Wheelsucking 101: Passed with distinction

https://mybowlofbaloney.wordpress.com/2016/05/27/wheelsucking-101-passed-with-distinction/

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Turbo time? I don't have a clue how to remove the white highlights. Time to migrate to wordpress, perhaps.

“The greater the suffering, the greater the pleasure. That is nature’s payback to riders for the homage they pay her by suffering. Velvet pillows, safari parks, sunglasses; people have become woolly mice. They still have bodies that can walk for five days and four nights through a desert of snow, without food, but they accept praise for having taken a one-hour bicycle ride. ‘Good for you’. Instead of expressing their gratitude for the rain by getting wet, people walk around with umbrellas. Nature is an old lady with few friends these days, and those who wish to make use of her charms, she rewards passionately.”
A beautiful paragraph, that. So true. And it made me feel so guilty for missing the training ride today. 
I have ridden through blinding heatwaves and crushing hailstorms. It's not the physical suffering that bothers me. In fact, whenever an auto putters by, or a truck rumbles past, I give them a 20 second head start, put my head down, get on the drops, clench my abs, force myself to take slow, deep breaths and shoot after them like a bat out of hell. Man against machine, meat against metal. Often they get away, sometimes they don't. A smouldering fire slowly seeps into my legs. It's a nagging, dull ache that demands to be felt. It can't be blocked. It hurts. It hurts a lot. But I love it. I'm an endorphin junkie through and through. 
What really bothers me is that I am required to share the road with a horde of multicoloured air-conditioned tin cans running on dinosaur juice, carrying obese woolly mice with alcohol oozing out of their ears (I exaggerate, but sometimes that is how it is.). I have seen Adi Kaul's scars. Didn't like the look of them. Heading out on the highway in the half-light of a cloud-covered, drizzly dawn is not the best of ideas.
 But I don't want to lose the power that took so much pain and sacrifice to build. Time to get a turbo, perhaps?

I copied the opening paragraph from The Rider by Tim Krabbe. It is often said every cyclist worth their salt should read it. Follow this link for a review of the book and some pithy excerpts from it.

I'm a prat.

"Eeeek saw keelomeeter!" (A hundred kilometres!)

  I struggle to find my poker face. 

"Haan ji." (Yes sir.)

"Thakte nahi ho?" (Don't you feel tired?)

Ufff... bhagabaaan...  I'm usually as good as new following a half-hour nap after the Sunday torture sessions, and I stopped feeling the 50 kilometres-in-one-and-a-half-hour rides several millennia ago, but I fail to muster the will to explain that at that moment.

"Nahi ji." (No sir.)

Don't say it! Don't you bloody say it!

"Pagal ho kya?" (Are you crazy?)

My poker face instantly hardens into the Mongol cold face.

"Haan ji." (If you say so.)

A memory from the BBCh ITT swims to the front of my mind.

Distance: 22.1 km, average speed: no idea, average cadence: 89 rpm, heart rate: 87% of max. HR

I shoot past the rider on the Scott Speedster, relishing the resistance the headwind offers. This has to be the twentieth rider I have crossed after I started.

"Come on, man, give me a fight!"

He scrabbles to get ahead of me, and fades.

I sigh.

 Distance: 22.9 km, average speed: still haven't got the foggiest idea, average cadence: 88 rpm, heart rate: 84% of max. HR

"Yaddayaddayadda-where-the-deuce-did-I-leave-my-God-Mode-at?"

I hover on the edge of death by boredom.

Distance: 23.9 km, average speed: I just don't care anymore, average cadence:  I just don't care anymore, heart rate: I just don't care anymore.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? SPEED UP!"

I almost jump out of my skin.

"You have got to be kidding me."

Warmth floods back into my legs as I zoom after Vinesh.

"Not fair!", he laughs. "Not drafting you!" I holler back as we both rev our engines.

Finish line.

"Awesome ride, man!" Vinesh yells at me. I clap him on the back. "Not nearly as awesome as yours!" 

We're buddies. Instantly.

