fotoblahggin

Garden of the Gods. And Dave, Jenny says your hat is very comfortable.


Rocks


Tammy the Travelling Unicorn and Matt Hofman, taking in the sights.


Weather changes quickly around here.


This is our extremely photogenic back door. Classy.


Jenny likes snow. 24 hours after this picture was taken it was 65 and sunny. Wouldn't want to be a weatherguy in these parts.


This is what the entirety of my commute to work looks like. All bike path, all the way. I cross one street in 6 miles. Glorious.

Speaking of work, I'm now slinging wheels at Criterium Bicycles. Sweet shop. Reminds me alot of the Hollywood BG. Same size, good people, but one location instead of 6. I'm starting on Wednesday. Meanwhile, Jenny's working at a cool chick-stuff shop called Terra Verde in downtown CSprings. Her commute is a whopping 8 blocks, so naturally we're in the market for a new Hummer.

Workouts have begun, Blatchy's stupid fast, Kacala's stupid big and Des's hair is reaching new fro-tastic heights. I'm finally back into the gym at the Center tommorow, and not looking forward to the aftermath.

I'm trying to put together an all-star all-Springs sprinter group to bring with me to the AVC. Just need some gas money and a couple more host houses and we're there.

We're all out of Stumptown. I'm scared.

DT

nice people creep me out...

Altitude is one thing. Sun is one thing. New cities are one thing. However, random people being nice is something a longtime portlander has a bit of trouble getting used to. Couple of days ago, we're walking down the street, minding our own business, and this guy sees my chrome bag and says "hey, you going to critical mass?" uhm, wasn't planning on it. "oh man, you should because bla bla bla my name's aj, bla bla bla welcome to Colorado, bla bla bla yea portland's pretty cool, bla bla bla bla bla." Jenny and I are a little taken aback, so we seek shelter in that great homebase of all anti-socials: the bar. Granted this is a wine bar, but still, a bar. We fend off the nice waiter and get our drinks. and not 5 minutes later another random is going "bla bla bla, yeah welcome to colorado, bla bla bla, i love bikes, bla bla bla isn't wine just the greatest? bla bla bla bla bla bla."

Can't seem to get away from it. The baristas are nice, the waiters are nice, the shop clerks are nice, and everyone just wants to say hi and check on how your day is going. Like a bunch of happy white folks with great tans skipping around like idiots. What. The. Hell.

I guess sun deprivation really does make portlanders a little more surly than everyone else. Although LA boasts just as many self-important weiners as PDX and they get plenty of sun... So maybe it's the air? Maybe there's something in the water? Maybe we're just really, really good looking? Idunno.

DT

we're here, and yes, they have whiskey on tap

So we made it to sunny Colorado Springs, cat in tow. Still trying to unpack our lives from the boxes covering our apartment floor, so we've been avoiding it almost entirely by "getting to know the area." Turns out we're 3 blocks from a sweet coffee shop 4 blocks from a great bar, and 5 blocks from everything else you could possibly need. Our back yard is the CSprings version of the Springwater corridor. Exept ours is 42 miles long, goes through the center and way out of town from north to south, and you never have to cross a street. I know. Sweet. Still looking for jobs, still trying to figure everything out. Fortunately everyone from the OTC is at Track Worlds, so I've got a bit of time before the big hurt starts.

Altitude sucks. I feel old and fat.

DT

pre-drive panic

So we're headed off to CSprings on Saturday and it seems like nothing is done. Mostly because we don't have much stuff, aside from clothes and bikes, so seems like we've been packing alot less than we should. Safe to say that moving sucks the big one. Hate, hate, hate.

Jenny and I are both sick. The sucky thing about having great friends is every night another group wants to take you out and celebrate one last time late into the night.

Anyone seen my iPod? I haven't. I'm this close to tears. THIS close.

one for my homies...

Found this little nugget of history on FGG.

From behind the iron curtain, an original Takhion:

Apparently found its way to an apartment in Boston.


Konstantin Khrabtsov, Champion of USSR on the freakmobile.

I had heard that a couple of these hack jobs still existed, but this is the first one I've ever seen. Bars welded to the top of the fork crown. Only kilo riders and team pursuiters could ever be dumb enough to ride something like this. Totally mental. Super ergo.

linkgasm

enjoy

BIKERFOX!

Malkovich, malkovich, malkovich!

Anyone want to mess with Svein Tuft?

I don't. He looks like a certain actor's meaner big brother...

Looks like the best glasses on this great green planet earth are no longer made by Nike. Now they are made by Oakley. Initially I was bummed when Nike announced the Vision department was getting dumped in the scrap heap, but now not so much. I've been hounding Norrene for years to get Oakleys for the team and I finally get my wish. They're stepping up in a big way to help us out, and I'm psyched. Why? Because I can finally get Asian Fit glasses. I think this makes me more charming and better at math, right ping pong? Or maybe I just like nachos more? I don't know. Stay tuned.

Speaking of Oakley...

This is David Zabriskie's mustache from last week times five. This turns it up to eleven. First person who gets me a pair of these is my new best friend. I know that's not really very inticing, but seriously. DO it.

Been a bit of a long week(s). Beers anyone?

