I am Moving to Mohave

Let me say this – I understand that rain is necessary. It waters plants, fills our reservoirs, etc. etc. etc. However, I am bit sick of being damp. Damp and spandex equals chafing. And where on the body the chafing occurs, well, I can’t really discuss it in mixed company.

Now, Eve, Dawn and yours truly (the Jersey City contingent of TNT’s 100-mile group) got it into our heads a few weeks back to do our own ride in our hometown of Rockland County. I’m originally from New City, if any one was curious. The group rides that we religiously attend occur 40 minutes away in the tony bucolic bliss known as Basking Ridge. Basking Ridge is Greenwich, Conn., but the gargantuan houses there actually have property around them.

Here comes the irony: We rescheduled our hometown ride to Sunday from Saturday because of the inclement weather forecast. And any one who was around this weekend realizes that was a big mistake. On Sunday, the tri-state area was hit with record rainfall – the most rain in a single 24-hour period.

So, yes, I was riding in that. The rain fell with such intensity that it stung your face. I’d like to coin a new word because of this “rainburn” – it’s the redness caused by torrential downpour to the face accompanied by a chorus of wind and cold.

And that bring up another key difference between Sunday and Saturday. On Saturday, the air was calm, and the temperature made it possible to endure the light mist of rain quite comfortably, if comfort is the right word to use when riding more than 58 miles in the rain (yes, the cue sheet had a 55-mile route, and I will get to that in due course).

But let’s get back to Sunday. Eve and Dawn skipped the Saturday ride to attend a Yard Sale fundraiser, so they wanted to do a 60-mile ride to make up for it. So, with a bit of googling, we found a cue sheet that was fairly challenging to get us from Fort Lee, NJ into the welcoming avenues of downtown Nyack, NY.

But we found out far too late that this cue sheet laid out such a route that it resembled an unkempt fishing line – gnarled, confused and utterly frustrating. Signs were bent or missing and street names changed inexplicably and far too often. The intense rainfall, flooding and fog exacerbated the confusion and the ride was about as fun as accidentally dropping a hammer on your big toe.

After more than an hour of twisting and turning the back roads of northern New Jersey, we opted for a more direct route – Route 9W – which is a straight shot to Nyack. As if to punish us for veering from the proscribed directions, the rain came down with renewed vigor, and that’s when I likely got the rainburn.

We limped into Nyack, soaked everywhere but where our rain jackets were able to shield us, and slipped through a deserted street fair. Vendors huddled under their white, collapsible tents with forlorn eyes, as their hopes of a day of brisk sales withered with every passing minute.
The rain had emptied the streets and the cordoned off streets barring cars from the street fair made the area seem even more barren.

We slumped down at a table at one of those nameless pizza places found in Anywhere, USA. As we gnawed on reheated chicken rolls and Sicilian slices, we licked our damp wounds, we plotted our retreat.

We watched through the glass as vendors tucked and folded their booths away, with some realizing too late how much rain had amassed on their tent roofs. And within the shop, a man with a mop followed us around like a newborn duckling as we formed pools wherever we stood.

Then it was official. We called a full retreat, and Eve’s mother. So, Eve’s mother picked up Eve to get the Volvo with the big trunk to take back to Nyack to pick us all up, to then take us back to Fort Lee where our own cars were. Then we’d all go back to Jersey City, and Eve would return the Volvo some other time.

I would have liked to have toughed it out and finished the ride, but wet spandex just isn’t that toasty warm and the slightest breeze set my teeth to chattering out the Gettysburg Address in Morse code.

The kicker was that the moment we got home, the clouds parted, the sun blessed the damp ground with its blanket of warmth. And that was the first time that I can recall being really ticked off at the sun coming out. We had planned to ride 60 miles, but only completed a measly 20 that felt like we had ridden 80.

And that brings us back, in reverse chronological order, to Saturday.

I knew it was to rain, so I had brought my newly purchased clear plastic rain jacket, worn my socks usually reserved for snowboarding, wore my insulated glove liners and had my new Pearl Izumi skull cap keeping my head toasty under my helmet.

