Way before the Giro, Tour, and Vuelta, I was first and foremost a football fan. Born in Toledo, Ohio naturally The Diety of My Choice made me a Buckeye fan. Good time to be a fan because my first memories of all time are of Archie Griffin stuffing the ball over the line to beat the Michigan Wolverines as time drained off the clock. Buckeye for Archie, I'd always think. But where would he put it on his helmet, being already covered from previous good deeds during the season. Later I moved to Michigan, where I was surrounded by those poor disillusioned Michigan fans. God made the ball round, man turned it aerodynamic, and everyone pities the Wolverine football fan. I tried to embrace the professional game, but I realized early in my life that the NFL can give a crap about the fanatic that is willing to get off their couch and actually buy a seat in the stadium. When we moved to California in 1976, my dad sprung for four seats to the Oakland Raiders. I went to every game in 1976 except for the Monday Night game as my mother took my ticket. I mean, she hates football, but she had to go to the Monday Night game. I'm still bitter. Anyway, I knew every player and could tell you their alma mater, stats, everything. They won the Super Bowl that year crushing the Minnesota Vikings in Pasadena. I went to both playoff games. We beat the Patriots with the clock running out. I feared the Pats as they were the only team to put a loss on us that year. It was a great game, but the Raiders prevailed. In came the Pittsburgh Steelers with Bradshaw and Swan, and LC Greenwood, Jack Hamm, Mean Joe Greene, Rocky Blier, et al. Someone hung a banner up in one of the endzones that showed Mean Joe, LC and Jack Hamm peeking out from behind a shower curtain with the tag line, "The Steel Curtain Doesn't Look So Tough." Anyway, the Raiders rolled them and it was on to Pasadena. A boy couldn't have been happier. The next year, the Raiders fared well, but didn't quite have the same spark and they bowed out of the playoffs early. The crowd back then was fantastic. We sat in one of the endzones with the same people for every game. Next to us was a Vietnamese couple. We got to know each other to the point that we would end up sharing food with each other that we brought to the game. It was my first experience with Vietnamese food, and I loved it. About the second or third quarter a guy would stand up and start singing a song to which the chorus was, "GO RAIDERS GO!!" If you remember the size of the beers that they used to sell, you'll recall the thing looked like a popcorn bucket that you get at the movies. This guy would be feeling no pain after draining the thing, pop the bottom out of it and use it as an impromptu megaphone. Classic. He could get the whole endzone singing that song to the point that it would eventually take over the stadium. At no time did I witness a fight, stabbing, beating or similar. Always friendly ribbing of anyone wearing the other teams colors, but never anything violent. How everything has changed. So a few years later, the Raiders committed to playing one more season in Oakland before they were to move to LA. The ticket agency called one Sunday morning to see if my dad would renew the tickets. There were rumors that Al Davis was waffling and that they may stay after all. I was optomistic, my father, however was not. With the whole family around the breakfast table, we listened to the one sided coversation. After my father politely listened to the sales pitch, my father finally began to talk and my hopes for Sunday afternoon hinged on the next words he spoke. He said, "I'll tell you what. I'll renew those tickets, but you have to promise me one thing," he said to the agent. "You have to promise me that you will personally shove every one of those tickets up Al Davis' ass." With that he hung up the phone and sat back down to finish his breakfast, never looking up. The family hung in the silence. Look around the NFL, and you'll see that the team in Tennessee came from Houston who has a new team. Phoenix came from St. Louis who came from LA. Cleveland went to Baltimore who went to Indianapolis. Even our Jokeland Raiders went to LA and rebounded back to Jokeland who is being sued by the team. Confused yet? If you aren't, you've got the right IQ to be a fan.

Anyway, the college product, although scummy on some levels, remains true to the school and town where it is located. The Wisconsin Badgers will always be in Madison filling up an 80,000 seat Camp Randall stadium. It seems a bit more meaningful somehow. The ball gets kicked off tonight and ain't that grand? This weekend features some pretty good games. Cal travels to Tennessee to take on a traditional SEC powerhouse. Back when Cal was pathetic, my friend played rugby with some players who went against the Vols that year. They recalled how after the first play one of the Tennessee Volunteers offered a meaty paw to help them off the ground and uttered, "it's just such a pity that you boys had to travel so far to get whipped up by a bunch of country boys." With that, Tennessee put a lick on 'em. This weekend could be entirely different. This could come down to something late, and watch for Cal's head coach Jeff Tedford to outwit Tennessee's Phillip Fulmer. Fulmer probably has the better athletes, but can't hold a candle to Tedford when it comes to coaching the game. Cross right, flood left, 83 block on two...ready...break!!