DT

context is for suckers

This pile rolled into the shop yesterday, falling apart the day after it was purchased.

And yes, it says "god save the queen" on the chainstay.

Are the white belt and ironic t-shirts included, or do you have to get that separate?

And hey, if London's not your bag, that's cool cause you can also get the New York track-bike freestyler-esque Dart-mobile.


In the words of BSNYC, take a last drag and swing your leg over the fashion express! DT

climb into the hurt box and have a look around

O face of the day goes to Meatball. Once again, making us all look stupid, Friedman spent all day in the break at Het Volk and finished 12th. That's right. 12th. Het Volk. Friedman. Taste the future.

DT

a Slow farewell

Some places are hard to say goodbye to. We're down to 3 weeks and counting before we ship off, so the due farewells are piling up. Jenny and I are (sometimes overly) nostalgic when it comes to the places we eat and drink. Portland is pretty spoiled in the bar/restaurant department, and since we've lived here we've tried to experience as much of it as we could afford. Like anything, there are hits and misses. One place we've been dreading leaving is Slow Bar.

You know how you have those conversations with your friends that go "man, if I owned a bar it would be all like bla bla bla bla bla?" I've had lots of those, and this place is as close as it gets to my ideal bar. It's small, has bare brick walls, high-backed leather booths, stiff drinks, dim lighting, and probably the best jukebox ever. Lots of 70s and 80s punk wierdness. To top it off, the food is awesome. All fresh, delicious, cheap. It's the kind of place you could see Hemingway hunched into a booth with a tumbler of whiskey, scribbling stuff into a notebook. If Hemingway were alive in Portland on the eastside. Anyway. Point is, Jenny and I frequent this place. So we decide to go in last night for one last meal and a pint.

Jenny is a creature of habit. She finds things she likes and sticks to them. At Slow Bar, she likes a particular sandwich they have, orders it nearly every time. So we sit down, order some drinks and check out the menu. The sandwich is gone. She freaks. When the stoned/drunk/bored waiter guy meanders over she asks about it. "yep, discontinued, but hang on" he manages to get out. He wanders back to the kitchen. Comes back a couple of minutes later, "yeaaah we're not doing that anymore, but the guys have enough stuff to make just one more."

I'm not into too much mystical stuff, but to me this was wierd. To Mrs. Tracy, it was sublime. Sandwich in hand, smile on face, drink nearby, she was in a blissful state. As we walked out we agreed that Slow Bar was saying goodbye in its own way.

As long as PBR or coffee doesn't get discontinued in the next couple weeks, I'll be safe.

DT

home base

Secured the new home base in CSprings today. Sweet apartment in a converted mansion downtown. No turning back.

Tuckerman's arriving on the sunny beaches of Portland in a couple of hours. If you've never met this lad, perhaps you'd like to join him on the pot for a chat about burritos and stuff? Click on the link, then scroll down to Meet The Kiwi. Pot Chat? Toilet Talk? Porcelainversation?

DT?

nice jerk-mobile, jerkface

Engage transportation rant... NOW.

I fear for people sometimes. Usually when I'm driving. The blatant disregard for the safety of others that people show when they climb behind the wheel of thier SUVs, minivans and hybrids amazes me to no end. Seems like people lock themselves into thier metal safety bubbles and suddenly don't give a shit about anyone else but themselves and whoever's on the other end of the cell phone strapped to thier faces.
I can understand a mistake here and there. I turned the wrong way on a one way downtown once. When I was 16. The first time I went downtown. The thing is, I wasn't a 40 year old in a LexusHummerFord who should know better. I could barely operate a clutch at that point. But I see people who've had plenty of practice do it every day.
Maybe it's not that people don't care. I think a lot of people just have no perspective. Say you climb into your average car, drive down the street, don't check the bike lane and turn right into a cyclist tooling along, minding his own business in the bike lane. What happens to the driver? Zip. Nothing. You feel no after effects. The dent in your audi or toyota is not a broken bone. The cops won't even write you a simple ticket (even if the person on the other side of the sheetmetal doesn't get up). You'll just be sent on your merry, oblivious way.
I don't know. Maybe commuter bikes should come with holsters for giant monkey wrenches and ben-hur spikes on the wheels. But probably not.
ehhh.
End rant.
DT

TOC update

I'm gonna call the results early (CNN Election Coverage '08 style). Tour of California has been won by David Zabriskie.
Here's why:

Look at that. Just look at it. Looks like the guy should be rolling up to the start riding bareback on a wild stallion while shooting a six-gun in the air and hollering something no one can understand. Seriously, check out how fine of a point the sides come to! That's no accident. He could alternately show up in the back of a horse-drawn carriage with velvet curtains, wearing a top hat and speaking in a foppish British accent. But given that the race is in California and is already full of prissy Europeans, I'm sticking with the Wild West David Zabriskie over the Hat Doffing Englishman David Zabriskie.

DT

taste the future

Roller races are for chumps. Trini knows how to rollWorld Cup podium style. When I last saw Trini, I was rooming with him in CSprings and described him on this here big green me-fest as a "drunk, male Miss Cleo after smoking a couple gallons of PCP." Now add "World Cup medalist, Arnand Tournant-smashing monster" to that sentence somewhere. Maybe at the start.