What I didn’t have this time out was “GPS Eric”. This ride it was Paul (yes, that Paul) and myself out front. Becky, who going forward will be called “the Valkyrie” for her legendary strength, SuperDwight and Paul took the lead. I found I could not keep apace, as I had been out at the most outlandishly Italianous wedding extravaganza on the Eastern seaboard the night before, not getting to bed until 3 am. (Discussion of the wedding would need a whole other blog, and perhaps a few restraining orders)

But Paul ended up falling back and Dwight did his usual disappearing act, leaving the two Stooges to their own devices. So, we promptly missed a turn, of course. Dwight, out of the void swooped in and set us on a detour that had us almost eerily meeting up this the rest of the group.

But after a time, I grew restless and broke from the pack and Paul, glutton for punishment, followed along. So, zipping a ahead but too far behind the Valyrie to follow, we missed a second turn after the two of us nearly fell on entirely too slick metal grid bridge in some town ending in -ville. The surface of the bridge resembles a cheese grater, and my rear end nearly became a piece of cheddar. But we made it across unscathed and also unaware that we had just passed an immediate left turn. About a mile or so later we realized our error.

When we finally made it back to our respective cars, just more than four hours from when we started, Paul and I logged 58 miles – about five miles more than we were instructed. I prefer to look at us as overachievers as opposed to lummoxes who can’t bother to follow simple directions.

Dwight handed out some of the best tasting hot cider I’ve ever tasted and “the Valkyrie” proceeded to tear into Paul and I, as if we had botched the instructions on how to boil water. My argument was we were only 5 miles off, which is one-third as lost as we got last time. In that respect, it was a great improvement, perhaps even a victory.

Paul and I headed to the Lemon Lounge, each ordering medium rare aptly named “Bad Day Burgers.” And I wolfed it down, in a bliss that can only come from not knowing exactly how screwed I would be just a few hours later on Sunday.

Celebrity and Infamy

The fates were kind to us all on Saturday: Sunny, in the 70s, dry roads and accommodating motorists. But for me, it was no picnic. What seemed like a gorgeous day was the breathing equivalent to slogging through knee deep mud. The air was thick with moisture, which makes darting up ahead and staying there a near Herculean task.

But I had my inhaler, something that I carried more as a lark than a precaution until recently, and I had to use the thing twice on Saturday.

I should mention at this point that it probably wasn’t the best idea to have the guys over for poker and then proceed to empty a good portion of my wallet into theirs over the course of the evening. And the evening stretched into the wee small hours. So, a 50-miler and four hours of sleep, I have tested it and can confirm that it is quite a bad idea.

Playing poker with me is, on the contrary, apparently is a very good one: you get fed with some of my concoctions (paella has been known to be served, for example), and you get to help me remove all those burdensome money weighing down my wallet.

Friday’s menu included the following: a chorizo and shrimp quesadilla served with a chili-onion-cilantro reduction relish.

Here’s what you do: chop up one or two chorizo. Make sure it’s good sausage, dry, made in Spain, small and dense. Sautee with the onions and chilis (just get one of those small cans of the chopped variety and dump it in the pan).

When the onions are soft and translucent, throw the shrimp in. I used thawed deveined and pre-cooked shrimp that you would use for a cocktail, removing the tail and stirring in the shrimp with the heat turned off to get the chorizo flavor mixed in. Then a few splashes of white (I used Ecco Domani pinot grigio) and turn the heat back on to cook down the wine. Somewhere in here, throw in some chopped fresh cilantro.

A variation would be to marinate overnight fresh shrimp in onions and cilantro (don’t use the marinade to cook), then cook the shrimp as above. Obviously you would not need to do the reduction, but you would need to cook them.

Ok, now get one of those big burrito tortilla and place it on a baking tray. Then put a generous layer or gruyere and sharp cheddar on half of the tortilla, then cover the cheese with some of the contents of the pan. Fold the tortilla in half, and tuck it in the oven for about 10 minutes, flipping it over at the halfway point, and there you go.

But let’s get back to Saturday for a bit – so I had a few problems - small stuff, like breathing. But I made it to the end in one piece.

On the way, I came across a pack of bikers, and one of them inexplicably had only one of those dinky caps with the flipped up rim to protect the contents of his memory, personality and ability to breathe – I mean his brain. But as he had no helmet on as he wizzed along the side of a road where half-ton cars passed by within a few feet of him, clearly he wasn’t using much of the grey matter than G-d gave him.

