Five lessons from a legendary cycling coach

Late last month, I read the news that renowned cycling coach Eddy Borysewicz had died from COVID-19 at the age of 81 in his native Poland. He was well-known, among other things, for preparing U.S. cyclists for medal-winning performances in the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics, and for helping develop a young Greg LeMond into the first American to win the Tour de France in 1986. (Earlier this month, LeMond became the first cyclist, and only the 10^th individual athlete in history, to be awarded the Congressional Gold Medal.)

Borysewicz, or Eddy B. as he was known, also played a key role in the development of an entire generation of young wannabe bike racers in the 1980s, including me.

I started racing in 1983 at the age of 15. At that time, detailed information about cycling was hard to obtain in places like rural Pennsylvania, where I grew up. My “training” consisted of riding 25 to 40 miles a day through the hills around my hometown – good enough to prepare me for small local events, but not enough to avoid getting thrashed at the regional level by faster, fitter cyclists.

Something essential was lacking in my training program. Then, in early 1985, along came a book titled “Bicycle Road Racing: A Complete Program for Training and Competition” by Eddy Borysewicz. It opened my eyes to the concept of carefully planned, year-long training programs. To be competitive in May, I learned, training started in December, and each day of the week must be dedicated to a specific aspect of race fitness: endurance, tempo, intervals, sprints, recovery.

My copy of “Bicycle Road Racing” was lost years ago, and much of its 20^th century wisdom has long since been supplanted by updated training techniques. But I recently looked through an old copy of the book at the local library, which helped jog my memory about a few of the other ways Eddy B. influenced my approach to the sport.

1. Bicycle racing is hard, so toughen up

Sample quote: “In Poland I have trained when the temperature was 5-10 degrees below zero (Fahrenheit). There was no such thing as saying, ‘Oh, it’s so cold. We will train if it warms up tomorrow.’”

As a young, ambitious cyclist, I took Eddy B.’s admonishment about training in bad weather to heart. I was out on my bicycle in all conditions, whether it was endurance rides in the chill air of January, intervals in the steady rains of April, or sprints on sweltering afternoons in July. There was a sense of accomplishment, even pride, in returning from a hard, three-hour training ride soaked to the bone and frozen half to death. As I have grown older, I’ve become less dedicated to cycling in inclement weather, but sometimes it can’t be helped: In June 2019, I signed up for the 130-mile Michigan Mountain Mayhem event near Traverse City. During the first four hours of my seven-hour ride, rain poured from the clouds and the temperature hovered in the mid-40s. The reward was finishing the tough, hilly course in the beautiful, warm sunshine that followed the storm.

2. Intense, sustained concentration is required

Sample quote: “Racing takes great power of concentration. Many a rider has failed to concentrate for one moment and suddenly found himself at the rear of the field. This is the most dangerous position because there is no self-determination.”

This is one of the hardest aspects of bicycle racing, which those who have never participated in the sport have trouble understanding: the need to maintain laser focus from start to finish, even throughout a four-hour race. One momentary lapse in awareness could mean being out of position during a crucial point in the race or, even worse, going down in crash. Over the years, I have also dabbled in running and even trained up for the 1997 Los Angeles Marathon. Although I would never describe running 26.2 miles as “easy,” the luxury of being able to zone out for minutes at a time over the course of four hours made it far less mentally taxing than even the shortest bike race.

3. Bicycle racing is a contact sport

Sample quote: “If you bothered me when I was racing I would hit you with my rear wheel – bang it right into your front wheel and knock you down if you weren’t a good bike handler. I would say, ‘You want to play? What kind of game do you want? I’m ready for anything. C’mon!’”

Thankfully, the majority of cyclists (including me) never indulged in such dubious or dangerous tactics. But we needed to be prepared for those who did. More often, though, contact during races was unintentional, the result of riders not paying attention (see previous lesson), or swerving to avoid a dropped water bottle, or simply lacking the skills to hold their line through a corner. Dealing properly with unexpected physical contact while speeding down the road at 25mph meant honing bike-handling skills on easy training days: for example, finding a grassy field to ride across at slow speed with teammates while bumping elbows, handlebars, and wheels. The object was to learn how to ride straight, stay upright, and, if necessary, push back without going down. Unfortunately, this is a lesson that many road racers in the U.S. still have not embraced, and too many of them don’t spend time developing these skills. As European cyclists are fond of saying, Belgian grandmothers have better bike-handling skills than most American professionals.

4. Data and metrics can improve training

Sample quote: [After nine minutes of hard effort on the indoor trainer, stop and take your pulse.] “Do this with your fingertips on the carotid artery beside your Adam’s apple. … If it is 170 beats per minute this schedule is perfect. If it is 160 or less the work was too easy and you should use bigger gears. … When you get 180 or more the work was too hard and you should use lower gears. When your pulse exceeds 180 on the first set you won’t be able to handle the second one.”