It's amazing how "Brilliant ride!", "That's a beautiful bike!","That was well-written!", "What're you reading now?" get you rolling with people. It's even more amazing how these individuals invariably turn out to be absolute gems! :)
 It's a treat, watching people light up when they chatter away about things they're besotted with. It's a treat to have a flat stomach, to have your heart beat at 48 bpm, to rocket around Delhi for twelve hours a day, for one full week, without ever feeling any kind of fatigue, to be able to climb Yercaud at 45 degrees and live to tell the tale, to be able to lift yourself out of depression and get back to work when nothing seems to go your way. I'm a prat for riding my bike. Certainly. :)

Yercaud boot camp: Day 2

 It was sooo cool and cosy. I had no body, no limbs. There was only a fuzzy sense of existence, like I was floating on water. But shouldn't it be a little darker outside?

"AAARRRGH!!!!!"

8 o'clock! 8 bloody o' clock!! 

Yercaud was going to flambé us to hell today.

I had been very conservative on the descent the preceding day, my skills having rusted on account of not being within 10 kilometres of a hill since the July of 2015. I started today' s descent to Kupanoor the same way, in Scaredy Cat Mode, through a narrow forest-covered road flanked by a valley on the left and a sheer, green wall of rock on the right. The corners were tight and technical, the grades a lot steeper than the day before. One glance at the left was enough to tell me what one small mistake might cost.

"Wow! That's a long way down!"

After following Lee for about four kilometres, something clicked.

The world moved in slow motion as a deathly calm stole over me. All I saw, felt and heard were the road, the road and the road. No conscious thought was necessary as my body settled into the rhythm of the corners, as if I had been doing it for years. 
"Six-lean-turn"
I had gained thirty metres.
"Six-lean-turn"
Fifty metres.
"Six-lean-turn"
I could no longer see any of the others, and no sir, I was not going to wait. The thrill of hurtling down that slender, sun-drenched pass had gone straight to my head.

"Sage Mode: Unlocked!"

Kupanoor was incredibly beautiful and bore an uncanny resemblance to the inside of the hot-air oven in my lab.

Meesa scared.

The size of the mountain that loomed over us caught me off-guard.

"Whoa! We're climbing THAT?"

I was a little scared, to be honest, especially given my record as a climber. But I'd fired a maha-dialogue at a lady friend, a few days ago, about how cyclists are tough as nails and tenacious as lobsters; and it was partly that and rule 5 combined and the mere fact that that hill was one hardcore *insert swearword* that made me hit it hard. I'm a badass. Period.

"Two hours of agony, a lifetime of bragging rights!" was my motto that day.

Twig-man Leander prepping to eat the hill for lunch. :)

It was beyond agony. There was the heat and the pitiless sun that made me feel like I had second degree burns all over my body, there was the dehydration that made my mouth go dry in minutes, there was the boiling water in my bottles that did nothing to soothe my parched throat. There was the solitude that crushed my morale to a squelchy, gooey pulp. And then there were the worst of them all, the gradients that brought back, in a murky brown rush, all the excruciating memories of the 170 kg leg-presses at the gym. That crawl, up the tortuous grey slopes of that wild mountain, taught me new meanings of the word 'pain'.

We suffered like hell, but we were insanely happy. That's Leander on the left, followed by Ankit, Sourav and yours truly.

Here's my ride data on Strava. I'd planned to do it at SST again, but my heart rate simply refused to go up! 

Follow this link for an account of what we did on Day 1. This trip was a total success, as I surmised from the hand-clasp Sourav gave me and by the looks of how excited Leander was. Ankit took a wrong turn and had a lot more fun riding away at top-speed from a drunken man who wanted to test-ride his bike and, later, from a bull that I think wanted to test-ride HIM.

I felt a little sad while descending towards Salem for our bus back home, but I could not have asked for a better start to my holidays.

I'll return to the hill someday when it's a little cooler. And not just for riding. It'd be great to stroll down the road, find the spots where the views are the most magnificent, and just sit there quietly. There's Heaven right there in all its resplendent glory. :)

Here are some photos and  a video from the day.

Yercaud boot camp: Day 1

I'm not a climber. I'm fat, my bike weighs a ton, and it has a huge-ass crankset attached which I can barely churn at 100 rpm on a flat road. But I guess I have suicidal tendencies, because when Sourav came up with the idea of attacking the two Hors Categorie climbs at Yercaud (A HC climb in the summer heat of Tamil Nadu can easily qualify as one of the most brutal methods of destroying your heart, lungs, legs and mind.), the first reaction I had was:

"When do we start?"