So here’s where I got on my soapbox. You see, I have a cousin who, when he was 11 or so, got hit by a car. He was in a coma for months, and when he came out, he spoke differently, his taste in food changed, his allergies too.

Now he goes around to schools and tells people his story and to wear helmets. He got written up in the New York Times recently for his work. He is one of my heroes.

This is a challenge for him as his short-term memory spans a few minutes and he can’t see much bigger than the size of a quarter. No, he didn’t have a helmet on when he was struck.

These last two points are what I relayed to the capped rider when I got next to him on the road. As I pulled away, I must have zigged a little bit and he criticized my riding. “Ride Better, Ride Better!” He shouted at my back. The man doesn’t have the sense to protect his head and he’s giving me advice?

When I told this story to others, some thought that he might have been the president of some local cycling club. If he was, he wasn’t setting a great example for his group. People: Wear your helmet or stay home.

I wasn't the only one preaching smart cycling, however. About halfway into the ride, Dwight pulled us aside and gave us a rap on the knuckles. Apparently it's a big no-no to ride side by side in Nevada and we aren't calling out when passing people.

I thought that Dwight was aiming the latter critique directly at me - which I am guilty of, but I am taking classes and going to a support group now. And, of course less than five minutes later folks were riding once again two-by-two. Later, at the Lemon Lounge, every one at the table confessed that they thought that Dwight was referring specifically to them alone. What can I say, I dine with a nefarious, yet guilt-laden, bunch.

Some time later, I rode with Nancy for a bit. Not knowing who I was, she asked me for directions. “Are you sure you want to ask me for directions?” When she realized that I was “that” Eric (the Lemon Lounge crew would call me the Evil Eric for being a general nuisance to our coaching staff), I soon didn’t see her following me. A prudent move, to be sure.

But I did manage to get to the end of the ride, and not straying one inch from the course proscribed on our cue sheet. I guess I took my BDMS medication that day.

Over lunch (the crowd included the stooges, a stooge's Dad, GPS Eric and Sonia), the “good” Eric told me how much his wife enjoyed my little story about riding in the rain. He had this look on his face that said “Yeah, thanks a lot, buddy, give her more ammunition.” Well, hey, nobody’s perfect.

If you haven't yet, get over to my fund raising site (there's a link to the right) and shell out a few bucks for a good cause.

The First Annual Icecyle-45

Let me begin by stating one of the more painfully obvious truths: I am a big, dumb male and I have no idea why my girlfriend hasn’t run away screaming from me yet. She, being as prescient as she is lovely and talented, is the one who reminded me on Friday morning to get rain gear for biking as rain was in the forecast for Saturday.

Did I remember to do what she had advised later that day on Friday?

Of course not. BDM Syndrome is a powerful, awful ailment, you see. But I think I made that abundantly clear when I completed a 45-mile ride by bicycling 63 the previous weekend.

So, I had no rain gear and low and behold, it rained - just as had been forecast.

It was raining before I got picked up in Jersey City. It was raining all the way on the drive over to Basking Ridge and it was raining in the parking lot as we get ready for the ride. And it kept on raining, just to show that weatherman who said the rain would stop at about 1pm.

While the forecast called for rain, the temperature that was forecast seemed warm enough to just tough it out with a jersey and those oh so flattering shorts. The golf ball-sized goose bumps that emerged soon after exiting the car in the Liberty Cycle parking lot cured me of that notion. That, and our beneficent coach Hillary’s mention that the temperature was to drop later in the day.

Luckily for me, a couple of brain cells at some point accidentally worked on early on Saturday. And just as a lark I threw some of my cold weather ensemble (all black, like I am some sort of ninja on two wheels) into my bag at the last minute before heading out the door. That was the first of two smart things that I did on Saturday.

But I said I brought some of my cold weather clothing. I neglected a few rather key items. For one, I didn’t wear wool socks. Wool stays warm even when wet. Cotton socks, in contrast, become sponges for water when wet and offer no warmth whatsoever. So I wore those.

Also, I left my insulating glove liners at home that might have made my hands less cold (notice I didn’t use the word “warm” there).