DT

rollerface deathrace

Hey boss, howyafeelin?


Mr. Hurtface


Mr. Seriousface


Eye of the tiger? Eye of the naked mole rat?



It's important to hydrate regularly


I got you this grapefruit, but I'm taking it back.


all pics from HEATHERVANSCHNOOVER

DT

taste the good times

aahhhrrggg. Climbed into the hurt box last night, shut the lid and still haven't found my way out. The Rapha gallery was at full capacity not 10 minutes after opening for the roller-deth-o-rama. People 6 deep, racers, builders, enthusiasts, messengers, pearl dwellers; all screaming bloody murder at 4 riders on stage. Stupid loud, two inches of beer on the floor, 140 degrees, 4 kegs of beer and the English version of a kick-ass soundtrack. Bian, Dirty Dave and I represented the glorious Laurelwood brewery in the winner take all rounds. Up for grabs on the night: Custom Ira Ryan frame, Krietler rollers and some sweet Rapha shwag.

Long story short, the racing was effing hard. 20 Seconds of max effort at 200rpm. For 5 rounds. By the 4th round, it was looking like the fastest times were being put up by myself, Beardsley, Captain Underpants (SanFran messenger guy) and one of the young River Cityers. I guess in the interest of having a Portland Racers Vs. San Fran messenger final, SuperStevie and I met in the semis. The crowd was charged on rocket fuel at this point. You could barely hear Jon Walrod and Brian Witty's hilarious commentary. I ended up beating the Gentlest of Lovers and on to the Portland VS. SanFrancisco superfinal.

The Gentle Lovers stuffed unicorn mascot found it's way to my handlebars, and I knew I'd need some Unicorn Power when they announced the final would be double the distance. At this point, I'm not walking so good. I lost my dinner hours ago. I can't hear anything and I'm seeing wierd stuff. Bets are being made. Suddenly I have 60 bucks in wet twentys stuffed into my waistband. And we go. I get out to a good lead, hold it, fade hard, the volume in the room triples, so much screaming, so many cameras, and I win by a tenth of a second. Boo-ya. Captain underpants and I congradulate each other, I spray a bunch of champagne around, fall off the stage and go collapse in the corner and think about my new Ira Ryan.

You know how when you're about to hurl, and you start hearing your breath in your ears? You feel cold sweat all over your forhead? You panic? All that was happening when Walrod announced the re-ride. I don't remember much after that. I remember Zak and the Team Beer guys (and eventually the rest of the Portland crew) chanting "Bullsh!t" in unison. I remember Slaven freaking out. Everyone was freaking out. The Rapha guys looked none too happy. But hey, if the big cheese wants a re-match, he gets a rematch. Which I lost. I could barely stand under my own power before we started, let alone do another race. Either way, they announced us both as winners. Looks like Ira's building two bikes. I wonder when they'll tell him?

Pro-est looking team of the evening: Bike Gallery. Between Ping Pong's aero helmet and Shannon's white sheepskin gloves, there really was no team pro-er. Ping Pong even brought the wood and sent the Dirtiest of Daves back to the peanut gallery twice in a row.

The Sweetest Move award goes to Tony Kic. No big surprise there. Three words, one hyphen: Tear-away suit.

Super Steveo gets the Smile For Me Baby award for being the most serious man of the night. Dude took the gameface to a new level.

The Metal-est Move award goes to ZAK. See Tony Kic's suit was built with Velcro. Zak just straight up tore the shirt right off his back. Hulk Style. Mad points.


Pictures later. Maybe.
DT

Roller-death-o-rama

Come one, come all, bring your drinkin shoes and best verbal abuse to the Rapha Roller Races next Saturday night. If you've never seen a roller race, the fine folks at Rollapaluza have been reviving this lost art in England for a while now. Rapha has been promoting races across the ditch and next weekend they're bringing it here. Come cheer on your favorite team of fat track racers (like me, brian and casey) or just come see some sweet artwork, or maybe have a beer or four.

Saturday, Feb 9th
Doors open at 8pm, Racing starts at 8:30pm
Admission is $10
21+

Rapha Gallery
Crane Building
710 NW 14th Street
Portland, Oregon 97209

Once your hangover has subsided on Sunday, roll down to theHandmade Bike Show. My Prediction: Signal Cycles wins Best In Bro.

In other news, some border agent fell asleep at his desk and let Skeletor back in the country a couple days ago. He's riding around somewhere in Southern California (lost, no doubt) with a pocket full of Jelly Beans and a bad habit of saying whatever comes through his brain. Let's hope he survives. At least until his death, which by my count should happen somewhere on stage 3 of the Tour of California. If by some miracle he survives that death-march through America's most worthless state, he'll be back to the Dirtiest of Couves somewhere around the end of February.

so's your mom

So Shannon has a new blog. I know. Exciting isn't it? If you don't have enough cats, Lost, Kozy Shack, cross, cross dressing or cats in your life (all narrated in a curiously asian accent), head on over to BikeBlogSnobDotBlogspotDotCom.

And Shannon, if you're reading this right now, so's your face.

DT

It's Friday night. Do you feel alright?



Get to it.

DT

pull through, or else

Grandma's in the klink.

homegrounds. sort of?

