Thought I'd kick it up a notch a do a little video posting. As my reader knows, a few things are really killing me about now. One is getting in and out of bed and the other is laughing. One of my joker friends sent me this and I was flopping about the rock pile alternately laughing and wincing in pain.

Found myself wondering if it would be okay to pop Vicodin and go for a ride? There is definitely a line being crossed if I'm not well enough to go it without. Sometimes I feel like I'm on the mend and that maybe the bike isn't too far away. Then, I wake up in the morning feeling like there is a 100lb wedge being forced between my ribs. After I get up the room doesn't stop spinning for about 30 seconds. Finally the nausea clears and things stabalize and I can go about my business. Later, after lunch I'd say, after a couple of "Vikki's" have had a chance to dance about my veins, my ribs feel okay and I start entertaining delusions of grandeur. Would it be cool to get on the bike in this state? Would that be performance enhancing? Is it worth it? I've got a ways to go and I'm leaning toward doing nothing until I can manage the pain without, but it does beg the question, doesn't it? What do you think? Hope you are well and damn it, don't make me laugh.

Johnny GoFast

So the wifeage last night, in a fit of rage at my reaction to the portion of dinner she served me decided the best way to show her displeasure was to start in on the knock-knock jokes. Two things really hurt. Getting in and out of bed and laughing. Both create this unbelievable pain in my chest like I've never felt before. So she says, "knock-knock." Running for my life, or at least walking in a very controlled but intentional manner, I head in any direction away from her. Easy for her to keep up she follows me and says, "well I guess I'll have to answer that myself. Who's there," she says. Trying desparately not to listen and trying to find anywhere to hide, I continue on my rather pathetic escape route. "Boo," she continues just behind me. Cornered with no where to turn, she moves in for the kill. "BooWho?," almost miniacally laughing now. And she finishes me off with, "BooHoo, my name is John and I can't ride a bike for the life of me." I burst in laughter and wince in pain all at once. Left helplessly at the end of the hallway clutching my chest trying not to laugh or cry, I can see a wry smile form at the corners of my wife's mouth. Someday I will get my revenge. For now, please don't make me laugh. Needless to say, shortly thereafter I was popping the Vicodin like Rush Limbaugh. Trying like hell to break it off, but with my wife and her antics, it's a little more complicated than I thought.





So it's no secret that I am shameless when it comes to raiding the Griffociraptors garage when I need a weapon or two. The BlueByYou is one of my favorites and one that I rode to excellence in the Madera Stage Race TT this year. Griff has decided to upgrade to a full blown aero model and "Blue" is headed for the scrap heap. I contemplated buying the bike outright, but later I found out that all the parts and wheels were put onto the new model. Nothing is left except for the frame. It was then that Griff advised me that he was turing "Blue" into a windchime. His plans call for him to hack it up and tie strings to it with a sprocket, or some such nonesense, in the middle to make the clatter. He thinks it's a really good idea. I think he would be better served to climb up the tallest building he can find in Sacramento, and with a bull horn, announce to the world that he is indeed a full fledged bike geek. What's next, a sprocket tattoo on the calf? Maybe a chain around the bicept? How about a license plate frame that says, "My Other Car is a Trek?" I like biking as much as the next guy, but I feel no need to go to the lengths that some of us go. I remember in college some of the guys getting tat's of oars on the ankle. The frat guys used to get their house letters tattooed on their ass. Where are they now and how do they feel about that? Pretty silly I'm sure. Why not cut to the chase and get a winning pinochle hand tattooed to your arm? That's where were all headed, right? In fact, here is a list of the tattoos that I should have gotten along the way:

-A football. Probably on my bicept.
-A baseball. Somewhere near my football.
-A polevault. Somewhere near my football and baseball.
-A fishing rod. Somewhere near my football, baseball, and polevault.
-A Boy Scout Eagle Award. Ankle? This is akin to calling yourself a bike dork.
-An Oar. Popular choice seems to be the ankle based on evidence. Suppose on the opposite ankle from the Eagle Award.
-A Dart. No where near my butt.
-A basketball. Coolest of the tats the ball would be part way through the hoop complete with net. Left chest.
-A Sprocket. Calf.

Don't anticipate going homo, but if I do, I'm reserving the small of my back for something. In any event, hope you are well. I think the Vicodin maybe got a hold of this post today. Yikes.

