“Santiago is surrounded in huge mountains. It’s in the freakin’ Andes!” I knew I was going to find the best cycling of my life. I anticipated people giving me a hard time since it would appear I was sitting on top of two adolescent children, which were really my new enormous legs. My lungs would frequently pull in birds flying at 1000 feet. However, with great sadness, this did not come to pass. Santiago truly is surrounded by the Andes, however these very gnarly agro-crags are not for riding and in fact the very intelligent Chilenos decided they would only construct a few carefully selected routes out of the valley that is Santiago. The air quality is atrocious and you are lucky to see the stars, let alone the person you are walking next to.

Not to be discouraged, I persisted and took the bike outside, picked a direction that appeared not to have a giant mountain too close to me, and rode. On that first ride, my bike went from tolerably useable to unpleasantly annoying and crippled. If you need to get your bike repaired in Santiago, you will be told to go to San Diego, a street absolutely filled with bike shops, one after another. For the most part you will be screwed if you are a gringo like me. You will get the usual “used car sales man” treatment where one thing that they fix will lead to another thing that they will need to fix to another and another. I can tell you, do not go to Esper Bicycles. Rip off. I hope this blog puts them out of business. For all your bike solutions, you need to use a combination of three places. For standard tweaks and fixes, go talk to Lopez in front of Cerro San Cristobal at the end of Bellavista. For much more complicated and tricky fixes, go to Dr. Bike, real name is Luis, on the 900 block of San Diego. For your bike parts, go to Rafael Vargas across the street from Dr. Bike. No need to experiment, believe me, they will get you sorted.

So after a new headset, a new big chain ring, trued wheels, welded bottom bracket, greased up wheels to avoid the absolutely atrocious noise these horrible wheels make, and many hours wasted, my bike was back in action ready to be tormented.

My search for the races prior to this adventure of bike fixing proved futile but after befriending the gentleman in these bike shops I can help you cut to the chase. You can view www.ciclismo.cl to see some options with a calendar of events coming up through the year. They have all your varieties of racing although the page functions poorly and everything but the road race (ruta) section is out of date. But if you are looking for “the dogs balls” (english saying) of races you need to go to http://ciclismolaboral.cl and you will not be disappointed. This year long racing “group” is as serious as it gets as I will get to in a moment.

So lets get to the point. My training was sparse. Maybe 4 days a week and no more than two hours at a time and mostly going up and down San Cristobal, a 6km climb in the middle of Santiago. Finally Lopez told me about a ride that starts on Saturday’s at 9am on Ruta San Martin right before the first peaje in the McDonald’s parking lot. I ride the 20km to get there and find about 60 older looking men and a few woman. Ultimately the ride was fantastic and we rode 100km through the foothills of the Andes at a very fast pace and averaged a solid 35km/h over four hours. I then rode back to my house to make the days total around 140km. The most I had ridden since my time in England riding with Johnny in Manchester several months earlier. All that knowing that I had a race the next day.

I woke at 7:45 am on race day for the 10am race start time. I knew I had to ride to the race start. All I knew was that it was in San Bernardo and Los Morros and I should ask the people when I get close. I looked up a place that seemed to be San Bernardo on Google maps and was ready for what appeared to be the 20km ride to the race. I figured that as I got close, I would see other bikes and cars with bikes so I was not worried that I did not have the exact location.  I set off in the morning, and encountered two guys who were going to the race. After 15 minutes they pulled over and said they were meeting a friend with a car at that spot but told me to just continue down the road for a little bit and I would be at the race. Ya right. From my house the race was a little more than 30km in the end. Thanks chicos. And I rode that 30km with pace once I realized I had a long way to go and I did not want to miss the race start.

Now, on the ride with the old men on Saturday, they made me feel that the race I was going to on Sunday was not very serious and was more of a galavant and everyone was there to have fun. They could not have been further from the truth. I arrived into the cycling world I had dreamed about and immediately I wished I was more prepared and had not ridden 140km the day before and 30km to the race. I was surrounded by hard core looking and very fit looking cyclists with the legs I had thought about before my arrival in South America. I signed up and was told I must race in Category A which is the top category. Not sure if this is because I am only 26 or look strong or what, but I begged to be put in B and they were not having it. The Masters groups went, the youths went, and finally our group of roughly 50 went last.

The race was 80km and all I was able to gather from others was that it was rolling ups and downs. One kilometer in to the race my bike computer ran out of battery so distance was only ascertained by using my mysterious sounding Spanish while we charged on at 40km+. Despite my large amount of recent kilometers, I was feeling good and stayed active in the front of the pack taking my turn to pull us along at unhealthy speeds over the rolling hills of the Andes approaching a majestic area of the world called Cajon del Maipo. After 50km and a few brutal short inclines, I found myself in the lead group with about 15 riders including one girl. The pace was break neck the entire time and as we peaked each crest, it was a sprint to try and smear mud in the eyes of the weakening riders. 65km and I was starting to think that I had a chance. I was doing my fair share of the work in our group and was feeling good, all though I struggled to say anything in Spanish at this point.  Then at 70km, only 10 more to go and without warning, it happened, I hit the wall.