Back on friendly shores again. It's been a good return. I've eased back into daily life and once again find myself working in a unfamiliar place. The shop in Lake Oswego needed a few people to cover shifts, I have nothing better to do, so here I am. Back in the nether-suburbs, looking for a cup of coffee.

People here have never seen a pedestrian. That's the only rational explanation I can gather for the 20 times I nearly died while attempting to cross the street. Seems like a simple task, right? You wait at the crosswalk, hit the button a few hundred times, wait for the little white walking guy to light up, cars stop and away you go. Right? Wrong. Apparently this is intensely confusing when you climb behind the wheel of a Land Rover and strap a Blackberry to your face.

Eventually I made my way back to the shop unscathed and only a little on edge. Safe to say this is the last time I will voluntarily spend any time in Lake SuperEgo.

It's 34 degrees, work hours and a weekday, so the shop is dead. Empty. The only calls are coming fromfamily and friends. We're all getting some quality YouTubing done. I have no complaints.

DT

decent days and nights

The weather's turned sour for my final stand in new zealand. Clouds are easing me back into Portland winter. Raining so hard it's like being at the bottom of a lake. I'm too tired to piece together coherent sentences, paragraphs, all that nonsense, so some bullet points for you:

-Australian youth are stuck in a time vortex which keeps them pinned securely in 1984. So much neon and asymmetrical hair, it's what I imagine it would be like to be at a Wham! concert.

-Tasmania is the roadkill capital of the world.

-When you watch the news in Australia, you will hear more about the Iowa and New Hampshire primaries than you do at home. Same for New Zealand. Wall to wall coverage. Hillary Clinton is inescapable.

-Australia is brown. New Zealand is green.

-No one in Australia says "G'day." They don't throw shrimps on the barbie.

-Cricket is more important than baseball, basketball and apple pie.

-Australia has 4 weeks of national holiday. Everyone gets paid time off work. It's a tough life.

-Australian athletic development programs are 10 years ahead of ours. In the US, the cycling federations will give you support IF you can medal at a world cup. In Australia, thier federation will give you support at an early stage to MAKE SURE you can medal at a world cup. Makes sense, no?

-The minimum wage in New Zealand is $12 an hour. Healthcare is free. Gas is three times as expensive but cars are much smaller and most are diesels. I haven't seen any Escalades or Suburbans here...

-We drove 1800k in 8 days in Tasmania

-We drove 600k in 2 days at the lake last weekend

DT

camera dump

I still can't get over how many people would come out and pay 15-20 bucks a pop to watch us race. Organizers claimed that 35,000 people came out in total for the carnivals. And we freak out about having a few hundred come out to watch AVC...

The kids in Burnie are fiends for hi-fives. They completely surround the rail, begging for fives from everyone. Doesn't matter if you're a national hero or a first time geek, they're mclovin'.

Penguin lookout just down the road from the track in Burnie. The turret looking thing is a hideout so people won't spook the birds. No penguins this time of day though, so we came up nil.

lake rotoiti. things could be worse.

searching for a pirate flag, floating towards destiny....


DT

the road to redonkulous

Kelyn and I used our day off during the carnivals to drive around, take pictures and make fun of things that are different.


This is a crap picture, but I felt it was my duty to show this to the world. Apparently there is a large campaign against tiredness on this side of the planet. They are not kidding.




Tasmanian beaches are the stuff dreams are made of.

have you experienced the trout experience?

DT

wtf?

Let's play a game called "Which 4 of these are not like the others?"

TOYOTA - UNITED PRO CYCLING TEAM
Director: Len Pettyjohn

(USA) BALDWIN, Chris
(USA) BARCZEWSKI, Ben
(USA) BETCHER, Derrek
(NZL) BLACKGROVE, Heath
(AUS) CLARKE, Hilton
(AUS) CLARKE, Jonathan
(AUS) DAY, Benjamin
(CUB) DOMINGUEZ, Ivan
(USA) ENGLAND, Justin
(USA) FERGUSON, Walker
(MEX) GARCIA PONCE, Jose Manuel
(USA) GILLESPIE, Stu
(USA) LAKATOSH, Andy
(AUS) MANION, Caleb
(USA) NELMAN, Ryan
(USA) RIFFLE, Duncan
(CAN) ROLLIN, Dominique
(USA) SELKER, Kevin
(USA) SHANBHAG, Sanjay
(SCG) STEVIC, Ivan
(AUS) SULLIVAN, Sean
(AUS) VOGELS, Henk
(USA) WHERRY, Chris

the sunny side of the world; round 1

You'd need a panoramic camera to catch all the starters in a 2k wheelrace on a 580m track. these are just the scratchmen through the guys off 40m. This race started with people all the way up to 285m from scratch. The whiteshirts are all pushers, the guys with the most dangerous job out there. They have to push the riders far enough to not get confronted after the race, and then have to make a hard left or right turn to get out of the way before the riders from behind come barreling right over them. When it's riders vs. pushers, riders always win.


This is the chaos in the final turn when the scrathcmen catch the frontmarkers. This frame has one Aussie olympic team pursuiter (leading), one continental track pro (second), a Malaysian match sprinter (sixth) and aussie olympic team sprinter (sixth), a few juniors (7th and 9th) and the rest are local or mainland club riders. Little bit of everything, everyone killing it to get there first. No one's racing for 10th.