Johnny GoFast

The folks at the ER on Tuesday night said that I would get progressively sore over the next three days. Alarm bells were ringing pretty loud at that as I was in some pretty bad pain. I'd say those projections were pretty accurate. However, as I'm sure you are aware, there are ways to contort the body or little tricks you learn that don't hurt as much as the usual approach to things. For example, I've found that by holding my left arm close to my side and doing most things right handed has helped a little bit. Also, not laughing seems to help some too but as you probably can guess, that's always difficult for me. Driving was hard today, but really only getting in and out of the car. The driving part was okay. My wife expressed some concerns when I told her about my designs on coming into the rockpile today. When I explained that my only concern about driving stemmed from the fact that I don't think I can get out of the car very quickly if it catches on fire, she readily handed over the keys. "I'm just not that concerned with that situation," she said. Her husband burning to death apparently not high on her list of fears. At this point, it's the ribs that hurt the most. I was having a knee issue after Candlestick, but I'm kind of laughing at that injury now.

I'm trying to go without the Vicodin today. One of the best things about the "not bike racing season" is being able to drink beer. Apparently the Vicodin has a warning which my wife has read that forbids drinking alcohol. So now I'm going cold turkey and I'm still in the pain crescendo (hey fancy music term hopefully used correctly-if a crescendo can go up or down, I mean the up one). It's manageable, but I've got one of those little buggers with me today just in case I go crazy. Up until last night I was popping one every four hours. I can't decide if they work for me or not, so what the hell, why take it at all? Can't figure out how anyone could get addicted to them, but that's just me talking. Anyway, hope you are well.

Johnny GoFast

p.s. Good blog coming tomorrow regarding the Griffociraptor and his wind chime idea. Truth be told, this entry would have been done on Wednesday as I had some good material worked out during my last ride. Alas, the crash monkeys had different designs for me this week.

Not quite certain if I looked exactly like the picture, but in my head it was similar. Last night, on my way home from the rock pile, I decided to get off the bike at a speed I'm a little unaccustomed to. Of course I was assisted by an unforeseen bump in the road and I ejected. When I came to, I was very disoriented. Some good samaritan stopped and called in the troops. In what seemed like seconds but later revealed to me as about 15 minutes, my wife was on the scene. I was already being attended to by the ambulance guys that had arrived. I remember only patches at this point, but I do remember that one of the guys looked like Chet from that old show Emergency. If you are in the 40+ range, you may know what I'm talking about. They asked me a battery of questions some of which I could answer. Others, such as what day is it, I could only guess at. I couldn't remember immediately what route I used to get home. Though I remember things like racing on the weekend, I couldn't remember where or when that was. It was really bizarre. Later, after the oxygen and some time my memory started to come back. A battery of x-rays and cat scans revealed that I indeed had cracked ribs, no broken collar bone, and that my brain was in normal shape except for the normal baggage I'm used to carring around. The general jist is that I'll be back on the bike in about a month or sooner if the ribs heal up. One flash and so much changes. I'm thankful that it's not worse. Upon delivering the news to my mother this morning, one of her first questions was, "how is the bike?" That made me laugh and subsequently wince in pain. Anything more than shallow breathing kills. In any event, hope you are well. See you in a while.

Johnny GoDownFast

WhoooDoggy, that's good fun. Good to see everyone out and about yesterday. Racing at Candlestick always is a good time. Fast and furious with great grass sections and soft sketchy turns. This year I loved the run-up with the funky approach. On one of the laps, I blew the dismount and almost pancaked in the soft dirt. Somehow, while still attached to my left pedal and with my whole body swung to that side of the bicycle, I almost dumped the rig on its right side. I came with in 6" of doing the Six Million Dollar Man but somehow pulled it out one handed style. This came to the rousing approval of the spectator(s) and fellow competitors behind me. Don't know about you, but I was way over the limit the entire race. An HR of 175 for me is pretty high but manageable. Yesterday, my HR was never below 180 and most of the time hovered around 188 (when I could get a reading). I payed dearly and my fade started with three to go. I still managed to see a 196 on the second to last lap. Sure, a new max HR but YIKES! Even though the outcome was pretty pathetic and not that much better than my showing at Hellyer, I still can manage a smile. Not like after Hellyer where I wanted to end it all. At Hellyer I had a delta between my expectations and my outcome akin to the delta between NAMBLA (North American Man Boy Love Association) and the Christian Coalition. As I floundered about at Hellyer watching rider after rider go by me as I a) picked myself off the ground for the umpteenth time; b) broke various parts off my bicycle; c) dropped my chain a record five times, it was difficult to truly assess the cause. Sure, lots of things conspired to put me where I was, but in reality, I did not put myself where I needed to be. In other words, I got what I deserved as the training did not go as I would have hoped. At Candlestick, I put myself out there with less expectations and to give it my all. I did, and enjoyed the race. I'm sure the flu earlier this week played a part in the HR issues and the fade, but the real culprit is the lack of work a few months back. For now, I'll get back on the bike and complete the training and see where it takes me. I mean really, how lucky are we that get to spend a glorious day out elbow to elbow?