Johnny GoFast

So I got myself a TT bike today. I've been using the Griffociraptor BlewByYou, but I couldn't resist when I saw this baby on eBay today. Holy crap, I can hear my friends now. "Johnny, whew, that bike is you!!" I'm growing out my mullett and I'm dusting off my skin suit with the Cippollini stripes. I'm currently in negotiations with the powers at Pegasaurus to see if they can design a suit similar but with the Pegasaurus colors. I've also decided to have a custom airbrush done on the wheels. I'm going to have my likeness on one side and the back of my head on the other. When I roll up to the line, I will be the envy of all who survey me. At least the ones on crack.

Johnny TTFast

So I kind of look at training like filling up buckets. Hopefully the bucket that is the fullest at the beginning of racing season is the bucket marked, "great workouts." The middle bucket would be marked, "alright, but you're not going to win any races" and the last bucket would be labeled, "why'd you even bother getting off the couch?" So I've been getting plenty into the middle bucket (see yesterdays post) but hardly any into the "great workout" bucket. Unfortunately, the "you're pathetic" bucket is nearing the brim. Well yesterday I had one of those rides that was like an epiphany. The plan called for an agressive ride keeping the HR in the high zone three range for an hour and a half. I did a pretty good warm up and then went after it. No problem getting into the zone, but I haven't had too much difficulty hitting targeted zones up to this point. The problem has been maintaining it. Yesterday, no problems. I had great thoughts rumbling through my head. Thoughts like, "too bad Griff isn't racing cross this year. I'd pop a wheelie all over his face," and "too bad Griff lives in Granite Bay. I'd love to whip up on him on a daily basis." Stuff like that. Well before I knew it, I'd blown through my workout and I'd covered a lot of ground. I lobbed the work into the proper bucket and headed to the shower. Today I've got three 17 minute pieces in zone three on the cross bike. Hoping to report a similar success.

I've got a little time on my hands, so I'll take some questions from my studio audience:

Recently you posted that you took your kids to Minnesota. How'd your boy like fishing? Thanks for asking. One day, when I told him that we had to reel up and head for the dock, he looked at me and very distinctly said, "DAMMIT!!!" My heart swelled as that is the proper response to anyone that tells you it's time to quit fishing, but my brain ruled out and the boy was met with the proper disciplinary action.

Are you a fan of the calf high sock?

This is a tough question to answer. If you're talking about the bike, I'd say it looks gay. Very popular, but gay. If you're talking about the gym, then I'd say I'm a big fan. In fact, recently I noticed that it's very popular to either go sans socks or those little I'm not wearing socks socks. Having not been clued in by my fashion director, I noticed one day, after about two months in the gym, that I was the only one wearing the calf high model. So I believe I'm completely backwards. Review: low socks on the bike, high socks in the gym to be completely wrong constantly.

I've been having issues in the bedroom. My wife won't have sex with me. What do you recommend? A few years ago, I went to see a therapist with my wife as we were struggling through the "second year of marriage and do I really have to have sex with you duldrums." The therapist suggested that we do some role playing. Come up with a routine that makes it seem different in the bedroom. We struck upon a routine that has worked well for us. It's called: "$1,000 Las Vegas Call Girl." My wife dresses very skimpily and knocks on the bedroom door. I answer it clad in boxers, white tee shirt and black calf high socks (of course). She then proceeds to rock my world. Be careful however, this can easily morph into $5 crack whore if alcohol has been ingested at any point during the evening.

That's all I have time for today. You've been a great audience. Now back to work.

Johnny GoFast

So I headed out on Saturday morning to do the local House of Pain ride. But before I go, my wife hits me with, "you look heavier than normal." Alarm bells, whistles, loud horns immediately go off in my head. I quickly look at my self in the nearest mirror, and to my horror, I think she's right. There, in all my Pegasuarus kitted splendor, stood Fat Johnny. Not Phat Johnny, or Fat John the ultra skinny kid from your little league baseball team, but oh my god he's put on some weight from his last race Johnny. Crap. And I was already nervous about doing the ride as my legs have been worked over for the better part of a month with running and weights and long tempo rides. The last time I did a group ride, I was shot out the back so fast I thought I should give up, grab myself some black Performance generic bike shorts, an oversized (if possible) Postal jersey, one of those hook on your glasses rearview mirror things, and stick to the boulevard. In other words, my confidence was already in the gutter when my wife, in very subtle terms, told me I was fat. I wanted to grab a fritter, and a box of chocalates, and curl up on the couch with a good book. But I prevailed, and went out and joined the ride. To my shock and awe, I hung in there. There were some other Pegasuarus' on the ride and we kibitz a little about the trials and tribulations of training. When the ride was drawing to a close, they siddled up next to me and said, "looks like you are in better shape than you thought." Long way to go indeed. Even though I tell myself each off period, that the weight will stay off, it never does. And each time I start to train again, it seems that the speed will never come, and it always does. Patience grasshopper. Another hard week in front of me, but knowing that I'm not that slow in comparison to the group, adds a little motivation. Have a great week.