This was the first time I had heard about paying attention to heart rate. Of course, using your fingers to take your pulse in the middle of a training ride is less than ideal, and has long since gone the way of the dodo thanks to technology. Also, it is woefully unscientific to suggest that all athletes should train based on the same heart rate levels. (According to the old 220-minus-age formula, my maximum heart rate should be 167, but in practice I still reach the low 180s during interval sessions.) Now, with heart rate monitors and power meters dominating the training landscape, it’s hard to remember that long-ago era when I measured my cycling efforts purely according to my own perceived exertions while chugging up the hills of central Pennsylvania.

5. Proper nutrition is important (but don’t always take dietary advice from an old-time European coach)

Sample quote: “You may burn twice as many calories in a four-hour road race as a factory worker will burn in a full day. To replenish these calories you must eat food that is necessary as well as food that you like. For example, I never ate horse meat in my life until an eight-year period when I was racing. Horse is considered very good meat because it has no fat. In Europe riders eat it a lot. It is also much cheaper than beef and pork. But horse meat? It didn’t sound good at all. At first I ate only a little, then more, and then I was eating a lot. I rode well on it. When I stopped cycling I stopped eating it.”

This was one of the most memorable passages in the book, and in the 1980s it resulted in baffled parents of young cyclists across the country fielding queries about where to source horse meat. But it did help me realize that I had to put more thought into what went into my body to fuel my training and racing program – a lesson that seems increasingly important as I grow older.

Above: The author in action in a bike race somewhere in New Jersey circa 1988, while riding for the New Age Cycling Team based in State College, Pennsylvania.

Ghost Dog Gone?

Most of Fort Wayne’s numerous haunted places are said to be frequented by spirits that are decidedly humanoid in aspect: the ghost of one Lt. Philip Ostrander roams the city’s namesake Old Fort; a mysterious woman wearing a white, flowing gown is sometimes seen crossing Main Street Bridge west of Van Buren Street; the restless phantom of a maintenance man prowls the dark backstage of the Embassy Theatre. The list goes on.

A notable exception is Wells Street Bridge, which legend says is troubled not by a spectral biped but rather by a devil-dog with glowing eyes that barks at – and sometimes chases – cyclists who ride across the span late on dark, cold nights. The general advice for those who encounter this creepy canine is to forget the “Dog Halt!” spray and instead put the mettle to the pedals, and get out of there as quickly as your legs can spin.

Wells Street Bridge is a landmark of downtown Fort Wayne. The 180-foot-long structure across St. Marys River was built in 1884, closed to motor vehicles in 1982, and added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1988. It’s one of only a handful of 19^th century iron truss bridges built in U.S. urban areas that have survived the inexorable march of progress.

For decades the bridge was a fairly quiet, isolated place, but it now anchors the west end of Promenade Park, a 4-acre riverfront development project opened in August 2019 that includes such amenities as an amphitheater, a craft been café, a floating kayak launch, a tree canopy trail, and a children’s playground. The $20 million project took two years to complete.

Now, this promenade is obviously a nice little addition to Fort Wayne’s growing list of attractions, but my worry – in the midst of all the breathless hoopla surrounding the park’s grand opening – is that the months of noisy, intensive construction might have displaced the legendary ghost dog from its home on Wells Street Bridge.

In recent weeks, as the nights have grown longer, darker, and colder, I’ve climbed aboard my bicycle and indulged in a series of nocturnal “test rides” across the venerable old bridge in an effort to coax the devil-dog into appearing. So far, no luck – but I like to think that the mystery still lurks there, biding its time until the nights are even longer, darker, and colder before it once again harries brave or foolhardy cyclists who dare to cross the river in the wee hours.

Fort Wayne bike shop serves homeless community

Early in his adult life, Michael Brown worked as a city planning consultant in Chicago. Eventually, he came to believe that rewriting zoning ordinances and establishing great landscaping designs were not the real solutions to community problems; the real issue, he said, was “the condition of our soul.” The realization prompted his shift to a new career as pastor for a suburban Chicago church.

In 2003, Brown moved to Fort Wayne, Indiana, to serve as co-pastor at Mission Church on Cass Street. Five years ago he established Heart of the City Bicycles at the church, a bike shop for the homeless community and those who use their bikes as a main source of transportation. Open Fridays from 9am to noon, the shop averages 15 to 20 repairs a week, as well as 125 to 150 earn-a-bikes a year.

How did you get the idea to start Heart of the City Bicycles?

When I was a pastor in Chicago, our church had a very large group of cyclists. I was trying to find a way to really give back to the community instead of focusing on, “Hey, we’re doing all these really great rides.” So we started volunteering down at the Men’s Rescue Mission. We’d go in quarterly and fix up bikes. Then I became a co-pastor at Mission Church in Fort Wayne. We acquired our current building six years ago, and for five years we’ve had Heart of the City Bicycles.

What services does the shop provide?