Johnny GoFast

So I'm in Seattle this week at a meeting of a company I split rocks for. Having a pretty good time, actually. They've cracked us over the head a few times with some changes they'd like to make, customer be damned, and that's hurt a little. But last night they took us down to the baseball park and we got to hit a little bit. I drove one to the warning track of the warning track. I also threw a pitch 63mph which took top honors. I wished I hadn't because I felt a weird tingling sensation in my arm afterwards. The real sensation was talking to Ernie. Ernie is a throwback from when baseball wasn't watered down with minor leaguers posing as big timers. Back when there were only eight teams in the American and National leagues. He played a bit in college and in the service and bounced around the minors for a while before giving it all up to have a family. Whether you like baseball or not, there is no denying that it is a great look at the american spirit. All the hopes and dreams are there. Some are realized, some are dashed. Everyone in the game, from the guy that picks up the towels at the end of the day, to the coach, umps, and bonus babies, everyone is trying to get to the big platform. Along the way they fight for the wins and the chance to get better. The common thread: opportunity. And aint that grand?

Johnny DontHitFar

So I've got a neighbor who has a son named Jim. Jim is 52 and lets just say he has the "thirst". I came home from work last night to find Jim walking down my street smoking a cigarette. Jim still lives at home but apparently he can follow the rules and goes outside to smoke. Between the slurs I've been able to determine that Jim is a pretty good guy. I'm not certain if he does anything harsher than the liquor, but I wouldn't put it past him. So he comes wobbling up to me as I retrieved the trash cans from the end of the drive way. A clever negotiator he asks, "what are you doing in a few minutes?" Off guard, I say nothing. He then asks for a ride down to Danville because he needs to borrow some money from his brother. Like hell I want to give this guy a ride, but the chicken shit that I am, I defer and say I have to go ask my wife. About half way I realize that if I come out of the house saying the answer is no, he will understand that my wife is not nice. I quickly also realize that my wife is going to kill me for putting her in that position. All I had to say was no, but I didn't. So by the time I get inside I realize I have to hurl myself on the grenade and tell my wife the situation. Thankfully she is understanding if not a little amused. So I back my car out of the garage and pull into Jim's driveway. I knock on the door to let him know that I'm ready. It's at this point that this critter of a girl comes to the door and introduces herself as Sam, Jim's girlfriend. Yikes! She disappears back into the house and Jim comes back with the liquor stenched breath. He lays out the scenario. His "ole lady" (his term) came down from Tahoe to visit him for a few days, but now he needs her to go back. He needs to get down to Danville to get some money from his brother so he can put Sam on a train to Sacramento where she can catch a bus to Tahoe. "Oh", I say. Five then ten minutes go by, and I'm still on Jim's dad's porch. Finally, Jim and Sam emerge and we get in the car. On the ride I learn that Sam is 40 with three daughters who live with someone on the east coast. I also learn that Sam is married and not to my neighbor Jim who is breathing on me a little too much. I also learn that it was Sam's husband who dropped her off at Jim's house in the first place. "Are we all okay with this", I wonder to myself. It's at this point that Sam starts telling jokes:

Sam: Hey Sean, what do you call a positive orgasm?
John: My name is John and I don't know.
Sam: Sorry John, I thought it was Sean. Jim, why did you tell me his name was Sean?
Jim: I said it was John. You never listen.
Sam: I do too listen. John, I'm sorry I thought your name was Sean. He said Sean. I really have to get back to Tahoe. I have a lot of stuff I need to get done. I have to get back to Tahoe.
Jim: I really appreciate the ride to Danville.
John: No problem.

If anyone knows how that joke ends let me know. I somehow derailed the whole timing by correcting Sam. About five more thank you's from Jim and we arrived at his brothers place of business. Jim wandered in and I noticed a tepid response from his brother when Jim crossed into the store. I also noticed Jim's brother immediately look out to the curb to see how Jim got down there. As you probably have guessed by now, Jim nor Sam are authorized to drive. The brother was a bit thrown to see me. Not that we've met. I'm sure he's used to seeing something a little more beat up with a driver that has had life kick the crap out of him a little more than life has gotten to me. Anyhow, I'm sure it got the brother to move a little more quickly. If I had been a lowlife, maybe the brother would have told him to piss off. Before I knew it, Jim was back in the car and ready to roll. Back down the boulevard and safely deposited back in front of their house, my good deed completed. There were tons of opportunities to a) drive them to Tahoe; b) take them to the Amtrak station in Martinez; c) crack a beer (apparently Sam was packing travelers). All offers were declined. Is it me, or does getting drunk during the day on a Wednesday constitute borderline behavior? Please note: no names were changed to protect the innocent. I definitely feel sorry for Jim, but I also feel a little better about myself and my lot in life after spending some time with these two. Thank your lucky stars.

