Friday Group Ride #162

Two time Ronde van Vlaanderen winner Judith Arndt has retired. That leaves former winner Annemiek van Vleuten (Rabobank) as a firm favorite in a race in which experience is so crucial to success. German veteran Ina Teutenberg’s Classics season was derailed by a bad crash and concussion a few weeks back, and that will leave Rabobank, where van Vleuten races alongside Marianne Vos in the driver’s seat. Vos has to be considered a contender for any race (in any discipline) she enters. Having said that, the Classics are always packed with chaos and anything can happen. The list of potential winners from the rest of the peloton is long.

On the men’s side, the favorites have to be Fabian Cancellara, Tom Boonen and Peter Sagan, not necessarily in that order. It is always amusing to hear the pre-race interviews as each of them explains in detail why the others are more likely winners. This is sandbagging at the PRO level.

In year’s past we have done a straight ahead prediction thread for the pre-Flanders Group Ride. This year, let’s try something slightly different.

For the women’s race, it would be cool to have someone with greater expertise than I have, explain what’s going to happen and who the dark horses are (Where is Whit Yost when you need him?).

For the men’s race, let’s do two things. First, let’s predict the full podium. Then, per my friend Dan’s suggestion, let’s figure out what the winner will say to the other two guys on the lower steps.

Here’s an example: Sagan to win, Cancellara second, Boonen third, and Sagan says, “This is fun, huh? How long have you guys been riding bikes?”

Anyone who correctly picks a podium that does NOT contain all three of those guys will get a pair of RKP wool socks and my unreserved respect. If you also correctly name the women’s winner, I’ll spring for an Eddie ’72 shirt from the RKP store.

Image: PhotoSport International

Enter The Deuce, Part X

Just like his big brother, he’s moving, taking the world in.

When reassuring people, we like to say, ‘The dawn brings a new day.’ It’s meant to remind us that the passage of time changes us, that healing takes time, that options that weren’t open to us yesterday may yet be presented to us. Well, we finally got that new day for the Deuce.

Yesterday, Matthew’s doctor removed his chest tube. His total inventory of tubes—the chest tube, an IV and a pica line—had been dropping, the removal of his chest tube was a big step. Originally, the plan had been to wait another day, but based on his x-rays the doctor decided he was ready. The decision may have been driven, in part, by the fact that hours after his IV and picc line had been removed he developed a fever. So, of course, an IV line went back in for the antibiotics. A classic case of two steps forward, one step back.

But in deciding to remove the Deuce’s chest tube, his doctor was minimizing one potential source for infection. Fine by us, but the bigger piece of news was that the medical team reviewing his x-rays had concluded that there was no more effusion. The Deuce was a leak-free zone.

Removing the chest tube was the definitive testament to the Deuce’s condition. As the surgeon had put it before, his was a binary issue. Either he is leaking or he is not.

Well, bitches, my boy ain’t leakin’ no mo’.

The immediate dividends this change in status paid were the very definition of life-affirming. My wife was able to hold him and breastfeed him for the first time in his (or her) life. She’d spent more than a month of pumping her milk five or six (seven?) times per day—so many times I would lose count. And compared to the way both mother and child’s brains are washed in oxytocin—a powerful neurotransmitter that has been called the “love hormone”—when breastfeeding, pumping breast milk has all the payoff of taking allergy medication to soothe depression.

I may not get quite the reward that either of them do by bottle feeding him, but I can tell you that holding him for the first time and cradling him in my arm as I gave him his bottle was powerful medicine for both him and me. It has been so long since he was born—more than a month—that holding him for the first time today was almost like experiencing his birth. For the first time. I haven’t yet had the opportunity to have him hang out on my bare chest in just his diaper, but I’m sure we’ll get that time once he’s home.

He’s got another day to go on the antibiotics, something that reminds me we have a few hurdles yet. Saturday he will be x-rayed again; I don’t know how important it will rank as a step toward his release, but my guess is that the results of that x-ray will be pretty important.