We provide repair services on a weekly basis. We do an earn-a-bike program for those who would like to make strides toward getting their own bicycle, so they do community-related projects like cleaning up the Fort Wayne River Greenway and cleaning up the Wells Street Corridor. We also teach bike-repair lessons. We have an apron program. It’s like martial-arts belts – you can go Yellow Apron, Red Apron, Green Apron, Black Apron. The teaching is done by our four main volunteers. We’ll just kind of mentor somebody. The Yellow Apron takes about four weeks.

How does the program benefit the community?

We’ve recognized that poverty is not a financial issue. It manifests itself in all different areas, so we build relationships with these folks and help them learn life skills. We created a shop here that is relatively clean and organized, because many of these folks have a lot of chaos in their lives. From a very simple level, we think that a person having adequate transportation is a great start. Some of these folks don’t have the ability to acquire a driver’s license. Cars are expensive, and bicycles are a very effective form of transportation, as most of the rest of the world knows. We have a great infrastructure for bike paths in Fort Wayne, and we want to take advantage of that. If we can give folks the ability to get around to job interviews, jobs, healthcare appointments, and so forth, we think that helps with their quality of life.

A grueling start to the cycling season

On Sunday, April 15, I participated in my first organized cycling event of 2018: the Rollfast 8×8 Challenge in Brown County State Park in southern Indiana. Getting to the start line required a 2:30am wake-up call and a three-hour drive from Fort Wayne through darkness and rain. Dawn broke as I entered the park, and the rain continued falling while I prepped my bike and pulled on multiple layers of clothing: cycling cap under my helmet; thin base layer, long-sleeved jersey, short-sleeved jersey and rain jacket on my torso; tights over cycling shorts covering the legs; wool socks and shoe covers protecting my feet; and long-fingered gloves on my hands.

At the start line, it was apparent that the inclement weather had kept more than half of the 100 pre-registrants home for the day: I counted fewer than 40 cyclists shivering along with me in the cold rain as the ride announcements were made by the organizer, who remained sheltered in a tent while he issued warnings about the dangerous descents along the 11.7-mile loop. He then put down the microphone, stepped out of the tent and proclaimed the commencement of our 8-lap, 94-mile odyssey.

Lap 1: My grand plan to start the ride super-easy was tossed out the window by the need to warm my body. The climbing started immediately, and I shifted into my lowest gear (34×28) and kept a high cadence to the top of the first step of the climb. A group of four or five riders blazed up the hill, and someone near me said, “There they go already.” I reached the top with the second group, and stayed with them during the next, shallower step of the climb, but dropped back on the third, steeper section. I rode alone across the plateau with one cyclist within reach ahead of me, but no desire on my part to put the hammer down and get onto his wheel. I kept it steady through the rollers, then took it easy the first time down the descent: sweeping right, very sharp left, a couple of ups and downs, then a steep drop into a valley with two narrow gravel patches spanning the road at the bottom. I was starting to warm up, except for my arms, which were covered by only a thin jersey and rain jacket. After a mile or so of flat terrain, I hit the second climb, consisting of a steep section, a triple set of short but steep bumps, and then a very steep section to the top. I tried to balance standing and sitting to keep my legs fresh. At this point I was caught by three riders from behind, and rode with them down the fast, fun, brake-free decline to the start/finish line. Lap time: 41:5

Lap 2: Rain continued falling. This was the only lap that I rode most of the way with other cyclists. After that, I was on my own to the finish. I tried settling into a manageable rhythm on the climbs, and my 28 cog still seemed adequate. I sat behind the other three riders across the plateau, drafting off to one side to avoid the rooster-tail of grime flying off the tire in front of me, and then took the lead on the rollers leading to the descent. I kept my momentum and my cadence high on the small upgrades, then flew down the hill faster than on the first lap. We were still together on the second climb and descent, and crossed the finish line as a small, if loosely allied, group. Lap time: 41:50

Lap 3: More rain. One of the riders in our group dropped back a bit on the climb, and the other two stopped at a car at the top of the first section, leaving me on my own. Still pedaling, I pulled off my gloves to grab my second Gu packet out my back pocket but dropped it onto the road. As I circled back to pick it up, the two guys who had stopped at the car rode by – one asked if I was okay – and I never saw them again. I picked up my gel and ate it on the move before I hit the next uphill section, then settled back into my rhythm. I think it was also at this point that I really started thinking about what I had gotten myself into, wondering whether I could make it up the hills five more times. The lap-by-lap countdown began. Lap time: 45:3

Lap 4: A bit of respite from precipitation, but the roads were still wet and wormy, and the sky remained threatening. Another climb, another gel, another descent, another climb. Already, fatigue was starting to creep into my legs as I began struggling with the 28 on the steeper grades, but I was happy to reach the halfway milestone at the end of the lap. I made my first stop at the aid station to top-up my water bottles and eat a few fig bars. The people manning the station did all the work of refilling and handing out food, but one guy questioned my decision to carry two bottles, which of course added weight to the bike. Lap time: 50:41