Inside the Launceston Silverdome. Motocrossers uncluded.


Latrobe. Flat, bumpy, red and surrounded by 5,000 cycling-crazy tasmanians.


Corners here aren't exactly tricky.







part 2 coming soon.
DT

just in time; done and dusted again

The Basslink Christmas Carnival series is officially over, and I'm now officially adrift at Melbourne International, officially a bit pissed that I'm stuck here for another 6 hours or so. Tried to sit and watch the Aussies and the Indians duke it out in the cricket match at the quiet bar, but inexplicably the bar filled with screaming kids and I was out the door before you could say "wicket."

New Year's was quite the scene. The barbie at the hostel was a massive affair for just 10 people. So much food you couldn't stand without loosening the belt buckle after it was all gone. Turned out to be a great idea, because all the small talk and "what's your name" and "where you from" and "what you doin" were taken care of well before the night began in earnest. Actually there was no jumping off point (no shots, no riotous march into town), just a steady escalation into the kind of party you wish you'd taken pictures of. No dancing, no craziness or destruction. Just 10 people spread out on couches and chairs on a huge second story outdoor balcony on top of the hostel. Beers, poker, music and the endless babble of Manchester cockney, deep western Aussie, eastern Aussie, Scottish, Tasmanian, American and Italian accents. All time Top Five lists were traded, iPod libraries were inspected and critiqued, music cranked over the whole thing and for a couple of hours life was perfect and effortless. Fireworks blasted off. I went to bed at 2 pretty sober but buzzing from something else. Something non-chemical and momentary.

The next day is Burnie. I'm tired but feeling pretty chipper, Kelyn's not showing his loss at Drinking Poker, and overall we're better off than I expected. The 150k drive to Burnie takes a while, and I browse the paper and find the article about us ("Inexperience Is No Handicap") complete with full color photo of me looking sickly and weird, Kelyn looking a bit like a gay superhero, Eugene with the 10 year-old stare and Des in the background looking vaguely unimpressed. My travel partner is
not happy. At least the words are kind. Not sure what I was expecting, but Burnie turns out to be a pretty cool little beach town built on a hill. The track is essentially on the beach, just out of reach of the tide. Lots of noise was made before the Carnival's arrival, as the city of Burnie had just dumped $50,000 on a new track surface for the outdoor 500m oval which had been delayed and delayed to the point where it was still unfinished at Christmas. I see my golden opportunity and claim the new surface for America by rolling out a first lap before anyone else can get their chamois on. Thought about peeing on it as well for good measure, but I was still a bit dehydrated from the previous night.

First words out of my mouth on my first lap: "What the f%@!, am I going uphill?"
Answer: Yes.
Remember how I said that the city was built on a hill? So is the track. It's a slight slope, but pretty noticeable on the bike as you grind through corner 1 and 2 and spin out through the downhill 3 and 4.

I'm finally feeling healed and well, and it all starts coming together for the 1k wheelrace. I start off 55 meters from scratch with the furthest rider at 175m. Gun goes off, I pull a big start and reach the frontmarkers within the first lap. Bell rings at the bottom of the hill, I make a big jump waaaaay too early and take the lead only to get passed on the line. No worries, 3 go through to the final and I end up third with a gap to fourth, so I'm a happy man. Last day and the first final of the series. Kelyn hauls off and wins his heat pretty convincingly and all of a sudden we've gone from sitting on the sidelines in Latrob with our heads smashed in thinking "what the?" after our heats to ending up 2 strong in the final. We both start the final on 55m. Kelyn's been finishing stronger and I've been starting faster, so I lead the first 500m out. BANG the gun goes and we're immediately blowing by the riders off 75, then 110, then through a big group of sketchy traffic off 140, then we're on the back straight, the bell rang 200m ago but I'm too redlined to notice, leading the whole group with Kelyn and everybody else on my wheel with 400m to go. I start to run out of steam, Kelyn panics and goes over the top a hair too early, leads until the final meter and gets pipped by two people on the line. Bastards. Either way, I'm happy. Our race clocked at 1.05 for a kilo. Ouch. We get a podium, some gas and food money and immediately feel better about this week.

As difficult and trying as it's been, we both have improved a tremendous amount. Later in the night, I end up 4th in my feature 3k heat (3 go through) but Kelyn makes it into the big money final. It's a huge hammerfest and he understandably throws in the towel when the group blasts by him with 1 to go and we pack up and get the hell out of Tasmania.

DT

blurs of the Basslink

sit tight and strap in, this one's a doozy.