Equally remarkable as this has been his utter transformation since the bottle feedings began last weekend. Almost from the very outset of the first 10ml feeding—he was still being heavily supplemented by a TPN drip—he began acting more like a baby. He became more alert, began turning his head and looking around more and interacting more with us. If I’d been asked to guess, this change in behavior is something I would have anticipated to be more gradual and to have begun after the surgery.

That he perked up following his first feedings feels rather anti-scientific, as if it were the fulfillment of a promise made by some religion posing as science. I find miracles and science to make for poor bedfellows. Put another way, I don’t believe in magic. But there is something in the Deuce’s improvement once he started feeding on his mother’s breast milk that is nothing short of miraculous. It’s a fair word, I think, because it encompasses both the magnitude of his change and my surprise.

As the size of his feedings increased and the amount of TPN he received dropped each day, he has left what seems a twilight existence where he was never very awake and his sleep was lengthy and frequent but never seemed to refresh him. When he wakes now he is inquisitive, looking around his surroundings and moving far more than I ever recall his brother doing at the one-month mark.

When I bring him to my shoulder to burp, he lifts his head and looks around. He’s unsteady, but a lack of strength doesn’t do much to deter him. How he could progress so much in just five days boggles me.

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Matthew’s stay in the NICU is nearing the end of its fifth week. To my knowledge, he is the oldest baby present. We’ve watched babies that were admitted after the Deuce progress and graduate. But despite the length of this stay, the nurses are talking about him as a real success story, an example of just how good the care is, how babies that wouldn’t otherwise have a chance at survival go on to live perfectly normal lives, that by the time they are old enough to inspect their own bodies, the scars of surgery are gone.

There are two other babies in the NICU with effusions. Neither the doctors nor the nurses really share any of this information, but you meet other parents and occasionally you’ll overhear someone talking. One of those babies is the child of the stoner parents who showed up without their ID bracelets. Their little girl was a pound at birth and still weighs less than two pounds.

I’ve not seen them this week; neither has my wife. The last family member I saw drop by was a grandmother who spent her time dissing the mother for not being there. I struggle to comprehend the road the parents are traveling. I can accept under certain circumstances it may be hard to see your child with tubes and wires running in and out of its body, but at a certain point I would imagine that a parent’s love would take over and you just wade through just to be at your child’s side. My heart aches for that poor child that is getting more love from the nurses than she is from her own blood.

The other baby, who had surgery the same day as ours hasn’t recovered as thoroughly as Matthew. While the nurses won’t say anything and we haven’t seen the parents lately—they seem to do most of their visits at night after the dad gets off work—we’ve overheard descriptors that suggest the recovery could be going better. I have the sense that there may still be fluid leaking.

To have three babies in a NICU with chylothorax effusions is unheard of. It’s a one-in-a-million possibility, and while most children get through it, the Deuce’s cohorts in this condition make for a stark demonstration of just how serious the condition is.

We are owed nothing by no one and asking the universe to give us a break is only slightly less silly than rubbing a lucky penny before exposing the results of a scratch ticket. But the heart wants what the heart wants. Right now, what I want is the Deuce home and to cuddle up with him on the couch, me shirtless, him in a diaper, and just let him sleep on my chest. For a week. I want that. I. Want. That.

 

OTB

They never even looked back. Two fellow travelers, grinding and swinging up the hill in front of me. As I turned the corner into the climb’s lower ramp I glanced up and saw them there. I thought, “can I catch them?” and put my head back down.

My wife had been emailing with some friends about summer plans. Summer. As if that’s a thing now. And their calendars were filling up, and there I was in my tired desk chair shaking my head and wondering at people who were thinking about more than what was in front of them at the moment.

I have not been too hard at the pedals for these last few moons, succumbing to winter like dry leaves to a campfire. Still, those two riders on the hill weren’t drilling it. They were trading off the front like they were serious, but I was making up ground. “Oh, I’ll just go hard in this first section and see how much gap I close,” I told myself. Them swiveling their way into the middle, flatter part of the climb.