Lap 5: And then came the storm. The rain returned with a vengeance, falling harder than before and accompanied by high, gusty winds that made even the flat sections of the course difficult to ride. The brim of my cycling cap helped keep the lashing rain out of my eyes, except on the descents where the cold drops stung any exposed skin. It was also around this point that, due to numbness in my fingers, I had to reach across my handlebars with my right hand whenever I wanted to shift my front derailleur into the big chainring. I skipped the aid station in favor of another gel; at one point on this lap or the next, I inadvertently dropped an empty gel packet onto the ground while trying to put it into my back pocket. Not wanting to be an ungrateful guest in the park, I circled back around to pick my litter off the ground before continuing on. Lap time: 49:30.

Lap 6: Wind and rain continued, and it was around this time that I really started suffering on the steepest climbs. I remained standing until my legs started burning, then sat down and churned my way to the top, sometimes at a cadence in the low 40s. Once I sat down, there was no standing up again. This was when that lazy, pesky demon in my head who prefers comfy sofas and Doritos started asking whether it was really worth finishing, but deep down I never doubted my ability to ride 8 laps. I also figured that I would finish in about 6 hours, which was the same amount of time I would spend driving to and from the race. I wanted to make the trip worthwhile, along with earning the burger and fries I planned to eat on the way home. I made my second aid station stop at the end of the lap, grabbing a banana and a bottle of energy drink. Lap time: 53:07

Lap 7: The most difficult and slowest lap of the ride, even though the rain finally stopped and the sun started shining through the clouds. As I had during the early laps, I made an effort to admire the scenery of the park as I passed a few of the vista points, turning my head to catch glimpses of the clouds breaking over the hills. But the pretty views didn’t do much to help me negotiate the climbs, the steepest of which I tackled by tacking back and forth across the road to reduce the gradient. Even so, I suffered cramps in the muscles behind both of my knees, but I managed to keep pedaling and worked them out during the descent to the start/finish line, where I made my last aid station stop for a few fig bars before heading out on the last lap. Lap time: 55:32

Lap 8: With (very slightly) renewed energy, and with my clothes drying out and my body warming in the intermittent sun, I ticked off each climb as I topped it for last time. I took it easy on the flats and on the descents (the idea of a blowout on my front tire, which I had recently swapped from the rear wheel after having used it for weeks on the indoor trainer, had been haunting me since around Lap 6), trying to save everything for the last climb, which loomed dark and unavoidable on the horizon. I feared the return of my leg cramps, but they remained at bay during the lesser climbs. I made the last of the day’s four or five toilet stops at the outhouse at the base of the final climb, then braced myself and started up, tacking across the road as I had the lap before. No one passed me on the way up, as a few had on previous laps, spinning by on their 32s or 34s while I struggled in my 28. Up I went the first section half-standing and half-seated, then standing up the triple slopes of the second section, then standing as long as I could up the last steep obstacle until I had to sit and churn my way ever closer to the top. Just when I thought I was safe, the lurking cramps suddenly struck again, but by that point I only needed five more pedal strokes to reach the crest. Despite the pain, I forced my legs over until I was able to coast across the top. I stood and stretched my protesting muscles, and then I was free to enjoy the descent on roads that were drying out after a day of relentless rain, finally crossing the line as one of only 15 riders to complete all 8 laps. Lap time: 52:48. Overall time: 6:23:47. Overall placing: 10^th of 35 (5^th in the 50-54 age group).         

 

Fear of the elements

Spring is officially here, and as of this writing, I’ve spent about 70 hours on my bicycle since the beginning of the year – all but six of those in the comfort of the Great Indoors. There have been a couple of days when temperatures in the 50s have drawn me out onto the roads of northeastern Indiana, but for the most part I’ve felt no compulsion to get dressed in cold-weather gear and unhook the bike from the trainer.

Although I grew up in central Pennsylvania, it’s been 25 years since I’ve lived in a cold climate. Most of my winter-weather riding of years gone by was done during the era of helmetless pros, down-tube shifters and LeMond-Fignon rivalries. But now, after a decade in Southern California, followed by 15 years in Southeast Asia, anything below 55 Fahrenheit feels downright Arctic to me.

Another deterrent to outdoor riding has been the unsullied cleanliness of my recently purchased Specialized Tarmac: I want the bike’s open-air voyages to be thoroughly enjoyable rather than clouded by thoughts of spending 45 minutes removing salt and grit from the sparkling-new drivetrain after the ride. It’s inevitable that the Tarmac (and I) will be exposed to elements other than sunshine, but not just yet …

In the meantime, I’m riding four or five days a week on the indoor trainer, pedaling furiously for 90 to 120 minutes at a time without actually going anywhere.