I played soccer my whole life. I trained often and with vigor. In university we would train five hours a day, every day, and with more vigor than I knew I had in me. But only in an individual sport like cycling or swimming or running do you have the concept of hitting the wall. I did not literally hit a wall in this race, but all the physiological workings in my body basically said to each other “Fuck this. He thinks he can work us this hard? I am going for a break, see you in an hour.” We were scaling a very slight incline and despite my mental capacity to keep going, the body just would or could not keep going. I looked down and saw my legs literally melting off the bone as if I was on some mushroom trip in a Hunter S. Thompson book. Each push of the pedals would emit a splash of lactic acid that would burn away the surrounding foliage. My arms struggled to support my weight on the handle bars and my vision would blur and then focus and then blur again. I watched with desperation as I saw the lead group cycle away and what is worse is that they were leaving me in a place you never want to be. No mans land.

The loneliness in no mans land cannot be found in many places on earth. Maybe on the antarctic plains or at the high school prom during the slow dance when you do not have a girl on your arm. No mans land, in cycling, is the space between the various groups of cyclists that form during a race. You, the road, the wind, and no one to help you or give you a break. I worked my ass off for that lead group and their pay back was to kick me in the balls, spit in my face, and push me in to no mans land. As the chase vehicles passed me with shaking heads inside, I gazed around the fabulous landscape I was riding in with the towering Andes and lush rivers and greenery, and realized I was fucked. I had 10km to go and I might as well have gotten off and ran with my bicycle at the pace I was riding.

Ultimately I finished ahead of the main pack but by only seconds. I immediately ate three bananas, a pack of cookies, a coffee, a coca cola, and a chocolate bar. I was chatting with my new friends who seemed impressed with by abilities up until the point of my spectacular body explosion. I was told that the girl we were riding with was 5th in the nation. Also that we were missing five guys who were racing in Europe in some epic races. We had a former national champion in our group. The guy I was talking to and pulling along for a bit was currently some sort of Spanish junior champion. I had no idea that I was surrounded by bullies and pros of the road. This made me feel slightly better about getting dropped.

Then I was informed that where we finished was now 50km from Santiago and at that point I think my heart bounced off the shoes of my new cycling friend Jaime who told me this. I ate two more bananas, put my jacket on as we had climbed to a cold altitude and set off to complete my weekend of riding with a final 50km. Jaime and I took turns battling the constant head wind that funneled up the Cajon del Maipo valley. Brutal.

Eventually I arrived at my house to the open and very inviting arms of my girlfriend who seemed to have no problem embracing me when I was covered in salt crystals and wearing my cycling outfit that smelled like it had just received 300km of sweat in two days. She also seemed to recognize that I needed an extra large lunch and a fresh fruit shake with yoghurt and oatmeal. Gracias mi amor. You have no idea how much better I felt after that.

Next Sunday is race day, in fact every Sunday is race day from now on. I have new training partners now and I will be sure not to ride 140km the day before and make sure my new cycling friends drive us to the race and back home from the race. Medals coming soon!

First of all the roads are dismally poor in this country. Maybe marginally better in the main city but in general, riding in Britain is like sliding your ass back and forth all the way across twenty football boots that are upside down. The majority of the time, the road damage is on the sides where a bike would naturally want to be forcing you to choose lines in the middle of the road which the car behind you might not approve of. Even though that car is only doing about two miles per hour faster than my break neck speed, all of a sudden he is ready to take his Rover well above the speed limit to make sure they pass me, straining and grinding gears with each tease of an open stretch of road that is presented to him. Now to be fair, there were some potholes in Argentina, but they were the sort that would rupture your spleen as you fell into it and you wouldn’t have to worry about it again because your bike would be too badly damaged. In England the problem is the fantastic consistency. There will be a neck jarring drain every twenty yards and always a poorly repaired hole with a new mound above it every fifty yards.

While sprinting across Buenos Aires, I did NOT see the following things which were a common site in London:

• Drug deals. I am sure drugs are being used in BA but you would never know just by perusing the streets. This might be due to threat of sniper fire, I am not sure. But London is proud of their lackadaisical drug laws and boasts about it at every corner with hooded hooligans swapping bags and what have you.
• Although the Argentines love their fast food, they do not hang out in front of the McDonalds like it was the cool thing to do at night. Almost every McD’s in London was heaving with youths scampering to chalk on the next kilogram or so as they prepare to make a surge past the United States as the most obese country in the world.
• Really drunk people were hard to find in Buenos Aires. London is producing them in a factory somewhere. Short balding hair cut with lots of gel to stick hair up. Tight light colored jeans with black boots. A white or very light button up long sleeve shirt. That is standard issue for the men. Woman wear tight black leggings, a t-shirt material dress hanging just below their butt which is of an unknown shape due to the round pleats in the dress and the black leggings, and very high heel shoes that not many of them can walk on. Hair done very straight and very blonde with heavy dark eye make up. Often times you would see two girls or two guys walking down the streets but never an integrated mix. I had de ja vu with the amount of these pairs I saw walking on the streets as I was blowing the snot out of my nostrils.
• I did not see evil drivers in Buenos Aires. This might have been attributed to a language barrier of sorts but I was never tooted at or yelled at apart from the guy who I slammed into his side mirror holding his arm hanging out the window to not fall over. It is no wonder the English tried conquering the world. They just hate anything that moves it seems. I have never seen so many people yell at a cyclist or honk at one and when you look at them, you could just see this person driving by, fist in the air, and the head just shaking around uncontrollably as if a giant fly just flew down their throat, screaming curse words at the top of their lungs even though no one else is in the car. I find that a really strange behaviour in humans.
• I did not see a man walking his dog very politely being a complete dick head to cyclists in BA. This man, walking by myself and my two cousins, in a very polite tone, commends my bicycle and then goes on to say how we should be paying road taxes and how he absolutely hated cyclists. It caught me off guard and I was not prepared to respond with such a polite slandering. Just as he’s going on about road taxes, his dog takes a shit on the road, go figure.

I do not trust locking my bike in London. I have heard too many stories and seen too many skeletons lying around the city. I finish locking up my bike removing the seat bag, both wheels and locking them to the frame, removing my lights, the wheel skewers, seat, brakes, and anything else I could pry off. I stood there looking at my embarrassingly naked bike thinking, “The street rats will be scuttling out any moment now, ready to swarm over this thing like locusts stripping it of its paint and decency and selling it on the East end.” Nothing happened in the end, but I never had that fear anywhere else.

To give credit where it is due… London is a fantastic place for the regular cyclist. They go to great lengths to get people on bikes. Today I was at the SkyRide which is a 50k bike gathering to ride around the city and where bright green vests. It was mediocre fun but the point is that they are shutting down major veins of the city to give them to the bikes. Better yet is the Critical Mass in London on the last Friday of every month. Go to the Natioanl Theatre, waters edge, around 7pm and be prepared to be blown away. There might only be five thousand bikes but unlike the skyride, this is an “unorganized” event. (Even though that this happens every month, all around the world, all at the same time.) There is no leader, and there is no specified route. Everyone is uber friendly and if you bring Pepsi to share then everyone else will share with you their soft drinks. The ride takes you through the best parts of London and the whole time you are doused in light as a regular parade would be but these are the lights of the blocked vehicles all around us who are either honking in joy or honking in rage.You can go to the front of the critical mass peloton, go into a pub, drink a beer, take a piss, and get out and it will still be passing you. Absolutely fantastic and I recommend you going to one near you. Google your area and Critical Mass and you will find one. If you have ever called a bike “sexy” this is for you as you will see some of the more creative and amazing bikes on this planet at these events.

This weekend I also saw the final stage of the Tour of Britain come in to town right across from the London Eye. Incredible speeds these guys are doing. Chose a spot near the 150 meter marker under the big screen so I could see what was happening the rest of the race. Must be tough for parents to be a spectator at their kids cycling races if there is no jumbotron. After the race, I found a water bottle under a team car, I asked them if I could have it and we shared some words. I am not sure what language they spoke but they did warn me to not drink what was inside as they gave it to me smiling largely. Later that night as I was taking a sip, I wondered if they had peed in it and thrown it out the camper because there were no toilets. It was Purple and tasted slightly of Cranberry but you never know with these drug taking cyclists. I did swap a few words with the Irish road champion Nicholas Roach who spent most of the day in a break away which was caught with one lap to go. Basically I tried to get him to blame the other guy for not working. He claimed it was the wind.

So what happened in the end? I beat my cousin to the North side in a record setting twenty minutes in Saturday night traffic. But in true British fashion, I had to get in line at the ATM before I could go to the pub so he thought he won. Oh well.

In my previous race I had partied hard the day before the race. This proved to be almost fatal bringing my heart rate to a maximum of 209 during the race. The rule of thumb for maximum heart rate is to take 220 and subtract your age. I am 25 years old. None the less, I partied hard on Friday and enjoyed a successful asado at our house for 12 people. Hope the lady of my house doesn’t read this blog otherwise we are all in for it! This didn’t matter since the race was on Sunday. I woke up with plenty of time, packed the bike into the box and got my way to the bus station. The trip worried me slightly since there were 12 stops in between BsAs and my final destination which meant there were that many chances for my relatively expensive bike to be stolen in a nicely wrapped package. However, no instances of bad luck on the way there.