The when turned out to be at 3:15 a.m. on the 19th of March, which coincided beautifully with the beginning of my two-week exile from the lab (Boohoo! I'm weeping! NOOOTTT! I'm finally on a vacation!) Ankit turned up at the bus station bang on time, but where was our twig-man with the Dura-Ace Di2?

We called and messaged and swore and stamped our feet (almost), but there was no sign of life on the other side.

 "LEANDER WHEATLEY, YOU'RE DEAD TO US!!"

Well, not so dead. He woke up the following morning, realised (with horror, I hope.) that he'd kept his phone on silent mode, profusely apologised to us, called his girlfriend to a snappish "WHAT ARE YOU CALLING ME FOR? GO GET ON THE NEXT BUS!!", and did as he was 'advised' (Lee, you lucky dog, you! *sniff*). All the better, since Ankit, Sourav and I could use the time it took him to get to Yercaud to squeeze in some extra hours of sleep. I had stayed awake the preceding night following a nearly popped vein in my brain, thanks to the bus conductor demanding 6000 rupees for the transport of our three bikes (He'd actually meant 600 but jumbled up the hundred and the thousand in translation. He can't have been all that bright at school! Whoof!)

I had had a good look at the Salem-Yercaud climb from the auto to our guest house and, frankly, I was already in love with what I saw. My 'skill' at prose is insufficient to describe it, and I couldn't possibly compose any form of poetry to save my life, so I'll let the photos and videos do the speaking for me. 

To be perfectly honest, you have to be there physically to feel the majesty of what lay before our eyes. The inadequacy of my vocabulary keeps grating against my ego.
The descent to Salem from Yercaud was exhilarating beyond anything I had ever experienced before, but there would be a steep price to be paid afterwards. :)

We began climbing back to Yercaud latish in the afternoon. I felt like I was being slowly roasted on a spit (Recall Bibhutibhushan's description of an African summer in 'Chander Pahar'. Imagine the boiler room of a steam ship if you can't.). I could see Sourav and Lee about 500 metres ahead of me for eight kilometres, after which they were swallowed up by the folds of the switchbacks. I was now alone in my battle against gravity. Ankit was locked in his own struggle somewhere behind me. The heat was incredible. The water in my bidons had become scalding hot. Small sips followed by tiny squirts over my neck at regular intervals kept me going.

"Should I engage God Mode?" (I've described my God Mode elsewhere. It wipes my mind blank and brings my feeling of pain down to a minimum.)

I toyed with the idea for a while, and took a good, long look around me.

"Maybe not."

I'd be doing a great injustice to the place if I fled within myself to escape the pain. So, amidst that heaven of craggy hills, refreshing verdure and sloping grey tarmac, fully aware of my screaming legs and burning chest, I climbed on.

Follow this link for an account of our shenanigans on Day 2. It was a lot harder and a lot more rewarding.  My apologies for the histrionics. I've been reading classics lately.

Here's my ride data on Strava. I rode at the sweet spot of my power output, with occasional bursts on the hairpins. I'm happy that I never stopped, never panicked when half a dozen dogs gave chase, and especially that I never cramped. I HAVE gotten a lot stronger. :)

Follow this link for some photos from the day. There are some more videos (uncut and unabridged; pitifully short on time.) on my YouTube channel.

A thousand deaths

I am a simple man. I see a good road bike, I drool. So when I saw the notification about the BAR 20 km Individual Time Trial (No team support, no protection from the wind, it's only you against the clock.) on the Manchanabele Machas facebook page (out of the friggin' blue, as usual.), there was no dilly-dallying the decision. Even the elevation profile of the course was not going to keep me away from the race.

March 13, 7:10 a.m. Distance: 0 km, Average speed: 0 kmph

 I took my position behind Demon Duggal, fighting a nervous breakdown at the sight of the veins bulging out of his ginormous calves, and consoling myself that at least I didn't have a pink ball with a smiley face dangling from my saddle. He said something about it being a lucky charm from someone (Presumably his girlfriend. I'm the only loser around here, apparently.), or something to that effect. My apologies to the dude, but it looked seriously funny.

7:12 a.m. Distance: 0.5 km, Average speed: 40 kmph

I pushed off into the block headwind rolling over the grey expanse of the road, still chuckling at the memory of Duggal's lucky charm and at Akshat's plan to pace himself using me as a reference. 