“I’m sorry,” I typed back to my wife. “I’m OTB as far as the summer goes.” And she to me, “OTB?” And me back, “Off the back.” And her, “Oh.” And then nothing.

When I reached the flat after the first rise, that blessed point where you can get a real gear back under you, I gauged my progress and saw that I was, in fact, reeling them in. What was 40 meters had shrunk to 20. The swish and roar of traffic made the whole thing something of a pantomime, them fleeing, me pursuing. I clicked twice down the cassette, stood into the work.

I suppose if you know you’re going to be OTB you do something to mitigate the consequences. You seek help. You delegate what tasks you can to willing collaborators. You let folks know you might not be getting back to them with the alacrity they’ve come to expect.

With the gap cut to 15 meters, maybe 12 really, my sonar or dead reckoning or powers of estimation now being swept into the dustpan of oxygen debt, I thought to do the right thing. I eased off. Not to give up. Not to back off. Not to concede defeat. But rather to pace myself. Too anxious am I usually to hurtle across a gap, this the recipe for blowing up, so that just as I make contact, I lose the ability to hold myself steady on the bike. I go all knees and elbows, power draining out the acute angles of my flailing.

Work is busy, and I have placed my attention there, perhaps to a fault. It is not so much that I am behind with my work, but rather that I feel a sudden quickening of results there. The momentum is with me (us) and I am hell bent on holding it and keeping it and stoking it, taking what the road will give me, riding the lightning. You get my point.

And so, with maybe 10 meters to go, 10 striding paces to close the gap and kiss in relief the rear wheel of a rider I’ve never met, I saw that I wouldn’t make it. Nearing the top of the climb, the whole thing only about a mile long, we were flattening out. They were pressing tentatively at their own shifters. Having not gone full gas, they were able to exploit their improved terms with gravity to an extent that I was not.

I never know when I’m going to be OTB. At some point, I lift my head to see what’s coming and realize I’m not close to where I ought to be. I’m out of shape. I haven’t thought of the summer. There are things outside work that need my attention. What have I been doing? Why? Are my priorities all out of whack? Usually, yes.

I had not gone that deep yet this year. Rolling up to the top of the climb, watching my friends, total strangers still, take the corner that leads away from the up. My lungs burned. I was disappointed in myself for not catching them, but also happy that I had convinced myself to try.

When you’re OTB, you find out who your friends are. My wife has planned our summer. She knows I’m not a great planner of leisure time activities. I’m task oriented. I clean the bathroom. I pick up after the dog. Equally, on the bike, the guys I ride with will spin along next to me, chatting, because that’s what I need, that’s what they need, and we all know we’re OTB, but we’re working on it. It’s not so bad.

We’ll catch on. Just give us some time.

Image: Matt O’Keefe

A Mile in Their Shoes

They say you can tell a lot about a man by his shoes. I say you can tell a lot about a cyclist by their tires. When I worked in Washington, D.C., if you met someone wearing glossy ebony dress shoes and an over-sized Timex running watch with a nice suit, they almost certainly spent some serious time in the military.

Likewise, when you’re out on the road this spring and your eye catches the green stripe of a plump Vittoria tubular and a supple big-ring cadence, that rider is someone you don’t want to half-wheel. You want to follow. If you can.

An inch-wide tubular painstakingly glued on a carbon rim symbolizes all that is wonderful about a sport endlessly grappling with its origins and its future. That is why this combination of past and present will be the weapon of choice during the spring racing in Belgium and France.

Bicycle frames, particularly at the high end, become more alike with each season but the tires we select reveal our individual traditions and aspirations. There is so much bound up in that tiny friction point between our Earth and our speeding bodies that fly above it. What you choose says more about you than your kit. Maybe even your frame.

Show up on a Sunday ride in April looking like a Flemish hardman? That’s cool. Got 25s? On that day anything narrower than your thumb won’t cut it even if your legs reek of embro. Equip a crit-specialist’s machine with 28s? Trouble. The good kind.

These days picking tires is like cruising the cereal aisle with a 5-year old. Everything looks delicious. The wide wheel and wide tire movement sweetens things even more, whether you’re a winter commuter, a century aficionado or a Cat 3 who gets regular pro-deals.