I arrived in town and found that this place was even more desolate than Olavarria was. There wasn’t even a bus station. You just got off the bus and then you were in the middle of a dusty road with a few shops that sold really crappy t-shirts to the local workers for $3. I entered the nearest store and started asking for a hotel. A rather attractive looking lady decided she would test her drawing skills and gave me a 20 minute lecture on what there is in Arrecifes as well as where to find it and at what time. I could not have run into a nicer lady and I felt extremely well prepared all of a sudden. I walked to the prescribed hotel which was only 2 blocks but quite a chore with a giant bike box. I enter the lazy looking “El Rutenero” hotel and book my 70 peso hotel room. It was a very nice room by any standard and I was pleased. I asked to build my bike in the reception which he obliged. While in there I became the local California celebrity who had a “que buena caja” which can probably be interpreted in a nasty way if you are american.

I rode the town and looked for the bike track. The track is normally an autodromo or a car race track and was a lot more than I had expected. Again I had to ride on dirt to get onto the track but no punctures. Seriously Argentines, pave the roads! There were people there riding around and they were all intrigued with me wearing sandals as I rode for about 20 minutes getting a feel for the track during the sunset hours. I was approached by a few people and I word spread through the few groups of people that I was a “yankee” which is a term actually listed in most spanish-english dictionaries defined as someone from the U.S.

I went home, showered, and looked for food. before I left I had a rather comical conversation with some fellow cyclists staying at the hotel who were racing on Sunday. The comedy had mostly to do with all of our race preperations which basically involved drinking some sort of alcohol and not getting much sleep. We were instantly friends. I left to find the Vudu bar which was on the corner of the one main street in town. As I ate the air was filled with the noise of small wimpy motorcycles riding back and forth. I had chosen the area of town where all the kids take their shitty little moped and rev the engine and pop 3 inch wheelies with their fat girlfriend on the back. There were all sorts of bikes but for the most part they were the standard run of the mill bike pictured here. But many were customised. They had blue lights, handle bar flares, extended mirrors, FMF exhaust pipes, modified springs to accomadate for the weight of these fat girls, extra loud horns, and flashy paint jobs. There were a few larger sport bikes that made an incredible noise which doesn’t make too much sense since the town is only one mile square. Only a few daring souls impressed me but would have fallen on their face flat if they heard stories of Kamran and I riding at speeds in excess of 173 mph through traffic or using every lane on PCH swerving from side to side. It reminded me of “cruising the regal cinemas” in Simi Valley. My pizza was burnt and I didn’t tip. I even asked for a new pizza which I got, and it was burnt. Tough to do in a foreign language.

I didn’t sleep well that night. I had dreams of missing the race and I think I was just nervous for some reason.

Race day shows up, I see the two older racers in the morning and we talk cycling and compare bikes and all that stupid stuff that only a real cyclist could get a kick out of while wearing tights and having shaved bodies. They raced first so I thought it was a little odd I was way ahead of them but it was my usual habit of being overly punctual. Get a grip you late bastards! DO you know how annoying it is to wait for people when they are late? You know who you are. I goto the track and end up setting up camp with the guys from the hotel. They have a larger group that I was not aware of. All very nice people from a place called Lomas near my house in BsAs. I figure out that I am too race in the open category for people under 38. To clear things up from the poster I posted a few weeks back, there are basically three levels of cycling here. The lowest, which is the open class called the “inactivos” since they dont race often. Then the promocianales and finally the elite. The promocianales would represent our category 2 and 3 while the elite are basically sponosored pros. So I was racing in the weakest class but I was fine with that considering my training has been no more than an 2 hours most days on a flat circuit that gets tediously boring followed with beer and wine.

So it turns out the people I was hanging out with were quite well known amongst the peoples there and I was introduced to many a person, often times followed with a story of why that guy is a really good cyclist and look for him in the elites later. My race comes around at 10am. I warm up and we all meet at the starting line. There are roughly 50 racers. While we are waiting they announce they notice that I am listed from California and they decide to announce my presence to the crowd of several hundred, label me as the “yankee” (pronounced shankee) and ask for a round of applause which was most embarrassing considering ,nor they, knew how I would fair in the race. The race starts and I lead the first lap with a fast pace since they had to give me that introduction. The race would be for 50 minutes and immediately it was very competitive with breaks constantly being executed. I stayed in the front for a lot of the time despite the screams from my corner saying “DISPACIO!!!” but it didn’t matter because this punk guy was fucking with my rhythm so I was gonna bury him on the uphill which I did every time and I think he was rather annoyed. Half way through the race my Garmin computer falls off my bike near the largest crowd of spectators as I am zooming past at 45 km/h and I realize that $200 machine that talked to satellites was most definitely gone. That and I lost my heart rate which is a vital part of my racing strategy. I know I can sustain 189 for pretty much 90 minutes and any higher for prolonged periods of time is a sure fire way to be experience total body failure which is an unpleasant thing to say the least. So I decided to take the next 15 minutes “easy” and stay away from the front of the pack. “TRES VUELTAS MAS! TRES TRES TRES!” is heard on the loud speaker and the anticipation and nervousness envelops the pelaton. We all know that in 6 minutes the best rider will be revealed. These last three laps are tenacious and every one is riding closer and harder making for some extremely dangerous moments. Several riders were forced into the grass, I myself ran into the tire in front of me and almost fell to surely be laced with tire treads on my back side but I recovered and with a good dose of panic and adrenaline. The last lap I stayed about 20 riders back. On the first uphill I swooped up to about 6th place and rode the slip stream. The last turn was extremely fast and everyone took it very wide pulling us onto the red and white sloped curb on the outside. The straight away was maybe 200 meters. I was in third riding the wind of two guys who were just getting out of their saddles and staying very close to each other. I surged between them bumping shoulders with both and hit the wind out of my saddle and never looked back. In the middle of a sprint it is very hard to consider the things around you, I could see no one in my peripheral but I was not about to verify my lead position. I dropped one more gear and enjoyed the lactic burn that was spewing from my ears and legs. I crossed the line in first position and had just enough time to get my hands in the air and scream at the top of my lungs with a passion that can only be felt during moments like these.