Johnny GoFat

So I went to the car wash this week to get the behemoth cleaned a little bit. With the two kids, the dog, all the crap, sometimes the behemoth is the most efficient way to get the family from here to there. Anyway, one of my favorite moments is sitting there waiting for the car to come out of the machine. You know, the one where they stuff your car in one end looking dirty and it comes out the other end looking clean, but really wet. And through the miracle of modern science, the car goes through the maching without somebody driving it and never does it get lost. It truly is amazing. I credit all the money we spent on the space program with this development. But where was I? Right, I usually go after work to get this done. The sun hits the waiting area just right, and the shoe shine station is closed. I like to sit high up on one of the shine chairs as it affords me a great view of the area. There are usually three or four other people that are waiting there with me and I like to think about them a little bit. This time featured the boobed up 40 something. Casually flicking her hair, head swiveling about every 30 seconds due to the late afternoon caffeine. I wondered if the boobs were a last ditch effort to appease the husband before he split for good or if it was a post, 'better get myself looking good if I have to go back out on the scene' move. Either way, it's kind of pathetic. I hope she can find the security she needs to be happy. But then again, if that's what it's going to take, there is not a lot of hope. There was the collar up golf shirt guy reading some car mag from the free box nearby. 'I'm into cars although it doesn't define me...does it' he screamed. More on him later. A young, probably going to the local community college, twenty something talking on her cellphone. Not that I've got any money now, but when I was going to the same JC up the road that I supposed this young chick was going to, I washed my own damn car. Now, I like the convenience and when I'm not riding my bike, all I want to do is get home to the fam. New generation or perhaps she's just got it better figured or is ignorant to it all. Probably the later. There were some others coming and going as their car was belched off the line, but these are the ones I remember. So this older Mercedes comes rolling out. It's got a color scheme that suggests 1995, but I'm not a car guy so I really don't know. It did not look new. This whole band of immigrants goes to town on this thing, wiping and polishing and squirting solutions, and wiping some more. I'm sitting there now totally impressed at how hard they're at it. The car starts to shine in all its glory in the afternoon sun. The tires get rubbed down and look brand new. With that, one of the crew puts his hand in the air and yells, "Mercedes!" With that, the collar up dude springs to life. He walks over to the car and does this thorough walk around. "Never thought of that," I think to myself. He starts to point at mysterious markings and watermarks, and one of the crew immediately gets to work. He finally reaches his open door and he turns to one of the workers and says, "everytime I'm here you never completely get the thing dry." "Yes sir," mumbles the worker as he takes the ticket. With that, the man climbs in his crappy ass Mercedes and drives away. NO TIP! What a cocksucker. I'm convinced that the whole walk around garbage was only a ploy to stiff the workers. Anyway, my stead came rolling out and they went to town. When they called me out, I thanked them and doubled my normal tip of $4. Cover the jerky before me. Hope you all are well and doing the right thing to each other.

Johnny GoFast

One of those days, man. Woke up in a great mood, kitted up and rode into the rockpile feeling pretty good about my non-dependence to the car. Took a shower and grabed my plate that I keep here and went to re-heat my omelet that I brought with me. In the process I somehow managed to drop the plate on the floor and I watched it fragment into a 100 pieces. Cut myself on the drop. So now I'm down one plate. Luckily, there is a plate under the sink, so I clean it and get back to re-heating the ommy. I'm dying for it because it has a turkey patty in there with some cut up tom-toms from the garden. Anyway, I manage to get the thing heated, eated, and digested without further incident. So 10am comes and my belly blows the whistle so I decide to work up a little snack. Back to the kitchen with my new found plate to get workin' on some celery with cheese. In the process, I managed to drop the plate and spill a glass of water onto the floor. Luckily the glass was plastic or I would have been picking up those shards as well. It can't get worse, can it? I've hit the nader, right? All the same, I won't hold it against you if you see me board your plane today, and you go running for the exit. If, I siddle up next to you on the group ride, and you launch yourself off the front or the back of the peloton. If my wife/girlfriend/$1000 Las Vegas Call Girl/$5 crackwhore won't let me have sex with her/them even though I'm douple wrapped, and vasectomied. No doubt your day is going better than mine, so smile.