For my part, I count on 25mm clinchers tougher than four-day old rice.
Some of the best advice I ever received was from a mechanic at a Seattle bike shop where I worked selling bikes right around the end of high school, half my lifetime ago. I bought my first bike there with the intent of racing, a slick red Cannondale 2.8. When I asked a mechanic I liked a lot what I should do to make the bike “better,” he had two pieces of advice: Learn how to fix it and ride 25s.

That sage in the shop apron offered me a direct path to competence and comfort. I wasn’t ready for that mundane answer. It was the early 90s. Something anodized and unaffordable was the response I wanted. While I failed to become even a passable wrench even on my own gear, I did eventually start riding wider tires a couple of years later after my brain started returning my aching lower back’s persistent calls.

That’s what works for me. What works for you will also say a lot about your origins as a rider, and your future. With that in mind, maybe you should not measure a man by his tires, at least until you’ve ridden a mile, or 40, on them.

The Explainer: Solidarity forever

Charles,
I realize that professional baseball’s lawsuit against a Florida clinic is outside of the cycling world and it is also a PED question that we are all getting so tired of, but I really wondered if a “players association” (in this case MLBPA) might help cycling?

Also is there something similar that cycling could do like MLB in suing the Times Herald in Miami (as I understand it) for their information on the Biogenesis Clinic? Could anyone sue UCI? Lastly, how can someone find that MLB complaint, or are those not available until there is a ruling?

Thanks, I have enjoyed your Explainer columns for years, after I found them on VeloNews.

Looking forward to the LUG, Giro edition, in May. That is such a great thing that you and Patrick do. Thanks again.

Also, love the LUG stickers. Those are great.

Ok to publish,
– Chris

Dear Chris,
Your questions cover a lot of bases, so to speak, so let me sort through them a bit.

First, top-tier professional cyclists already have a players’ association – the Cyclistes Professionnels Associes – but it has its problems at times and lacks the influence of its counterparts in American baseball (the Major League Baseball Players’ Association) and American football (the NFL Players’ Association).

Led by former pro Gianni Bugno, the organization has worked to protect riders’ interests, but hasn’t really developed into a cohesive riders’ union and has had difficulty enforcing even the most basic rights of riders, including collection of unpaid wages through the UCI’s required bank guarantees (recall the old 2009 Astana team’s problems making payroll).

The CPA often works in conjunction with the Association International des Groupes Cyclistes Professionels – the organization representing teams – but there are times when the two organizations’ interests are in conflict. That group, too, has had its share of problems. Indeed, four years ago, the organization was pretty much coming apart at the seams, with some teams opting out of the group after the not-too-successful boycott of Paris-Nice in 2008.

The AIGCP managed to work through that tumultuous period, due in no small part to the leadership of its then-new president, Garmin-Sharp team manager, Jonathan Vaughters. He did a pretty good job as far as keeping the organization together but there’s still a long way to go. Vaughters, who’s planning to pursue an executive MBA at the University of Denver, announced last year that he would not seek reelection and his term expired this month. He is being replaced by Luuc Eisenga, a Dutchman who has worked for the UCI, the T-Mobile team, Rabobank and, most recently, as the tech’ director of the Blanco squad.

I am hopeful that on the heels of the “Armstrong affair,” both organizations can work together and force some real change in the management and structure of the UCI. That said, I’m not holding my breath.

There are a lot of reasons for the CPA to ramp up its efforts. Some of them – particularly as it applies to salaries and working conditions – will run counter to the goals of the teams. Others – like the elimination of doping in the sport – should serve the economic interests of both parties. By now, it should be clear, too, that major reform of the UCI, its leadership and its structure is in the best interests of riders, teams, promoters and fans alike. Indeed, when you consider all of cycling constituencies, there is only one group whose absence would go unnoticed. That’s the UCI. We need promoters. We need teams. They certainly need the fans. We all need the riders. Guys in grey flannel jackets? Not so much.