All the riders were very congratulatory to me and after the first turn I had my new friends running towards me and tackle me off the bike and hugging and kissing me. Truely amazing! Then another guy came over and gave me the checkered flag and told me to do a victory lap. I rode the lap exhausted wishing I had more water while a very rambunctious crowd cheered me on and applauded my efforts. I got back to the starting line and someone took my bike and then I received kisses and hugs from pretty much the entire group of racers and a load of little kids. Meanwhile the guy on the microphone is saying something about me and I turn around to find the microphone stuffed in my face. My spanish is good enough to make new friends and command a pelaton, but after a race with a racing heart and nerves, all I could muster was something like “Muchas Gracias, muchas gracias Arrecifes por todo”. in hind sight I should have just started speaking English but that will be for next time.

Afterwards we ate like kings with an asado prepared in the dirt. Ingenious idea really. We drank wine and ate until I could not move anymore. These people were so very genuine and I am amazed that I can somehow put myself into these situations. They were so lovely and they invited me to their house the following weekend for another race and then another asado and fiesta where they all want to introduce me to their sisters and daughters. I dont give out Visas that easily!

I stayed and watched the next few races and got a healthy sun tan/burn. A guy out of no where comes and finds me and gives me my Garmin and it still worked! He then lectured me about how the people in Argentina are dangerous and you need to be careful with your belongings and how I was really lucky. I was trying to disagree with him but he wasn’t having it and kept lecturing me. I think he wanted a reward or somethin which I did not give him.

Another guy approached me with a 7×10 photo of the sprint finish which was AWESOME! I will have that picture after I goto Lomas for this bike race.

Price to be in love with cycling: 60 pesos for the bus, 70 pesos for the hotel, 40 for food, 8 to pat for his sponsorship, and minus 80 for the price of winning my second race in Argentina. Hot damn!

Update: Pictures from the day http://picasaweb.google.es/fotodecuzzi/150209#5303614303848163426

Everyday I leave class and inject myself and my bike into one of the main arteries of BsAs called Cordoba. This road will take you from one side of the city to the other and if you time it right you can make it there faster than any gas powered vehicle and only a helicopter or a coked out cartenero could beat you. My atire of sandals, shorts, no helmet, and a lock wrapped around my waist is likely not the most appropriate, but satisfactory none the less.

The lights here in Buenos Aires are all timed, especially on the main roads and I would guess they used a small fiat car with a 0.4 liter engine, as many people here have, to judge how long it takes for the cars to reach the next light. This works out perfectly for a bike. Cordoba is approximately 5 – 8 lanes wide depending on where you are and the right two lanes are reserved for buses and taxis. Taxis float around the city in the thousands driving slowly along the sides of the streets while the buses driving at supersonic speed with air shocks that hiss and spit as they jump the many pot holes and dying dogs in the road.

I pick my gear and will take a lead at the light to get a head of the traffic. I can hear the couple dozen motorcycles in between the cars gassing their engines wishing they could run the lights like I can. Then the terrible noise will start. At first faint but I can hear it growing and it seems to be focused on me to enact its revenge since it knows that I am taking advantage of what it has to offer. I will approach the first few lights ahead of the timed green light and will take chances to run the lights if I do not hear the perpendicular horns coming my way. The noise behind me will subside but only temporarily and again it will be down my gullet. This time it will engulf me and several dozen motos surround me with a few brave cars that think they can keep up with this high speed game. The next red light we all are in the boat together, and we pick our line between the waiting cars and gun it through gaps no wider than my shoulders hoping that the timed green light didn’t decide to change its mind this one time. Eventually I will tire and be taken by the wave and before I know it I am in the middle of the street avoiding slow taxis, and holding on to the backs of trucks trying to gather my breath. Without one red light I can make it home several miles in 5 minutes.