Johnny GoFast

Had to, and I mean had to, travel down to Ontario (aka The Inland Empire) on Monday morning. C'mon and say it with me, "givin' it up for my Peeps in the IE!!" I have some customers down there that wanted to meet with me to either write more business or begin writing business with us. So I made my semi annual trip to the land of the traffic and smog. I'm always amazed with what I find down there. Seemingly intelligent people, I am always in awe that they don't have the sense to move somewhere else. I mean, who would put up with that crap. As you tool down the road, it's nothing but an endless procession of billboards displaying everything from car dealerships to strip joints (I mean gentlemens clubs--good luck finding one in one). The landscape has long ago been chewed up by developers leaving no possible place for your eye to wander that isn't a visual abortion. Only once have I been down there where I could see the mountains not five miles away. They're beautiful if not eluding. During my trip, I only saw the picturesque view from my window when we punched through the heavy "marine layer". How wonderful it probably was 50 years ago. Spent the night in Victorville and saw my first football game of the year under the security of the freeway accessible Red Roof Inn. Later I went to the Scandia Fun Center and hit the batting cages. Happy to report that I can still swing the lumber a little bit. I quickly progressed from the medium slow cage to the medium fast cage. The maching ate my tokens. I went to the counter expecting the "get out of here" routine. Maybe the fact that I was still in my dress pants and shirt and the fact that I'm 40 persuaded the attendant to believe me when I said the machine malfunctioned. Sidebar: maybe we can get the government (current admin with the runaway spending) to commission a study to see when it is that you can legally claim a machine ate your token and the attendant believes you. Anyway, the machine turned out broken and the attendant moved me to the fast pitch machine. I started to protest but she informed me it was only slightly faster and to get in there and shut up. At which point she spun on her heel and left me there flailing at the first few pitches. And then low and behold, contact. Foul, but no less contact. A few weak grounders and Johnny was locked in. I've still got it.

Racing was an exercise in frustration. If you saw the start of the Master 35+ A race, you saw me 50 yards up the start line tumbling around like a junkie in the gutter looking for his needle. Some cat two in front of me switched lines which caused the guy in front of me to grab his brakes and swerve which sent me flying. Crap. Up and running I was able to get the chain re-hooked and back in line. Over the barriers I had my shit together only to wash the front wheel out on the first hairpin. After another chain fixing, I was at the back of the herd and pissed. I started to pick my way up and was making decent progress when somewhere on the second lap, my seat let go. Double shit. I did a quick bike change in the pit and I was rolling. Unfortunately, the Griffociraptor back up bike I was on must have had one of those extendo chains as it popped off on me no less than four times. I can't tell you how loud the deamons in my head were telling me to quit. How many excuses did I need? The final blow was on the last lap when I went to pass some dude and the chain popped off for the final time. Seriously, if that was my bike, I would have snapped it over my knee and finished empty handed (is that even legal?). Later, I crumpled into my wifes arms as she comforted me from all my frustrations. Later-later, I patted myself on the back and thanked Griff for the usage. Finishing is finishing no matter how adverse the circumstances. Not the way I wanted to start the series, but as my wife said, "it can only get better." You think?

Johnny GoFast

So the Griffociraptor turns 39 today. Known the cat for sometime now. We met back in college on the rowing team. After a while, it became clear that we both liked to suffer and as a result, like to push each other to get better. One year we found ourselves mired on the JV. We both accurately concluded that the only way out of that circus was to work harder than anyone else on the team. Before practice, we would race each other for 20 minutes on the rowing machine. We'd say we'd go 3/4's but five minutes into the piece, we'd be more interested in out rowing each other. By the time we'd go out and meet the rest of the team for practice, we'd be pretty knackered. After practice we'd stay late and do pull-ups until our arms would come out of our sockets. We'd go home, collapse in front of the TV and ultimately crash. The next day we'd do it all over again. This was the foundation for what has turned out to be a great friendship for me. As you know, we still share similar interests in pursuing excellence be it on the bike or in life. Griff still pushes me. I think Elton said it best when he said, "this song is my gift, and this song's for you." Or something. Anyway Griff, this blogs for you. Happy birthday.