One or two days a week, I use the Zwift cycling app, which does a fine job of deluding me into believing that I’m actually progressing along smooth, idyllic roads free from motorized traffic but clogged with fellow athletes from around the world. There’s plenty of incentive to ride hard – from speed, distance and wattage displays; to constant admonishments to “close the gap” on the rider just in front of me; to real-time comparisons between my fastest times up the hills and my current leg-burning effort to make it to the top, even as the resistance on my smart trainer ramps up in accordance with the steepness of the grade.

The rest of the time, though, I ride old-school, pedaling on my indoor trainer while staring at my Garmin and listening to music on my headphones. I do this when I want complete, distraction-free control of my ride, without Zwift’s built-in inducements to ride at a higher intensity than planned. (I readily admit to being mentally weak in this regard – my competitive spirit makes it difficult to temper my efforts.) Three days of Zwift in a given week, and by Sunday I’m suffering the effects of severe fatigue. But intersperse a couple of Zwift rides with two or three careful, heart-rate-controlled sessions on the good ol’ analogue trainer, and by the end of the week I feel like I’ve struck a good balance between hard efforts, base aerobic endurance and recovery.

This schedule seems to be working for now, and switching between Zwift and more archaic indoor training methods helps keep everything from growing stale. For the time being, I’m still mostly dedicated to riding inside, but I have my eye on the weather forecast, waiting for the perfect confluence of sunshine, warm temperatures and free time to get out on the open road.

Getting fit and fitted for a new cycling season

 

It’s been quite a while since I last owned a high-end road bike. Not that I haven’t been riding – I logged more than 4,200 miles in 2017, mostly on my sturdy old Trek 4700 hardtail mountain bike equipped with 1.5-inch city tires – but with thoughts of American-style road racing running through my head for the first time in two decades, I decided to kick off the New Year with the purchase of a Specialized Tarmac Elite.

The prospect of new cycling endeavors on a new bike also inspired me to take steps toward realizing the legendary “perfect” pedaling position, so I booked a session with bike-fit guru David Coar at Summit City Bicycles and Fitness in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

The three-hour fitting process was divided into three parts, starting with a discussion that covered everything from my background as a cyclist (East Coast crits in the 80s; So Cal cross-country mountain bike races in the 90s; occasional gran fondos and casual tours ever since), my cycling goals (a bit of masters racing, interspersed with gran fondos and centuries), and issues with pain or discomfort on the bike (none).

Part two involved a meticulous body assessment from bottom to top, during which Maharishi Dave observed my (sometimes strained) efforts to perform particular movements and stretches. He also took numerous measurements of esoteric biological nooks and crannies like foot angulation and structure (high arch on right foot), spinal flexion and curve (neutral), shoulder rotation (full range), lower extremity alignment (neutral), and IT band tightness (mild).

 

 

 

During the third part of the fitting, I mounted my Tarmac, which had been attached to an indoor trainer, and did some pedaling under the watchful eye of David, who stopped me occasionally to take more measurements and make incremental adjustments to my position.

 

 

The primary revelation of the fit process was that my femurs are unusually long, which David said made me a good candidate for a custom frame (too late for that). It also explains why, at a modest 5 feet 9 inches tall, I have always found it extraordinarily difficult to sit comfortably in airplane seats without hitting my knees on the seat in front of me.

In any case, long femurs are meant to be an advantage in cycling due to the extra leverage they afford, and it’s a fortunate condition that I share with legendary pros like Greg LeMond and Bernard Hinault. In fact, David guaranteed that once my bike position was perfected, I would make the podium of every race I entered or I would get a full refund on my fit.*

(*Not really.)

The other big surprise was that I had spent years cycling with my saddle too low – way, way too low. David raised it about 5 centimeters, which at first felt horribly elevated. Meanwhile, my elongated femurs meant that my saddle had to be moved back as far as possible to align my knees with the pedal spindles, and a slightly longer left femur necessitated adjusting the fore/aft position of my left cleat to compensate.

 

 

My ischial tuberosity (sit bone) measurement was unusually narrow, so we swapped out the bike’s stock saddle for the narrowest one available in the shop, allowing me to sit back where I’m supposed to be instead of sliding forward in search of a more tenable position. Finally, we shortened the stem by 1 centimeter to offset the rearward adjustment of the saddle, and we lowered the handlebar a bit to facilitate a marginally more aero position.

The day after my fit, I took a test ride on Zwift. Although I suffered from a bit of tightness in the back of my legs just below the knees, I did feel like I was able to utilize my power for a greater portion of each pedal revolution; in fact, my estimated functional threshold power (FTP) went up by 8 watts despite holding back to avoid injuring muscles that were being used in new ways. 

My legs were sore the day after the test ride – not in a bad way, but rather like the feeling of going for a run after a few weeks off. The ache receded over the next three days, and I quickly became accustomed to the dizzying heights of my readjusted saddle. With my acclimatization period coming to an end, I’m looking forward to ramping up my training and seeing the extent to which my position allows me to take advantage of my physical peculiarities.  