And where does a majority of your body heat depart from you? Answer: Your head. So, I left my balaclava within the confines of my bedroom. It stayed quite dry and warm. I faced another fate. Every time we hit a hill it was like getting brain freeze without the pleasure of the sugar high.

And those socks weren't the only article of clothing that was deeply hydrophyllic (that means water- loving for those that skipped the science classes in college).

Now, it was as early on as getting dressing in the parking lot that I noticed that while my wind breaker was superb at allowing me to slice through a windy day, what it did with special alacrity was absorb water. And my cold weather tights, when removed at the end of the Icecyle-45, easily weighed twice as much as when I had slipped them on.

It wasn’t until mile 20 or so that I found that my booties were not so much keeping my warmth in, but the water that had accumulated in my shoes. By about mile 30 or so, I knew I still had feet because I could see them spinning below, but below the ankle, nothing.

To entertain ourselves, we would squeeze our hands in a fist in a futile attempt to drain the water logged in our gloves, and to get some blood going.

I mentioned we, and that brings me to the second smart thing I did on Saturday. I stuck with some one who lives in the area and let him lead the way. Eric Dickson proved an excellent choice, as we didn’t miss a single turn. (again, see last week's blog)

While Mr. Dickson seemed to have a GPS unit built in his head (i.e., he actually paid attention to the names on the street signs), he too has his flaws. Eric, also afflicted with BDMS (that’s Big Dumb Male Syndrome), had the opportunity to not only to buy rain gear, but at a discount of 50% off two weeks ago. I don’t need to tell you the decision he made.

(Note: I would have a fund raiser for BDMS, but I don't think it would be very organized, more than half the afflicted wouldn't be able to get to the events or meetings because they wouldn't stop to ask for directions. The rest would either forget entirely or run out of gas on the way there, etc. etc. And even if I was able to raise money, who would it go to? I think the wives and girlfriends - sort of a award/thank you for putting up with the ravages of the Y-chromosomity of it all.)

To pass the time, we played what I call “body pain poker”. Every once in a while, we’d try to out bid one another. “I’ve got a pair of numb hands, a frozen head, and ten numb toes,” Dickson would ante. And typically would have a hand that ended in a draw, or however it works in poker. The pot went up as time went on and the temperature dropped.

We finished the ride and it was when I had changed out of my utterly drenched and still haltingly fashionably all-black ensemble that my body began to shiver like a old Chevy with bad gas.

Needless to say, I am looking forward to telling stories of heat and sunburn. And no, I still don't have the rain gear.

Libations and Donations - April 27th in Manhattan

This blog is really just a jovial take on coaxing a few dollars out of you fine people (if you laughed, fork it over - the ride ain't free, kids). It's part of my efforts to raise some money to fight leukemia.

But the blog hasn't really borne the sort of fruit I was expecting. Right now, it's a big lemon, in fact.

So, we're kicking it up a notch.

For those who pay their bills fettered to the corporate behemoths in Manhattan or thereabouts, I offer you refuge, in the form of beer.

That's right, where laughter has fallen short, booze will pick up the torch.

Dipsomania + Philanthropy = BlackFinn

Mark your calendars, because it's fund raiser time! On April 27 (that's a Thursday for the chronilogically challenged) from 7pm to 9pm at BlackFinn we (Eve, Dawn and yours truly) are throwing a Happy Hour fund raiser. Blackfinn is on East 53rd St between 2nd and 3rd Avenues.

For $40, you can take the edge off nearly a week of work, get two hours of the happiest of happy hours and feel good about doing it. And Motley Crue is coming (not really).

After all, this is about fighting leukemia, not about hearing how great a fool I can make of myself every weekend on two wheels. (My idiocy and the subsequent tales of my misadventures of utterly failing to bike in a big circle is just a dividend)

And the more that attend, the more witnesses there will be to what will very likely be the subject of my next blog. With the luck I have been having, I would maintain a minimum safe distance. You read about what happened to John and Paul.

So bring your friends and your friends' friends and a couple of coworkers, because we need to pack the place.

We have an Evite that we can add you to, just send your email to zderic@ yahoo.com. (Note: There's an extra space in there so those nasty spiderbots that troll the Web can't get my address)

For the wino...I am sorry, oenophiles among you, or those that just really liked the movie Sideways, we have something for you as well.

