned is that I just need to wet my face a bit more before applying it. Perhaps if I had one of those old horse-hair application brushes I’d have gotten hip to this sooner.
I bring this up for two reasons. First, I really think I owe it to anyone whose product I review to give it the fairest shake I can. I’m sensitive to the ongoing criticism that Rapha receives in the U.S. because their products carry such a premium. I have observed that some of this isn’t their fault: They can’t adjust the exchange rate between the pound and the dollar. That said, they deserve to have word circulate when a reviewer realizes a product is a better value than originally perceived.
The second reason is this stuff is just ridiculously good. Since my crash last fall, I haven’t been—ahem—enamored of my face. While no one else notices the change in my smile and no one else can feel the scar tissue in my lips, looking in the mirror is something I’m still adjusting to. That shaving my face (despite the ongoing numb spot) can bring me any pleasure is as odd and ironic an outcome as I could have this week. The way my skin feels and the way my face smells after shaving with this stuff is something that makes me genuinely happy. I figure if it’s my business to tell the world what I think of something then they deserve to have me be honest about this.
Next up, I need to go on record and say that as much as I love the revised SRAM Red group, I’m finding the new generation of Red brakes to be rather finicky. Keeping them perfectly centered while balancing left/right side spring tension isn’t as easy as with any of the competing dual-pivot calipers. Much of this has to do with the stamped-steel spring. While on one hand the spring gives the brake very light action, something that SRAM can get away with due to the used-car-salesman-slick Gore Ride-On cables. The issue isn’t that I can’t adjust tension or center the brake; the issue is that it just doesn’t seem to keep the adjustment for more than a couple of weeks. Still, if you accept the idea that any time you make a brake set lighter you’re going to give up something, I’d prefer finicky adjustment while keeping overall brake power, rather than what happened when Dura-Ace went from 8-speed to 9-speed: The brake set gave up power.
Some years back, when the bulk of my work was appearing at Belgium Knee Warmers, I reviewed the Assos Summer Gloves. The review appeared in 2009 after having used the gloves for more than a full season. By the time I wrote about them, as I noted in my review, I was completely in love with them and I reviewed them only because my strong feelings for their quality, fit and finish were so unexpected.
Well, I finally killed those gloves recently. That’s the pair I’ve been riding all this time, pictured above. The pink peeking out of the one palm pad is the padding creeping through a rip in the stitching. Yes, I mean that I killed that particular pair of gloves. The actual date they were pressed into service is no longer known to me, but I can say it was probably some time during the summer of 2007. That’s more than five years of use. It’s fair to ask though, just how many uses that was. We can factor out four months for late fall, winter and early spring, during which time I wear long-finger gloves. And we have to siphon off a fair chunk of the spring, summer and fall due to other gloves I’m sent to try. Conservatively, I think that leaves me with at least 100 days of use per year. These have absolutely been my go-to gloves for all rides where the temp is at least 60 degrees at the start. Factored another way, I can say that I’ve usually worn these gloves at least three days a week, and I’d guess for a good 30 to 35 weeks each year. That’s probably in the neighborhood of 600 uses. That works out to, what, a dime per use?
While I’ve worn some gloves made from Pittards leather that were as comfortable in the palm as … hell, I don’t know what to say here that won’t sound unintendedly sexual. The thing is, Pittards leather gloves are supple the way we wish our own skin still was. In that regard the first few wears are experiences that carbonate our senses with the infatuation of a first date. They possess magical properties to beguile our hands if not our senses.
If only they lasted as long as even the average romance. I’ve yet to get 100 wears out of a pair of Pittards gloves. There’s a distinct possibility that I’m part, if not most, of the problem. I’ve yet to figure out—even after following instructions—just how to properly clean Pittards gloves without them getting dried out and stiff like 20-year-old boot leather. Maybe it’s easier than I think. The thing is, I don’t want the graduate seminar in leather glove care. This is precisely why I love the Assos Summer Gloves. They have required no greater care than a jersey. I toss them in the wash and never worry about how they’ll come out. Because they are closure-less they have a clean appearance and lack all that bulk of material on the back of the wrist, making them more comfortable and giving them less material to soak up sweat.
You’ll pardon me if I think the care and feeding of a pair of gloves should be simple, a process as thought-free as drinking a glass of water.
As worn as they are, I’m going to continue to use these gloves for mountain bike rides and dirt road rides on my ‘cross bike. I figure they’ve got at least another season like this before there’s damage bad enough to toss them in the trash.
Okay, glad to have that off my chest. Seriously, these little details have been eating at me.
The following post is by a contributor new to RKP readers, though he comes with quite the pedigree. August Cole is, among other things, a former reporter for the Wall Street Journal. One of those other things is a dedicated cyclist. We hope you enjoy this new (to us) voice—Padraig
The months of February and March reside well within winter’s confines, but still offer the passionate cyclist a visual bounty.
There is the North American Handmade Bicycle Show, where the apotheosis of frame building is on display to the merry pilgrims who can travel to Denver to seek meaning in machines.
In Northern Europe, brute paths and farm roads that for hundreds of years were the weary arterials of Western civilization begin to coat the peloton with the requisite mud and manure that precedes the professional cyclist’s ablution ahead of Holy Week – De Ronde and Paris-Roubaix.
Our eyes feast.
Yet, for many of us, our hearts are cold. Inside, winter’s bite stings. It is a deep chill, deeper than has been felt in years. Or ever.
Maybe it is midlife. Or worst fears realized. Or a sense of betrayal, the worst kind, by legends who we knew to be our physical superiors and discovered to be our moral inferiors. The sport’s elite have pushed their bodies farther than we can legally and morally abide. Yet we still clothe ourselves just like them.
Cycling is searching for its soul at the very time when the bicycle itself approaches technical perfection. We can ride perfection for less than a committed smoker spends on their annual habit. We know what we see, and we like it. The intimate hours spent online reading about the industry’s finest work attests to it. The wink of carbon weave in bright sun. Team knee warmers matched to arm warmers matched to socks. We ride perfection for less than a committed smoker spends on their annual habit.
What we are not sure is how to feel about the heart of a sport that takes so much but can give back even more. It is like the weeks after a bad crash, when the body’s deeper aches announce themselves only after the Neosporin has done its job for the skin.
If we do not know how to feel about cycling, then how do we feel about ourselves?
Some search for answers during “Holy Week” as the cobbles of Northern Europe become the transcendent place we want them to be. The days spanning the Tour of Flanders and Paris Roubaix are filled with delicious tension. Closer to home, our local dirt tracks and potholed roads take on new springtime significance.
Others seek to imbue their handmade machines with a soulful energy that improbably comes from welded metal, made by men and women who have mastered working with fire. Others practice a mortification of the wallet and continuously lighten aerospace-grade carbon fiber bikes to better ascend.
There is no easy path. There is no single right answer.
What is most important is that we search together, on the road or off it. The best bikes, whether laid up in molds in Taiwan or welded in Watertown, Mass., are just vessels that we use to bring us closer. The camaraderie at a bike-shop Tour stage viewing matters so much more than the lead grimpeur’s VAM. When we see the peloton riding shoulder to shoulder, fighting for each extra centimeter of room on the Oude Kwaremont, we should marvel as much at their ferocity as at their proximity. The peloton binds them as it binds us.
Once winter ends and we ride together again it will be with our hearts, not with our eyes, that we see the beauty of this sport.