The 2007 Basslink Christmas Carnivals are one day from their end. It's all been quite the experience so far. Seems like I've been wide-eyed or too tired to focus for most of it. Des, Eugene and Viktor (Eugene's dad) left this morning, so Kelyn and I have transferred from the posh Tasmanian Country Club to a downtown Launceston hostel. Huge, hundred year old building complete with hundred year old furniture and hundred year old maids. We managed to score a room with two beds and just enough room to fit all the bikes and bike cases and bike accessories and bike minutia for a wickedly cheap rate. We could stay here for 2 weeks and still come out ahead of what most people are paying at the Country Club for a single night. Magic. Tonight's New Years Eve and the question of what's happening is all anyone wants to talk about. All over the building, all over the cafes in town it's all "what you up to" and "where you headed tonight?" Word has it a big barbecue's happening at the hostel (which is allowing beer on the premises for this day only) then a big group's heading into town for some traditional Australian revelry (read: drinking beer until you fall over). We may not race till 2pm tomorrow, but a race is a race and this one's boasting some good cash up for grabs, so we're imposing a strict 50 beers per person limit tonight. No attempting the century with racing the next day... Actually I'll take it easy on the liver (gotta get it rested for a weekend at the lake in NZ with a certain Scott Allen), but I'm sure as sh!t not sitting in the room on New Year's Eve.

The Launceston carnival was quite nuts. I guess they're all a bit crazy, but that one seemed a bit further off the rails then the rest so far. The Silverdome is an indoor board track, which is nothing new if you've ridden LA. The new part was the freestyle motocross on the infield, the woodchopping, the Aboriginal war drumming and the 4000 boozed up Tasmanians in the stands all the way around the track. Wheelraces are already a chaotic affair in my book, and cutting the distance and width of the track in half doesn't make things any smoother. I wasn't too worried until the last lap of the feature wheelrace heat. Myself and 3 others were catching the leading group with the bell ringing and the scratchmen breathing down our necks. Just as we're about to swing up and around the group riders start diving off thier bikes at the rail, guys from my group are smacking into downed riders and faceplanting all around me and I dive onto the apron to keep from losing my front wheel. I make it through clean just in time to realize that I'm on the painted concrete apron heading into a sharp corner, which is about the point that my front tire gives up and I come crashing down, hipcheck the cement, knee into the top tube and grind to a stop. Des helps me up, tells me the bikes okay and sends me to the first aid stand to get scrubbed out.

Devonport was better in that I did not end up laying on the track or in an hospital bed. The best way to sum up the day actually comes from the front page of the local paper, which just printed a picture of riders splayed out on the shallow bank and a line of ambulances headed toward the track with the headline "CARNIVAL CARNAGE. Four in the hospital and one in Intensive Care as the Christmas Carnivals take a bloody turn." Fortunately none of the US riders were involved in any of that business, but it made me feel pretty lucky about sitting the day out with a swollen, sore hip (which kind of looked like I was trying to steak a grapefruit by hiding it in my pocket.) Two separate crashes prompted hospital trips, and one ended with a rider flying over the railing at the top of the track and colliding with a light post. The last update we heard from the organizers was tough to hear. Broken ribs, punctured lung, broken wrist, broken collarbone and a head injury which landed him in a medically induced coma. Most of the racing was cancelled for the night, and a visible funk settled over all of the riders and spectators alike.

Devonport's a two day affair, and the second day proceeded as scheduled. Collections were passed around for the rider in the hospital. By the end of the day they had collected just over $15,000 from personal donations (including $1000 from Stewart O'Grady, who was apparently in the stands) and a large amount of riders donating their winnings. On the racing front, I was not allowed to start the wheelraces or the kierins, as my joint pain had gone away and been replaced with paralyzing cramps through my left side hip flexors. I assured my coach that I'd be fine for a first lap in the Olympic sprint, and so we lined up against the Australian Institute of Sport B team. The last time we had done a team sprint in Latrobe we finished 6th of 6th. This time I blasted off from the line, got the team up to speed, pulled off and nearly fell off the bike as my leg started to seize. Eugene kept the speed up, Kelyn finished strong and we beat the AIS team by almost 4 tenths, to grab 4th place. We were 2 tenths from third and Des was a happy man.

Feeling much better today after some good food and good rest, so hopefully by tommorow I'll be at 100%. Enough typing for now. I need a coffee..
DT

live rounds

Internet access, finally. The yardstick of civilization. No internet at the hotel, so Kelyn and I are spending our day off wandering around Hobart (Tas' only major city) and have wandered straight into a internet cafe, into 3 coffees too many and probably into a steep bill after my little "me me me!" screed is done.

So anyway. About me. My first ever Tasmanian christmas carnival is done and dusted. Latrobe: check. What's that phrase athletes tend to throw out when they've been beaten senseless? Ah yes... "I learned alot."

For instance.
I learned not to ride a 95in gear for a 200m on a pan-flat windy track. I was off 5th, so I kind of had to wing it on gear choice and came up nil. The 200m times ended up being similar to a fast day on Alpenrose (slowest track on the planet), so when I couldn't muscle the 95 up to speed, I "learned something."

I learned that no matter how many times you put on sunscreen, you will get a sunburn in Australia. If you're a fair-skinned Portlander raised under cloudcover, you will fry when riding in circles under the hole in the Ozone layer. No matter what you do.

I learned that a Tasmanian wheelrace is simultaneously the most confusing, exhausting, sketchy, stupid-hard, death-defying race there is. And that was just the heats. I never figured it out well enough to qualify for either of the finals, but the heats were challenge enough. Just making it into a final by the end of this will be a big deal.