This sport would benefit from the presence of a meaningful and powerful riders’ union. A weak and ad-hoc association does little more than pay lip service toward the achievement of some important goals.

I, for one, would not be all that disappointed in seeing a meaningful riders’ strike in cycling, if it led to much-needed changes in conditions for the world’s hardest working athletes. That would, of course, include drugs, but would also include a substantial increase in minimum salaries for top pro’s and a basic compensation package for those riding on “minor league” teams as well.

I’ll be the first to admit that given their history on PEDs, I’ve not been a huge fan of the MLBPA or the NFLPA, but I must concede that both have done a much better job of representing their members’ interests than has the CPA. Cycling would benefit from a strong and cohesive union, especially if that organization took the lead on limiting the insidious effect of PEDs on the sport.

It won’t be the press. It won’t be the teams. It won’t be the promoters. It sure as @#$% won’t be the UCI. This one will have to be up to the riders.

As the great Samuel Gompers said “you can’t do it unless you organize.”

Can the UCI be sued?

Sure. While your example of Major League Baseball’s suit against Biogenesis wouldn’t along the same lines, the governing body can be – and has been – sued for a number of things and in any number of venues.

The MLB suit is based on Biogenesis’ “unjustified tortious interference” in its current contract with the MLB Players’ Association, in that Biogenesis and its co-defendants have allegedly attempted to circumvent the League’s anti-doping rules by supplying players with supposedly undetectable Performance-Enhancing Drugs (PEDs). (Because it’s baseball, I’ll not spend too much time going through the baseball suit, but I have uploaded a copy of the original complaint for your reading pleasure.)

In a sense, MLB is essentially the equivalent of the AIGCP, in that it represents a consortium of 30 Major League teams. A comparable suit – and one that should be considered – would be if someone sued Michele Ferrari or Eufemiano Fuentes for actively interfering with cycling’s anti-doping rules.

Obviously, the structures of the two sports differ and it’s not the AIGCP that really runs the sport. The UCI “manages” the sport of cycling, but it has to contend with other forces, especially race promoters, the most powerful of which is the Amaury Sport Organisation (ASO), which organizes most of the world’s most prestigious cycling events, including the Tour de France, Paris-Roubaix and more.

Instead of suing Fuentes or Ferrari for active cheating, some have turned to the UCI as a potential defendant, citing their inaction when it came to enforcing their own rules. A good and recent example is that of a suit filed on behalf of the Australian clothing manufacturer Skins, seeking $2 million in damages for the UCI’s “acts and omissions,” in its failure to take meaningful steps to eliminate doping in the sport.

As you’ve read here before, the UCI is not shy about exercising its own option to sue, having sued former World Anti-Doping Agency head Dick Pound, disgraced cyclist Floyd Landis and Irish journalist Paul Kimmage for making disparaging public statements along the lines of what is now being alleged in the Skins suit. That strategy hasn’t really worked well in that Pound settled his case with a wonderfully-worded “apology,” Landis ignored the suit and the subsequent default judgment and Kimmage … well, Kimmage just turned the tables on those SOBs and has asked Swiss prosecutors to pursue criminal charges against the UCI as well as its current and former presidents.

Yup, anyone can pretty much sue anyone else for just about anything. Whether they win or not is up to the courts.

Finally, thank you for your kind words regarding our minute-by-minute coverage of the grand tours. I remain hopeful that O’Grady and I can combine forces and provide Live Coverage via LiveUpdateGuy.com and here at Red Kite Prayer as well. PO’G and I are even toying with the idea of doing something of a “test run,” by offering Live Coverage of this year’s edition of Paris-Roubaix. Any interest out there?

And I am glad you like the stickers.
– Charles

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.

Friday Group Ride # 161

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.

But.

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.

Image: Matt O’Keefe

Enter the Deuce, Part VII

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.

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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.

 

 

The Explainer: Is it doping if there is no performance enhancement?

Dear Explainer,
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?
– Roger

Dear Roger,
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.)

Competitive advantage?

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.
– Charles

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.

Friday Group Ride #160

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

Other Ways

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.

 

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