"Bad choice, mate!"

I had the most elementary of plans- get on the bike, watch the distance and hammer till I puke. Shrewd pacing strategies are simply a waste on someone with my weekly training volume.

7:20 a.m. Distance: 6.2 km, Average speed: 36.5 kmph

"What the...!!"

I watched with desperation bordering on panic as Ronny slowly went past, apparently without breaking a sweat. I bit down on my tongue (hard!) and started clawing my way back to him, but my heart rate was telling me I could not sustain this power for more than five more minutes. That left me with two choices- maintain a constant gap with Ronny without drafting him (I was not going to cheat!) and blow up within the next ten minutes, or slither back down to my threshold power level and finish the race. It stank. All of it.

"MAN I got to get stronger!" (But there's no time to train! *sighs*)

Only consolation (read excuse): the guy's Belgian! 

Meme credit: Manchanabele Machas

7:27 a.m. Distance: 9.1 km, Average speed: 33.4 kmph

"AHMAHGAWD-where-the-heck-is-that-bleddy-service-road-grrrrrr-I-hate-you-lactic-acid!!"

7:28 a.m. Distance: 10 km, Average speed: 33.2 kmph

"Oiii speed up speed up!" I heard, or rather I thought I heard Akshat yell as he crossed me at the U-turn. It was time.

"God Mode: Engage!"

(My personal God Mode does not give me super-strength, but brings my situational awareness down to only the bare minimum required not to smash into anything or fly off the road. The results are a blank mind and almost zero pain. It usually requires a reference point to focus on to, and lasts for about an hour in a TT effort. There are other names for it like digging deep and HTFU, but I think God Mode sounds a lot cooler.)

The return leg was a blur, thanks to God Mode. I vaguely remember zipping past some other racers; drawing level with a mini-truck and leaving it behind, sprinting whenever my God Mode nexus (Akshat's back) threatened to build up a gap greater than a hundred meters, and WHOA! I was at the finish line! 

"What? Already?"

I got the shock of my life while comparing Ronny's ride data with my own. The bugger clocked an average speed of 39.7 kmph at an average heart rate of 150 bpm; while I died a thousand deaths, heart rate hovering around 177 bpm, to crawl through the 20 km course at 35.3 kmph. Heck, where do I stand in terms of fitness?   

Nevertheless, my last season of racing in Bangalore has been a lot of fun so far, and here's a picture of me in God Mode at the finish line. Heh! Uncool as always. This is starting to get tragic.

A caveman's holiday: The plans

Wow! Someone +1'd that last post where I'd complained about people pretending I'm a lamppost! Do I have a regular follower? Cheers, mate!
There are roughly two weeks to go before my two-week holiday starts. I'm probably, definitely, absolutely, being selfish, but I don't want to visit my parents this time. Going home would mean endless forced visits to the homes of relatives, endless interrogations about how my PhD is going (Ohmigod!!!) and when I would land a job (Soon! Soon! Now give me an effing break!), and whoosh would go in a puff of smoke any chance I had of dumping all the misery I've accumulated here. Being introverted is such a pain! (I need a hug!)
What am I going to do, then? Well...

Week 1:
A. Avoid all human contact (I AM A LAMPPOST!).
B. Ride. A lot. Like a hundred kilometers each day. I'm not the strongest rider out there, but I'm tough. I think. Or maybe it's just the immortality of youth speaking. :P
 I have the routes charted out, with the bakeries marked with little pink hearts (kidding about the pink hearts.) and will be writing about them if all goes well.
C. Walk around Bangalore. I keep hearing about these prehistoric bookshops. It'd be great to visit them and be weird all by myself!
D. No science-shmience. I probably should have studied literature, or history, or engineering. Ah, crap!
E. Maybe sit quietly in a quiet corner of a cafe and read. The list's grown long with all these Bengali writers I've been reading lately.
F. Write. Maybe. If in the mood. Unlikely. Or likely? Dunno.

Week 2:
Ditto as week 1, only point B involves my portable gymnasium (read resistance tubes) and point C happens in New Delhi. Would I be writing about Delhi? Maybe. Maybe not. Nobody reads the rubbish I spew anyway!

Next on the list: Get cracking at those final thesis requirements! Maybe being treated like a lamppost won't smart so much after the holiday.