Me and the motos have a love hate relationship with eachother. They respect my speed but are weary of my maneuverability. I could not care less about them and consider them a rock in the wave that I am riding. The larger rocks like potholes and construction points prove to be a lot more difficult but you handle them as they come.

This ride deserves a head mounted video which I will provide soon I hope.

First I had to make sure I was interpreting the flyer correctly which can be seen here. Thanks to Marcos from El Dorado fame for confirming this one for me. I figured I would be in the second race which is for everyone up until 35 years of age. I assumed the Masters classes were for our equivalent of category 1,2,3.

So my race was at 6:40 pm, I needed to take a bus to get there. The bus I needed to take left at 7:30 a.m. from Retiro, the main bus station in BsAs. This was also the day that John Fincher was leaving so I knew he would want to go big the night before. I also needed to pack my bike back in the box that Pat bought me, get it to Retiro when it doesn’t fit in many taxi’s and cannot be brought on a bus or the subte (subway) and hope that it would be there when I arrive. I figured I would just do my usual method of finding hotels once I got there. I did no research on the city or the surrounding areas and here is what happened.

The night before John meets with a long time friend Gonzalo who knows the owner of a really nice restaurant in Palermo Hollywood called Freak. We basically get catered to all night for a group of 15 or more with endless sushi, appetizers, drinks, martinis, champagne, and a whole huge bottle of saki all for about $400 u.s. We stayed up all night and I decided that I would not sleep and get my bus at 7:30. I left John and crew at Sugar where he was in the middle of spinning his way into the bathroom or some tourist girls arms, who knows. I got home, packed, and then found a taxi that I forced my bike box into. With shaved body and mini backpack, we goto Retiro for 20 pesos. I get to my bus and tip the guy 5 pesos to take care of my bike as he packs it into the bus and we ship off. The bus ride is 7 hours long and I sleep for maybe 4 of the hours. When I awake I can only see the most flattest landscape I have seen outside of the midwest. Vast distances of grass fields dotted with grass fed cows that I have been getting used to eating for the last month or so. We make one stop in a town called Azul I knew to be close and I got out to stretch and make sure my bike was not unloaded which it wasn’t. An hour later we are in Olavarria and it is absolutely baking outside. I get a map and directions to some hotels and walk down the road dragging a giant bike box. I am telling everyone that I am a professional ciclista and I am causing quite a commotion I might add.

I pick the first hotel called the Hotel Argentino and check in to a meager room for 68 peso. I convince them I want a lower floor room so I don’t have to lug the box upstairs. They were very friendly and agreeable and also impressed with my origin and luggage. I put my bike together and then go for a ride to investigate the town and make sure I can find the track that the race is at. This town was extremely serious about it’s siesta and it’s mate drinking ability. There was no one out, absolutely no one, nadie! I eventually find the track which I have to ride on a dirt road to get to which made me a little apprehensive for worry of a popped tire right as I arrive at the race with tires at 120psi. I eat a random lunch at a gas station since that is all that was open and then head back to my hotel to catch an hour nap.
I wake up and get dressed in my tights and head off. It is still extremely hot outside. As always I am a little early but it is evident that something is going on and people are coming out. One of my worries is that I was looking into this all wrong and would come to find out that there was no bike race at all. I paid the 2 peso admission and claimed my spot on the fence. I warmed up for a bit scoping out the other riders and I quickly noticed that most of the people here had single speed bikes with a front brake only with a free wheel. Interesting. The track is only maybe 500 meters so I guess they assumed that was all they needed, que se yo? It was their track.

It was becoming extremely windy and the back side of the piste was full on into the wind. Just over the dirt road you have to ride on there is a field that is being burned to make way for new crops but also creating plenty of smoke for us cyclists to inhale as we romp around the track. First race is for the old guys older than 35. They are fast and I was impressed. During this race I made friends with some older guys who were constantly inspecting my bike and asking me all sorts of questions regarding price and stiffness. They also told me about a 60 mile race going on the next day in a near (100km) city that I needed to go to.

Then my race was up. It would be for 40 minutes and there were probably 30 or more riders. A lot of machismo going on it seemed but that is just the usual Argentine spirit. The race began and a group quickly shot out in front. I waitied for the pelaton to organize which it never did. So I decided to take control and spent the first 5 minutes catching up to this group with no one wanting to take turns with me going into the wind. I caught them and then spent the next 5 minutes leading the pack trying to keep a fst pace to wear down any stragglers. I notice after 10 minutes my heart is near 200 bpm and I needed a break. For the next 20 minutes there were a few breaks but nothing significant and myself and about 10 others had set themselves up to be the main competition. I moved into the 6th position and planned on sprinting the final lap full out. With 1.5 laps to go someone goes but I hear the bell before this and we are not even close to the line so I sprint to catch him, pass him, and then cross the line thinking I won but there was still one lap to go. Fuck! I did not travel for half a day to get fucked like this. On the back side I was in the lead and I didn’t want to see what was behind me. In front of me there were dozens of spectators in the track screaming “VAMOS!” “DALE!” which was most inspiring I got to say. Final stretch came, I was back out of my saddle and I was getting wobbly arms and I had never felt so exhausted. I was passed at the line and took second place by only 2 feet. I slumped in my bike and rolled around the course absolutely exhausted.