Johnny GoFast

So I'm back from Minnesota where I was on vacation with the wife and kids. Had a fabulous time. The program usually worked like this: the boy would come into my room and ask me if it was time to go fishing. After breakfast, I would reply. Then let's get cracking, he'd say. And so we would. We would cook up some sausage and eggs, bacon, cereal, and feast. Afterwhich, we'd kiss the Mama, load up in the boat and jam across (fishing is always better on the other side--no matter what) the lake to our favorite fishing spot. We'd catch more than we could count. Mostly Sunnies and Perch, but the boy caught a bass as well. The girl enjoyed the fishing for about 10 minutes and then wanted at the snacks. There was always something in the bag for her. One day, we saw a Mama Loon swimming along with her kid. They swam within 10 feet of us. My kids were fascinated. At one point, one of the Loons was swimming around our boat under the water. Damn cool. They can both immitate the call pretty well. If you've heard the Loon cry once, it's something that stays with you. On another occasion, we saw a Bald Eagle. I think I was more impressed than the chitlands. I guess I've been going up there for so long now, that I remember when there weren't any there. To me, it's still amazing that they're around. To them, there are so many, that it doesn't seem that big of a deal. Moving on, after fishing, we'd run back to the cabin and get a little lunch and then it was off to this beach on the lake. We'd come in around 5pm and have some dinner. Story time and the bed and we'd do it all again the next day. They never tired of it and nor did I. Can't wait to go back.

Johnny Go(backtoMinnesota)Fast

I was jammin’ along through the Open Space today,
Me and the cross bike feelin’ okay,
Jumpin’ and bouncin’ our way cross the dusty slopes.
When suddenly, it occured to me,
There’s nobody as far as I can see,
So let’s slow us down, pull back a little on these here ropes.

My head gets to thinkin’ why bust our ass,
Why kill ourselves, no need to go so fast,
Take ‘er easy, slow down and enjoy a little of this ride.
Take ‘er easy(?) screamed the legs in full revolt,
As if suddenly struck by a lightning bolt,
And they opened up the throttle, as the brain became a little fried.

The heart and lungs, they were sittin’ comfortable,
When they noticed the attack, as we bounced across the rubble,
They put ‘er in gear, to see if we couldn’t open up a gap.
Gap(?) thought the brain, as it seemed the game was on,
All I said, was slow down, no harm in that son,
But I can see that y’all ain’t the type to get caught out in a nap.

So the head said let’s go, if it’s go you want to go,
And started barkin’ out orders, my attitude startin’ to grow,
As we whipped it up into a frightful furious pace.
With my eyeballs takin’ in the fast approachin’ terrain,
And everything else shoved to the side in my brain,
There was nothin’ left, ‘cept maybe for the pain on my face.

The legs smiled hard, as the pain set in,
And the lungs did too, the heart in full grin,
Don’t take a day off they seemed to say to the brain through all of the pain.
With the fall fast approachin’, the racin’ season a near,
Got to train up some speed, rip the dirt without fear,
And get it on with the deamons that conjur themselves up in the brain.

October 8th, 2006

See you there,

Johnny GoFast

There's a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow. And I'll be the leprechaun quick enough to catch me prize, to be sure. Anyway, long week indeed both splitin' rocks and on the bike. Tired SLOW legs. I hope at the end of this rainbow this all translate to speed. Tomorrow, early, I'll be doin' my favorite ride from years past. The ol' round the mountain loop. It's a great ride with great scenery. There is one stretch of road that kind of sucks. No shoulder with honkin' redneck type trucks with cowboys/caballeros in them yelling "fag" and throwin' empty beer/cerveza cans at me as they whiz by. I'll be launching at 6am, so no doubt I'll be solo and hopefully the rednecks will be home from their honkytonks. I'll hook in with the House Of Pain ride and hang as long as I can. Keeping the HR below 158, so I probably won't make it that far out Highland, but no worries. I'll flip it at that point and head for the barn. I've got kids to chuck around in the pool. Sunday, I'm getting on a plane for a company junket thing at the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs. Hope you all are well and that you find whatever it is you're looking for at the end of your rainbow. Metaphorically speaking of course.