I learned that the Tasmanians are pretty cool people. The UCI officials will say "no collusion!" while the Tassie organizers are telling you how it really is so you might have a fighting chance.

I learned that Tasmanians love their carnivals. A sold out crowd of several thousand were in the stands watching us skinny US geeks get "learned." The spectators are great.

I learned that these Australian Olympic riders are not human beings. They are alien cyborgs that eat wallabies and kangaroos in one bite, have rocket booster packs under their skinsuits and can't process things like "fear."

I learned the Japanese are pretty much the same, but with more interesting hair.

I learned that despite being an alien cyborg, Shane Kelly can loves Borat just as much as I do, and is a pretty cool guy.

Anyway. That's the condensed version of the latrobe carnival. The little counter at the bottom of the screen says :12 minutes - 5 dollars: so in conclusion, I'm having a great time, never gone this hard in my life, hurting real bad but hopefully improving, didn't make any finals so not in contention for anything but tomorrow's a new day a new track and I'm out.

DT

holding patterns

Three more days till racing starts. Three more days. All I've been doing the last few days is riding and resting. Not much else.

Had one day of racing at Manukau Bowl, dirtiest track in New Zealand. 6k scratch race, 1k handicap heats and final, 500m scratch and a long points race. Still had a 95inch gear on, but who has time for a gear change these days? Just as I pulled my shorts on, they were calling A grade riders to the rail. Last time I was here, I learned the valuable lesson that warmups are for suckers, so the scratch worked well to get the day started. The big man-gear was tough to push but got me most of the way through, until the poo hit the fan and the skinny guys had their way. The 3 lap handicap went a bit better. I'm not used to handicaps, and Tas will be full of them, so I felt a bit of jitters for the first time in months as I rolled up to my mark.

::Handicap Crash Course::
A handicap (a.k.a. "wheelrace" or "gift") is a standing start scratch race. Riders are "graded" based on past performances, speed, skill and the whims of the promoter. While most traditional races are restriced to categories (elite, a grade, b grade, etc.), anyone can ride a handicap. Olympians and first-timers can end up in the same heat. To make things fair, the Olympians and the bad dogs start the race at the exact race distance. If it's a 1k, they start 1k from the finish line (with laps). This is called riding "on scratch" or being a "scratchmarker." A rider with slightly less speed or experience will start a few meters in front of the bad dogs. Mid-level elite hacks like myself might start 50 meters in front of the Olympians, while beginners will start 150 to 200 meters in front of the scratchmarkers. Therefore when the gun goes off, the lesser riders have less distance to cover, giving them a legitimate shot at beating the scratchmarkers to glory and a big fat check. It's a full-on super-dangerous effort from start to finish.

So we line up for our handicap. I'm off 30 meters in front of a junior world champ and a well known NZ sprinter dude. The gun goes Bang and I look around for a second and kind of go "eewah?" before I realize I should probably go now so I do. Big start to get over the 95inch gear and I get moving, get through the field and on through to the final. The final also makes me weirdly nervous even though it doesn't really mean anything. The scratchmarkers are the same, I'm still at 30 and we have to catch 160m or riders. Another big start, big enough to leave the scratchmarkers behind, never to catch up, I come up on the lead group with one to go and it's 6 wide around the final bend. Fast as I can turn the toobig gear, I can only make it to 4th, trying to come around the field on the rail.

Felt good about that. Out of the money, but on the right path. The 500 meter standing scratch should have been my big one, but that's when I checked my tire pressure and saw my rear tubular delaminating in my hands. F!&K!. No spares, no neutral wheels. Guess it's time to call it a night and buy a new tire instead of a christmas present...

As for now, time to climb back on the bike.
DT

pitchers

MT Eden Village. Our hood.


Wisconsin is the shizzle, apparently.


Edible heaven, lightly fried and wrapped in the paper of joy.


These tires are so great. I love them. They will complete 2 track sessions like nobody's business. On the third ride they will self-destruct faster than a bottle rocket, but what else would you expect from a tire that only costs a hundred bucks? Everyone knows you need to dump your entire savings to get any quality in the bike industry, so who am I to critisize?


You can't see the wonderfully phalic snorkel air intake very well in this awful picture, but this car is the mechanical equivalent of that guy you see walking around town in 100 degree sun wearing combat boots, leather pants, and a knee-length black leather trenchcoat that barely covers his cheeto-fueled beer belly.

DT

too much time, not enough time

Ah, the comfort of routine. Even on temporary stay in a country on the other side of the planet it's easy to find a routine. The bike racer lifestyle demands it. Wake up to the sounds of a raging screaming 8 year old. This kid Tom is like Calvin (from calvin & hobbs) without the good intentions. Coffee, food, kit up and roll down to the waterfront. The waterfront on Mission bay is the ultimate morning spin. A perfect 90 minutes, mostly flat, full of people and sights that are easy to look at and duplicated every day. Ride along Mission Bay and you do feel like you're miles away from home. Palm trees, outdoor cafes, white beaches, bluish green surf lapping up on people in boardshorts and less... this is not December, is it? Can it be? The ride home takes you through the Auckland Domain, which is a jungle mid-city. Trees that seem older than man, HUGE fronds and ferns. You can't stop looking at all this deep green wildlife stretching above you and you're now drifting to the right side of the quiet road and shit there's a car coming straight at you but it's not his fault and he lets you know with his horn which snaps you out of your tourist stupor, you ride home and straight to the fridge.