Take a look at my Garmin print out. During that final sprint which I started half a lap too early, my heart got up to 207 bpm. I challenge you to just try and tap your finger, make a sound, or do anything that fast in one minute. Fucking amazing what the body can do. An average speed of 23 miles an hour I suppose is OK considering the ridiculous wind on one length of the track. Second place won me 40 pesos but lets consider the cost for my love of cycling. 140 peso for bus, 70 peso for hotel, 20 peso for race admission, 40 peso for taxi to and from retiro, 50 peso for food. Total of 320 pesos or $90 u.s. to do this race minus $15 bucks for the price money. I love cycling.

I stayed the rest of the night to watch the rest of the races. The next exciting race was the kids under 17 race which was pretty good. The kid who won was dropped way early but since the pack was cat and mousing it all the time he caught up late in the race and took the trophy. No money for the kids. Take a look at this video and just listen to this announcer. He was intense for every race and I wish I could have heard what he was saying for my race, I was too busy sucking wind. Probably went something like “Naranja! Naranja! Naranja!”

The last race was amazing. These were the pros and you could tell by their bikes, their legs, and the extreme speed they were riding. It was just absolutely amazing how fast these guys were going for 90 minutes. They could not pedal on the turns since they were angled so far over. That happened to me only once where I dragged my pedal but I was pedaling the entire time through all the curves. Here is their video of the last lap. There were maybe 40 guys to start but anyone not in the running for the 300 peso purse just dropped out and the final sprint was only with 6 or so people.

During this last race I made friends with this guy Luis who had a friend in the race who did not end up winning. While we talked about cycling and comparing lives in different countries his family was giving me food and drink and were absolutely amazing. While Luis had his little girl climbing all over him while we talked I had this random little kitten just show up and climb my back and snuggle into my neck and hair. A little random, hope I didn’t get fleas. Luis invited me to his house and he showed me his bikes and we talked cycling and politics while his family rushed around me listening and rubbing my tattoo and watching me ride his ridiculously expensive bike. We ate and drank and it was an absolutely precious time that I could never repeat. One of those moments in traveling that are hard to explain to people and you can only wish that everyone in the world had these moments to be able to appreciate the good hearted nature of almost everyone on earth. They did not have much but were willing to share all of it with me and didn’t mind that I was wearing my tights the whole time.

The next day I tried to get to Atalque to goto the 60 mile ride but would not arrive until way too late so I had to wait for my 5pm train back to BsAs. I walked the ghost town looking for anything and then ate at a parilla and had two beers. My hotel had agreed to leave my bike case there so I did not have to drag it around even though I checked out at 11am. I went back to the hotel, a little tipsy, and asked if i could have a mate (pronounced maa te, its a tea like drink here renowned for its compartir aspects) with the girls that run the hotel. They loved me and invited me in their back room for a drink and a huge cake. We talked about the town and where they met their husbands and how I dont like reggatone and why they were not fat even though they had dulce de leche for lunch. This went on for hours. Eventually I asked if I could take a nap which they were happy to offer me my old room and I napped for an hour before my bus. Another experience that is hard to communicate how much something like that can mean to someone.

Another long bus ride home and I got back. Nothing bad happened and in fact I wish I could have stayed and continued the adventure. All the portenos thought I was crazy for doing this but that is why they are portenos and think the rest of the country is a little wierd. Next race, two weeks! Back to the training track.

And all this using only Castellano!

The Way of Planet Ultra
Planet Ultra is a state of mind, a way of life, a place to seek solace and inspiration, to take refuge, to find insight and inspiration. It is both terra firma and terra incognito, myth and mystery, muscle and mind. We live with the motto “by endurance we conquer.”

Very applicable to many situations.

So prior to doing this ride I was scoping out blogs to get an idea of what I was about to do. This one gives a hilarious account of the ride. and although it made me laugh, I was half laughing from fear of this monster I was about to try and tame. This other site gives a more objective version of the ride but is not nearly as hilarious but it does show some interesting graphs that give you an idea of how much climbing is going to be involved.

Well let me help the future Mulholland challengers as well…

Pre-Race Preparation.

1. This race is hard. In fact, it is not a race as I learned early on at about mile 14. It’s a race of survival, just looking to make it to the end. So train before hand or you will be ridiculed by all these old guys who dominate this race as you bail out. I had ridden one 80 miler before hand with at least 100 milesa week riding for a few months. I still felt unprepared.
2. Bring full fingered gloves with a jacket. The first 30 or so minutes through the early morning canyons were agony with 41 degree temperatures. Its worth the very little extra weight.
3. Seat bag had tube, 2 CO2 and adapter, multi-tool (which I got justin to carry, sucker)
4. Get the compact crank setup. All the good riders had em, theres no reason not to. $140 bucks right now at performance bikes.