Now all I have to do is shave my legs and ride 2,000 miles, and I might be ready to jump into a couple of Category 5 races by May.  

 

 

Photos: Austin Brooks

Cyclocross un-paves the way

Most of the time, the grassy expanse of Bloomingdale Park just north of St. Mary’s River and west of Wells Street is a picture of tranquility. On Wednesday evenings from August to December, however, it becomes a gathering spot for some of Fort Wayne’s most daring and adrenaline-addicted cyclists.

The 30 or so athletes – ranging in age from pre-teen to 50-something – congregate at 6 pm to pedal laps on a mile-long course that twists and turns across the lawn and through shady tree groves. The unpaved track seems designed for burly mountain bikes, but most participants favor lightweight bikes equipped with road-style dropped handlebars and knobby, all-terrain tires.

The sport is called cyclocross, a type of off-road bicycle racing that originated in Europe at the turn of the 20^th century but has only recently gained a foothold in the United States. According to the sport’s governing body, USA Cycling, cyclocross is now the fastest-growing cycling discipline in the country, with participation more than quadrupling in the past decade.

Fort Wayne’s riverside training races, sponsored by Fort Wayne Outfitters and now in their tenth year, have easily kept pace with the nationwide explosion in popularity.

“It’s kind of neat to watch the sport grow from five people showing up 10 years ago to 30 people on a Wednesday night now,” said Chad Tieman, who helps organize the rides.

Cyclocross courses are designed to test fitness and bike-handling skills, and might include anything from grass, mud and sand to sharp turns, steep hills and low barricades that force cyclists to dismount and carry their bikes for short distances. With the season running from late summer into winter, riders also face variable weather conditions, from 90 degrees and dry in August to 20 degrees and snowing in December.

“Cyclocross is ever-changing,” said Tieman. “It’s not like a paved road where you ride in a straight line for hours. Cyclocross keeps you on your game and keeps your mind moving.”

For serious cyclists, the Wednesday rides serve as preparation for the Ohio Valley Cyclocross Series, consisting of 10 race weekends in Indianapolis, Cincinnati, Louisville, and other cities in the region.

“If you go to a race in Cincinnati, you’ll probably see 40 racers from Fort Wayne, and half of them finish on the podium in their category,” said Tieman. “I really credit these Wednesday nights. It really pushes you, riding with your friends.”

With gutsy cyclists blazing through multiple laps on short courses that double back on themselves, cyclocross is more spectator-friendly than other cycling disciplines. Fans at weekend races are rambunctious, shouting, heckling, ringing cowbells and offering hand-ups of beer to racers.

“One reason I like cyclocross is the guy in first place doesn’t always get a lot of applause,” said Tieman. “It’s the guy who’s in last, who’s trying his hardest, who gets the most cheering. I love that. It’s the coolest thing about the sport.”

Dave McComb, who organizes separate Wednesday night training races at Franke Park under the auspices of 3 Rivers Velo Sport Cycling Club, said another attraction of cyclocross is the short, intense nature of the races compared with road or mountain bike events, which means less training for time-crunched adults.

“When I had children, I got into cyclocross because it really fit the lifestyle of a masters [age 35-plus] racer with kids. You don’t have to ride your bike 12 hours a week to be good at a 45-minute race,” he said.

While the Franke Park sessions are free, Fort Wayne Outfitters charges $10 to ride each week. The fee covers insurance, course maintenance, and post-ride food and drinks. It also includes a donation to Neighborlink, a nonprofit that mobilizes volunteers to provide free home repairs for low-income seniors and people with disabilities.

Neighborlink also sponsors a grassroots cyclocross team, organized by Andrew Hoffman, who said money raised last year through the sport was used to install six new furnaces and repair a dozen more in local homes.

Hoffman said that although cyclocross might appear intimidating to the uninitiated, newcomers should not be afraid to show up on Wednesdays and give it a try.

“You don’t have to have a cyclocross bike, and you don’t have to be hyper-competitive. Just bring your mountain bike and give it a shot,” he said. “The local cycling community is extremely welcoming to new people, regardless of your skill or how fast you are.”

A slightly modified version of this story was originally published in the November 2017 issue of Fort Wayne Magazine.

Treasure Island: Geocaching by bicycle on Pulau Ubin

During the week or so that the Pokemon Go craze lasted, people around the world could be observed shamelessly engaged in capturing virtual monsters that “existed” only insofar as players were willing to keep their eyes glued to their mobile phones.

While I have never played Pokemon Go, I have occasionally indulged in geocaching, which similarly involves relying on a phone app – or a GPS unit – to navigate real-world locations while on the hunt for a particular objective.

The key difference with geocaching is that the goal of the pursuit is not an imaginary creature but an actual object – usually a “cache” of small trinkets or a log book stashed inside a plastic container and hidden from the sight of casual passersby.