For those with more refined palates or like to pretend like they do - we are also sponsoring a fundraiser WINE TASTING on Sunday, May 7 at the Bar Majestic in our hometown of Jersey City - a stone's throw from Hoboken.

That means that any one going to the street fair that day come on down. The tasting fundraiser will be from 4pm to 7pm, so it won't overlap with the fair. The tasting will cover organic wines and include a sampling of cheeses, as well. The price for this culturally enriching and didactic experience will be $20.

A special "Thank you" to the wonderful people at BlackFinn (Christina, TJ and Co.) and Bar Majestic (Beata and Paul) for being so accomodating for such a good cause.

Street Names as Cusswords and Indefensible Stupidity

First, let me say a universal truth: Most men think they know what they are doing, and don’t. The worst thing you can do is add another man to this equation as it has multiplying effect on the resulting stupidity that invariably will occur.

Case in point: Three men, smart enough to make it into their thirties, each given a set of directions. Stop laughing, I haven’t gotten to the punch line. Now the directions give street names, which turns to make and the mileage at which to make the turns. Simple enough, you’d think.

And it seemed so. But when we were done, the 45 miles we were supposed to ride became a painful 63. We were rained on, stung by bees, dehydrated and famished, and altogether worn out.

It started out innocently enough. Three guys, Paul, John and myself, rode off ahead as we just liked to go faster. Not for any particular reason other than we just haven’t quite gotten the whole adrenaline rush thing out of our system. So, away from the pack we went, blissfully ignorant of what lied ahead.

And after Saturday, I have a new word for pain, and it is this: Bissel. Ok, it’s not very impressive, I agree. But should you take a trip in the winding roads of Basking Ridge, you just may come across a sign along a flat patch of land with fallow farm fields and winsome old homes dotting the hilltops. And then, slowly enough, your engine will start humming ever louder and those views will drop away as you start not looking across a landscape, but straight up its nose. And your engine will now become quite angry with you as slowly come to realize that you are now ascending a seemingly unrelenting hill.

For three miles we went up Bissel. (Bissel, it’s almost a swear word to me – ‘Aw, Bissel! That hurt!”) Halfway up, I had to use my inhaler. I haven’t had to use it for about five years. The TNT people didn’t even know I was asthmatic. That’s the kind of hill it was.

The kicker: it wasn’t until we got to the very top, where Bissel mercifully ended its torturously twisted existence, that we realized that we had gone the wrong way. And guess who was the navigator, who guided them up this Everest-esque ascent.

Yup, it was me. Eagle Scout, 36 merit badges (I think one of them was Orienteering. I may have to give that one back), two Bachelors degrees, and general know it all, etc. etc. John and Paul looked at me, and I could swear that they wondered if my body and bright orange bicycle could be hidden behind the rock wall at Bissel’s peak.

But I managed to bargain for my life (the price: a quite reasonable quesadilla, two diet Cokes and a pair of sandwiches at Lemon Lounge), and we got our bearings from a passing car, and kept going, thinking that would be the last of our straying from the directions.

It was not, and not by a long shot. It was at mile 41 of what was supposed to be a 45-mile ride that we realized the full extent of how deeply screwed we were. A mailman, who mercifully shared the water in his thermos with us (we were nearly out of water at that point), told us where we were – more than 12 miles from the finish. My legs tingled with exhaustion, the rationed Clif bar I had was gone, and I had far too little left in my Camelback and I looked at us, and each were bleary-eyed.

Even then, we botched the directions. Twelve miles, with a few missed turns ultimately became 22 miles. I honestly don’t know how we screwed that part up.

Somewhere in all this, it rained. I didn’t mind. It washed all the salt off my face and really complemented the state of collective misery we were in at that point. After the rain and after we nearly missed another turn, a bee decided I wasn’t uncomfortable enough and stung me.

When we, the Three Moroneteers, rolled in, one of the coaches called us the three stooges – and I tried to defend us, but when you are just that dumb, you just have to smile and take your lumps.

Five hours we weaved our clueless web across what seemed every road in three counties, and none of them were in the directions. And I can say that when we three sat on what seemed the most uncomfortable chairs invented at Lemon Lounge, that the food served was one of the best lunches I ever had.

http://www.active.com/donate/tntnonj/tntnonjEFlemin