Johnny GoFast

Good times last night. Got to hang out with the folks that get to hang out with my kids during the day. Chatty bunch who seem to know what they're doing. The kids have been working hard, at least at baking. There were pumpkin muffins (hey...what is somebody from Tennessee's favorite holiday? Halloween as in Pump-Kin), zuchini bread, oatmeal cookies, etc. Jackson is an Orange Otter. I immediately got in trouble and had to sit up front near the teacher because I was late. Fortunately, as my attention started to wane, I was able to thumb through some albums they had laying about. Peter, Paul and Mary with the Puff the Magic Dragon song on it had to be the class of the lot, but they had some stuff by Earth, Wind and Fire, KC and the Sunshine band, Elvis and all on vinyl. I was just starting to wonder what this stuff would fetch on eBay when I heard my name. Embarrassed I looked up from the back of an album sleeve to see the class looking at me. Even though my wife had sent me there with explicit instructions to not ask questions, I had to ask her to repeat the question. Laughter, blushing, do some things never change?

Later I got to go to the Green Grape section to meet Maile's teacher. I fared much better although I pulled some kid named Matthew's art off the wall instead of Maile's. The teacher informed me that it was okay because Maile is still having a hard time recognizing her own name and now she sees that it runs in the family.

Got to cruise around at lunchtime on the cross bike today. The dirt was tacky with the little bit of rain that has come down. The coolest thing is that I was able to actually see. Got fitted for contacts yesterday and did my first sighted ride ever today. Looking forward to seeing how they fare on Sunday. Hope you are well.

Johnny GoFast

Oh for the love of Pete. Why oh why do I do this race. It's like intentionally slamming your toe with a hammer...over and over and over again. I think during the ascent I passed a team mate and wondered aloud, "why?" To which there was no audible response. But then again, maybe I only thought I said why. Who knows? Sure, the climbers love this ride, to which I aspire, but really, you can't get Jumbo into a leotard as you can't get me to go up quickly. There is inspiration, no doubt. A couple of the Pegasuarus' climbed to personal bests. They work at it and work at it and don't eat. Good for them. Every year I say I'm going to hit this ride with all I've got. I'm going to lose the weight, I'm going to do the climbing repeats, I'm going to go fast like the wind. And every year I come in heavy "J" having done more power riding than climbing in anticipation of the upcoming cross season. It's all so very confusing.

Anyway, it was a great day indeed and my time was good enough to not be totally embarrasing (57:50). Sub 54 gets you a "good ride, Cowboy" from the other serious racers and a sub hour gets you a gawky like stare from the weekenders. I made the best of a rough morning. I borrowed a wheel from the Griffociraptor as mine is in the shop. I switched out the cog that morning with the one I've been using and I forgot the spacer. I got to the course in plenty of time to warm up, but noticed a weird skipping while on the trainer. I ignored it thinking it was due to the trainer, but it persisted. Finally I got off and to my horror immediately diagnosed the problem and cursed myself for wrenching on raceday. Thus I started my panic search through the parking lot looking for a cog tool, chain whip and wrench to take off the cog (for no earthly reason I had a spacer in the back of my car). I was able to come up with some screw drivers and screwey looks but no tools. Finally a teammate, in total calmness pointed me to an onsite mechanic underneath a huge banner that read: "MECHANIC". Panic does funny things. He got me going with a couple of twists of his wrench and I was back in business. With time now running out, I put on my race outfit and made my way to the line. No warm up. I made my way to the front and into the first wave. This was the first year that you had to declare a potential time, and I opted for the subhour group. I immediately noticed that all the participants had pink numbers and mine was white. That can't be good as I quickly dismissed it from my brain. With about two minutes to the start, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see the official. "You're in wave three Long Hair. You'll have to move back," he said. I lodged some half baked attempt to stay forward with the fast group, but he wasn't having any of it. Later I found out that Mark Caldwell suffered the same fate but refused to go back stating, "but I'm Mark Caldwell. I fininshed 9th last year!!" Whatever. I moved back and found myself with love handled gapers, unicyclists, tandems, Burley's, and mountain bikers. Egad. Luckily there were a few others that were moved back save Mark Caldwell so there were some guys to work with, but I was starting to get a little exacerbated. Finally the horn blew and we were off. I was able to make my way to the front and lead through a tough little down hill section that is fairly pot-holed and then onto the main climb. 57 minutes later I crested and all was joyful. Until the next time I lose my marbles and go for it again. But next year I'm breaking 54 minutes. I mean it this time. Really mean it.

Johnny DontclimbFast