This tangible aspect means that geocaching, which has quietly persisted since its founding in 2000, is a more subtle pursuit than Pokemon Go: The actual existence of geocaches means that they are subject to thievery or disposal by anyone who discovers them accidentally. As a rule, therefore, these GPS treasure hunters seek to avoid being observed as they remove the containers from their hiding places.

So it was that on a recent trip to Singapore, I found myself milling about a picnic area on Pulau Ubin awaiting the departure of a large group of hikers who had decided to enjoy their lunches and tick a few boxes off their bird-watching lists a mere 5 meters from where, unbeknownst to them, one of these geocaches had been concealed.

In an effort to loiter uncreepily in the vicinity, I feigned interest in the local flora, but I could only maintain my nonchalance for so long while staring at tree bark and sun-bleached leaves. The bird-watchers seemed to have hunkered down for the duration, and I eventually lost patience, remounted my rented mountain bike and pedaled away, silently vowing to return later in the day.

Pulau Ubin – an island that lies off Singapore’s northeast coast – is an undeveloped haven of traffic-free paved roads and dirt pathways that provides an easy, inexpensive escape from the commotion of the rest of the country. The forests and wetlands are best explored on foot or by bicycle, the latter of which can be rented on the island at prices ranging from S$5 to S$15 (US3.5 to US$10.5), depending on various factors such as how rusted they are and whether the gears and brakes actually work.

Bumboats to Pulau Ubin can be caught at Changi Point Ferry Terminal. The 10-minute ride costs S$3 a person, with boats leaving as soon as there are 12 passengers. Once on the island, I splurged on a workable S$15 mountain bike and cruised inland for a day of exploration.

Geocaches are each given a unique name once they’re placed and once their locations are uploaded onto the geocaching.com website, and I started by heading north to the far side of the island to find one called Orchid Garden. While a pedaled down a lonely, tree-shaded road, I occasionally glanced at the map on my phone to confirm that I was steadily closing the distance to my target.

Unfortunately, once I was within 0.1 miles of the cache, my Singapore SIM card conked out and I started receiving SMS’s from a telecoms operator in Malaysia – Pulau Ubin is close enough to the border, and remote enough from the center of Singapore, that my phone thought I had entered another country.

Unable to access the geocaching app, I continued on nonetheless, soon reaching an oceanfront campsite with mainland Malaysia visible across the briny strait. A hand-painted sign reading “Orchid Garden” pointed me to a dirt trail tunneling through the jungle.

A few minutes later I arrived at the “garden”, where I found a modest shack, storage shed and boat dock on a property strewn with plant pots, ceramic sculptures, rusting motorcycles, torn fishing nets and other detritus. A makeshift “Cold Drinks Sold Here” sign promised the undeliverable as it pointed to a phantom business venture.

Without the app to help me narrow the search, there were an infinite number of places where a small plastic box could be hidden among the clutter. After poking around for about 20 minutes I was no wiser about where it might be located. There were other caches to find, so I grabbed my bike and continued riding down the jungle trail, eventually spilling back onto pavement.

My Singapore SIM card soon returned from the dead, and I followed a network of winding roads to the western end of the island to find the Lady Gold cache hidden in Ketam Mountain Bike Park. Once inside the park, I followed the beginner-level “blue” trail to Pipit Hut, a rest area for hikers and cyclists.

I had the shelter to myself, and my phone app indicated that the cache was hidden somewhere in the forest about 100 meters away. I plunged into the trees on foot but soon found my progress waylaid by a chain-link fence meant to keep people away from one of the long-abandoned quarries that in the 1960s had supplied Singapore’s construction industry and given Pulau Ubin (Granite Island) its name.

Returning to the hut, I tried following a hiking trail in hopes that it would curve around and lead me in the right diction, but the longer I walked, the farther I moved from the cache. The sky darkened and the trees started swaying in a tempestuous wind, so I backtracked to the shelter and ate crackers while enjoying the spectacle of a brief, violent thunderstorm.

The sun returned as the storm raged southwestward, but I remained flummoxed over the location of Lady Gold. Well, there were other caches to find, so I rode away empty-handed and followed the GPS signal to Recovery and Rest, where the aforementioned gaggle of lunch-eating, bird-watching miscreants stopped me dead in my nerdily frustrated geocaching tracks.

I was zero for three. Moving glumly onward, I aimed myself north in search of Not Too Deep, located in the forest along a nondescript stretch of pavement. I parked my bike as close to the cache as I could get on the road, and once again dove into the jungle. The trees were widely spaced, making for easy walking, but the ground was strewn with deep layers of huge leaves.

A GPS signal will normally bring searchers within 5 to 10 meters of the treasure, but actually finding it requires good, old-fashioned digging and snooping about. So many hiding places, so little time. Just as I was beginning to despair about my fourth failure, I kicked over a pile of leaves and there it was – a green ammunition can nestled among the roots at the base of a large banyan tree. I fell to my knees and howled lusty praise to the gods of geocaching. A group of cyclists who happened to be passing by on the road glanced nervously into the jungle and started pedaling faster.