Johnny GoFast

Strange things, dates. August 1st will forever be ingrained in my head. I woke this morning in a great mood. And then a wave of anxiety fell over me. Not sure why, I continued on until it hit me. Today is August 1st. Before the bike, I was first and foremost, a football player. When I was seven, I begged my father to let me play. My two older brothers played and I loved going to their games and watching the collisions, and blood, the yelling, the whistles, the roar of the crowd, the crunch of the leaves, the crispness in the air. All of it. My dad was right, I was too young, but I wouldn't let up and he caved. The first day of practice, the coach told us to grab a knee. I protested because there were prickers on the ground. He lined us up against each other and blew his whistle signaling us to hit each other. The boy fired out and I went down on my butt. I sat out for a while even taking off my helmet at one point and stuffing the vent holes with dandelions. Somewhere, amongst the other proud papa's stood my father seething. After practice, I got in the car and told my dad how great it all was. He drove in silence. When I got home I went for my room to change out of my uniform. He stopped me cold. "Get out in the backyard. Leave your stuff on, and get down there and wait." What? With that, he yelled up stairs for my brothers. They came to the top of the stairway and received my fathers instructions, "Michael, Tony, put your football stuff on and come out into the backyard." I heard what he said, but I didn't believe it. I looked up the stairwell and saw my brothers gleaming. They didn't need to be asked twice. Still skeptical, I waited in the backyard. My brothers were there in what seemed like an instant. My father gave a brief scenario as to how the first football practice of my life went. The prickers, the dandelions, the lack of participation. But Dad, I wanted to scream, I didn't know that practice was a whole bunch of hitting. I remained silent not sure what was going to happen. Certainly he wasn't going to turn these two guerrillas loose. To my horror, he grabbed me by the scruff and threw me into a three point stance. He yelled at Michael and Tony to do the same. With a look of total joy, they both complied. Surely they would take it easy on me. Tony was four years older and Michael, only two years older, but as strong as an ox, would take pity on their younger and certainly weaker little brother. My father yelled "hit" at a fiercly loud pitch and that they did. I remember getting whacked like I'd never been whacked. My hand never came off the ground and I was on my ass so quickly, that to this day I don't know how it happened so fast. I also remember the snot coming out of my nose and plastering my facemask. Violent. I began to cry. Lesson learned. My brothers, now feeling a bit worse, got off the ground and retreated for the house. I layed there in shock. "Where are you two going," my father grumbled. "We're not done here." WHAT? He's going to kill me. Again lifting me as if I was a feather, he formed me into a three point stance. Then yelling at my brothers to do the same. They hesitated for a moment. I love those guys, because at this point, they knew my dad had lost it. This was unreasonable. But in a bit of a pickle, they complied, "hit" was bellowed and the onrush of brothers ensued. Snot, tears, yelling, brothers compassionately begging forgiveness for pummelling their younger brother continued for another 30 minutes. My mother, for at least 25 minutes stood on the balcony yelling deplorable things at my father. He only scowled in her direction. Finally, at my wits end and frustrated and humiliated and mad, I reacted. He said hit, and I did. I leapt from my stance and flung my battered, bloodied and bruised body at my brothers with reckless abandon. Again I was overmatched, but for one brief instant, I had arrested their forward progress. I ended up on my butt again, but this time it was about where I had started and not at my fathers feet some five feet in arrears. "That'll do boys," was all he said. The next day at practice, well let's just say that the little boy across from me didn't know what hit him. A football player was made that day. The old fashioned way.

So later I joined the San Ramon Valley T-Birds and practice always began on August 1st. The summer always was bittersweet. The looming season always in the back of my mind. I grew up a lineman where football is a little different. There are no touchdowns or cheers or girls or eyeblack. There is only the sheer violence with every snap. The games are great. The knowing that you did your part to put the ball over the line though somebody else gets the credit. But the thrill of the game can only carry you so far. The bumps and the bruises and the jammed fingers are a constant reminder that this game is brutal. The constant struggle to do what it takes to be great and sacrifice everything else. It all used to begin on August 1st. I ultimately played 10 years of the sport. By the end, I was good enough to get the job done despite being undersized for the line. I stopped growing somewhere along the line, but long ago I learned that nobody across the line from me would ever be more imposing than my two older brothers. And someday, when my little boy comes to me with ideas of being on the football field,...I'll buy him a tuba.

Johnny GoFast