The rest of the afternoon is spent at coffee shops and on couches, trying not to think too much about the evening workout ahead.

Track racing tonight, Mint Chicks concert Saturday. Had a run-in with the Mint Chicks last time. Turns out that my favorite Kiwi band is a couple of months away from becoming one of my favorite Portland bands. Been reading local music rags and lately everyone can't stop moaning about the spazz-rockers ditching thier bassist and heading for wetter pastures in PDX. Can't wait to see them play in town after they find a bassist a following and a regular spot at Tube.

If the video above is not showing up on your automated electric computing figure generator box, click here.
DT

dinosaur comic of the day

took the camera on the morning ride

Good art doesn't always live in a gallery.



I suppose you could consider this art. Like the art that I made when I was six years old and stuck in the grip of ADD. Let's cover this house with glue, throw a shitload of lumber at it and paint the whole thing black. At least this one has windows unlike...


This house is ugly in the way that Las Vegas sucks. It's stupidly expensive, completely impractical, dark inside and isn't really as impressive as the builders hoped it would be. Looks about as comfortable as living inside a casket.



Maybe this is what happens when you admire the two above houses, read too many design magazines but have neither the cash or the drive to see a project like that though to its end. This is the housing equivalent of a teenage girl wearing neon underwear on the outside of her jeans.

After I got back to the house, Baxter/Whiskey/Meatface the boxer/german shephard dog mauled me until I took his picture.

So here he is. In all his glory.


Baxter/Whiskey/Meatface plays rough.

DT

tuesday list

Songs you should be listening to, should you find yourself wandering around Auckland on a warm, overcast and somewhat humid day in December with 5 hours to kill.

"Ballad of Jim Jones" - Brian Jonestown Massacre
"A Warning To The Curious" - The Coral
"Zurich Is Stained" - Pavement
"El Chupa Nibre" - Dangerdoom
"The Worst Taste In Music" - The Radio Department
"Down Boy" - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
"Walk On The Wild Side" - Lou Reed
"Back 4 You" - Jurassic 5
"Sentimental Man" - The Dismemberment Plan
"Good Morning" - The Dandy Warhols
"Kiss Kiss" - Yeah Yeah Yeahs

DT

Slow news day on the island.

DT

kia ora

I hate that flight. I hate it so bad. Air New Zealand does a great job of making things as comfortable and pleasant as possible, but there's only so much you can do for a 14 hour flight. Anyway. Stumbled out of the plane and into Andy Small's tiny compact car, where we drove at top speed straight to the corner cafe for a kickass breakfast and coffee.

Nothing beats taking off from Portland under rainy 40 degree skies and rolling out the door the next day in Auckland wearing a sleeveless jersey and shorts for a ride along the waterfront. Nothing beats it. Except maybe more coffee after that.

My favorite Kiwi spazz-rock band The Mint Chicks plays on Friday. Excellent timing indeed.

Off to the store for some camera batteries and food food food.

DT

the flying meatball victorious

That right kids, hot off the press, fresh off the blackberry txt vines from Des in the Kung Pao General Tso Velodrome in Beijing, Mike Friedman won the World Cup scratch race. Sounds like he didn't actually win it, he annihilated everyone in his path with a solo breakaway that would make Armstrong himself shed a single tear of joy. Not that we care that much what a skinny millionaire roadie thinks anyway, but cool stuff regardless, eh? Good thing too, as Meatball seems to be the only US trackie that isn't deathly ill. Sickbay thus far: Jennie Reed, out. Michael Blatchford: So out he couldn't even make in out of the springs. Bobby Lea: Down and out in a chinese hospital. USAC needs to find another cook, maybe start distributing Flinstones vitamins...

DT

our town could be your life

So it's been a while, eh? Feeling pretty ill at the moment, so I've kicked out of work early and now have time to burn, and I will burn it in your face.
Walker The Stalker has come and gone for his November Crappy Weather and Sad People Tour. A note for anyone looking to come to Portland for a pleasant vacation and some loose partying with people of the fairer sex: Don't come in late November. It's wet, it's cold and everyone's either studying for finals or suffering through the first waves of seasonal affective disorder.

Anyway, we went to the Doug Fir to see a pair of kick-ass dance-rock bands last Friday. The bands played well, they sounded great and yet everyone stood there like a bunch of slackjawed invertebrates, hands in pockets, eyes to the floor. Come on, you paid 13 bucks to see two party bands. Two bands whose sole purpose is to get stupid hipsters to dance and you're too cool to even nod your hoodie-covered head? Fakc. Lame. Jenny and Walker and I rocked out despite the cool kids. We won the night.

Open note the the US Gran Prix of Cyclocross promoters: Next year let us run the show. They came to town with all thier "rules" and "fees" and stuffy pro-ness and damn near crushed the Portland cx spirit. Rider attendance for the Alpenrose Crusade race was over 1000. Rider attendance for the USGP barely topped 400. Crowds were okay but not great. Someone said to me "i thought portland cross was supposed to be a big deal." It is, but only when it's on our terms...

DT