During The Race

1. Don’t drink their “Sustain” powder, tastes like shit and makes you feel like your gonna yak on mile 93. Just go with the Gatorade.
2. Take the anti lactic acid pills, just do it. I took 5 before we started and another 5 at mile 70.
3. Don’t ride alone. Always have someone there to push you or succomb to the mountain mind games.
4. I carried two water bottles. They recommended bringing a camel pack on the website but we have already ignored their request to change our gears so why bow to the water demands as well?
5. In my jersey pockets I had 5 lactic acid pills, 2 cliff bars which I didn’t eat, two gel blocks bags, extra tube, camera which I got X to carry, and a banana in the beginning. I would pick up granola bars at each stop and eat them on the way as well.
6. Drink more water than you think you need, you know your dehydrated when you are sweating salt crystals.

Ride Description
I didnt have a computer, I kneed it off one ride and have never replaced it. So this account wont give you the mile markers you are looking for but the sites I mentioned above do a good job of that.

We started at 6:32am and it was extremely cold. I opted to not bring arm or leg warmers for heat and weight reasons. Uustin, Xavier, and my self were in the 5% of people who came as poorly prepared as we did. Going through Las Virgenes road is relatively painless and most people were not going really that fast. The hill is short and easy and then you get a fantastic down hill looking over at the Pacific Ocean as the warm air hits you coming from the west providing only a small relief to my numb fingers.

You go south on PCH and we were pushing pretty hard. I considered conserving for the unknown hills I knew wer coming but competition brings out funny decisions in a person. A left turn onto Topanga Canyon and this horrible wind just smacked us in the face lowering my moral as we trudged up this slow ascent. The wind eventually subsides as we got deeper into the canyon. Apparently on the way up Topanga a guy got knocked down by someone who got a flat tire. I would have cried if that happened to me.

The first hill was a slow steady grade and I felt really good at this point and went up it quite easily. Apparently Xavier cramped at this point mysteriously. The first sticker stop (you have to collect five stickers through the race) is about 30 miles in and a welcome relief. I felt comically delirious at each of the sticker stops. From here there are just a load more hills, none are particularly difficult until you get to Cotharin. Here is where I left my impact racing brethren and surged forward to not see them again for about 8 hours. This hill was brutal and the sun just started to come out.

Eventually you get to the top and the road turns really bad with huge cracks all over it. Going down hill and hitting these things at 50 km/h and not getting a punctured tire is just ridiculous. I saw several guys pulled over on the way down, one apparently broke his steering tube and another guy went down hard requesting that he could ride to the “clinic” in Malibu. I heard of three bad crashes through out the day. at the bottom you hit PCH and then you go south again. Again we moved at pace but riding PCH with speed gazing out over the horizon is an activity everybody should do in their lifetime. Eventually we arrived at Decker Canyon and we began the hardest hill of the race. It began with 18% and probably averaged 10-12% and went on for some 8 miles. I rode well and found a group of Orange County’ians to motivate me to get to the top. I got to the top and at the sticker stop I was laughing because I really didn’t think I should have been able to climb that hill.

Next came some slow rollers through the interior peaks of the Santa Monica mountains. Beautiful scenery and on a truly gorgeous day as well. I didn’t find this section so bad as the hills never got to steep but I did have to do it on my own. At the second to last sticker spot you are at mile 79 r something. You are told that the next and last sticker spot is not that far away. But you have to go up Stunt road. At mile 90 the road goes at steady 8% grade for 4 miles. The key here is the mile 90 factor, not the hardest hill normally but different story after the day you have just had. I had to stop 2 times on the way up. I believe for over heating reasons as I felt a little dizzy. You get to the top and they were the friendliest sticker spot yet as they pretty much carried you to a chair, fed you a bottle and served you homemade chocolate chip cookies.

From here you have 1.5 miles of pretty tough climbing left and your home free. This was the one part I almost cramped on and i attribute it to the homemade chocolate chip cookie. A great downhill looking over Calabassas is next and then you have an annoying up hill on Las Virgenes to go back to the hotel where the race began and start.

Personal Reflection

This race is not attempted by young people for some reason. It is all 30+ year olds with many well over 40. My cohorts and I were the only youngsters I saw although Xavier and Justin said they sighted a 20 something rider and a few youngsters who likely did not finish the race. The only explanation for this is because young people now-a-days are bread not to be masochistic. I think the older mentality is summed up through the quote I started this blog with.

After 8 hours and 36 minutes the ride was over. For the last 2-3 hours the theme of the ride was “Just make it stop” and the thought of laying down brought me to the finish. In the end, I have no regrets and am extremely happy with my performance. I would do it again, only after the big bear climb and maybe riding from LA to SF.

Whats next, I am thinking of velodrome racing.