Flush with success, I took a break from the hunt and rode to the east side of the island to check out the Chek Jawa Wetlands, the flagship wildlife sanctuary on Pulau Ubin. A 1.1-kilometer boardwalk takes hikers through mangrove forests and along the coast, skirting an ancient coral reef, mud flats and sand banks that emerge only during low tide. There was also a 20-meter-high viewing tower, which, not surprisingly, had been commandeered by another group of bird-watchers.

The afternoon was waning, so I abandoned plans to return to Recovery and Rest, and instead resolved to find two geocaches stashed not far from the boat jetty. The first, named Treasure Island, was hidden along a beautiful stretch of trail between two freshwater creeks. There were plenty of hikers around, but a quick, efficient search among the trees during a lull in the foot traffic revealed the hiding place of the small plastic box. Two for five. I was on a roll.

My last destination was U-bin Tricked – the name refers to Japan’s invasion of Singapore in February 1942, when the Japanese duped the Allies into believing the assault would come from the northeast. The Allies, falling for the ruse, deployed their freshest troops on Pulau Ubin, leaving the northwest coast of Singapore virtually undefended against the actual attack.

I’d like to be able to report that my last geocache search was successful, but I’d be fibbing. I did find the location – an old concrete bunker cleverly concealed inside a banyan tree – but upon entering the dark, enclosed space was confronted by a foul odor and a swarm of buzzing wasps.

I didn’t stick around long enough to determine the source of the smell or to assess precisely how angry the wasps might be at my intrusion. Rather, I beat a hasty retreat while wondering whether Pokemon Go might be an easier, less hazardous hobby to pursue.

Goat-roasting mountain bikers dominate downhill race at Myanmar National Cycling Championships

After a four-year hiatus, Myanmar’s national cycling championships returned with a vengeance from December 2 to 6, with hard-fought medals awarded in the disciplines of road racing, BMX, mountain bike downhill and mountain bike cross-country.

The Myanmar Cycling Federation (MCF), which organized the event, underwent major restructuring in 2014 and last year set about reviving the sport in the country by holding more events and bringing in more sponsors, such as Myan Shwe Pyi Tractors, Myanmar CP Livestock, 100 Plus and AMI Insurance.

“This is the second year we started seriously organizing cycling races, and the first time in four years we have held the national cycling championships. I think overall it’s a great start,” said MCF president Khin Maung Win.

“There’s a lot of enthusiasm among the cyclists. This event has focused more on elite riders, so we don’t see heavy participation from all the cyclists out there who have emerged in the past two or three years. There are many cyclists out there, but this level of competition is something new in Myanmar.”

The championships kicked off with a three-day road stage race. Prizes were awarded to the top finishers on each day, but the national champion’s jersey was given to the cyclist who completed all three days with the fastest accumulated time.

The first race saw the field of 42 competitors ride 160 kilometers (100 miles) from Nyaung U to Meiktila. A crash on a sandy section of road about 30km into the race took down 10 riders, all of whom were able to remount and continue racing. The combination of hills and stiff headwind split the field into small groups, with SEA Games veteran Soe Thant from the National A Team taking the win in a time of 4 hours, 48 minutes, 18 seconds. His teammate Aung Phyo Min finished second at 3 seconds, while third-place Zin Lin Ko crossed the line 2m 16s behind the winner.

Day two from Meiktila to Pyinmana was similarly contested over 160km, but the course was flatter and swifter than day one. Another crash occurred about 20km into the race when an errant canine dashed through the middle of the group of fast-moving cyclists, causing Aung Ko Oo (Speed Team) to hit the deck. The unfortunate cyclist suffered a broken leg and was taken to hospital for surgery.

Meanwhile, Aung Phyo Paing (National A Team) and Sai Aung Kham (GTM A Team) escaped the field and finished first and second in 4h 4m. Zin Lin Ko led the main field across the line more than 10 minutes later.

The third and final road stage was a 30km time trial on wide roads around Wunna Theikdi Stadium in Nay Pyi Taw, with each rider starting individually at one-minute intervals. The day’s race was won by Kyaw Tun Oo (GTM A Team) in 39m 19s, but the overall national championship title went to Aung Phyo Min, whose accumulated time of 9h 38m 37s over three days of racing bested second-place Soe Thant by 42 seconds and Zin Lin Ko in third by 3 minutes.

On day four, the championships moved to Mount Pleasant in Nay Pyi Taw, the venue for the 2013 SEA Games BMX and mountain bike races. Zar Ni (GTM) out-pedaled 22 competitors to win the BMX championship, while Aung Naing Tun (Mandalay Free Riders) was fastest on the mountain bike downhill course, making it to the bottom in 2m 53s. His MFR teammates dominated the day, sweeping the top 10 spots.

Aung Win Tun – manager of the Mandalay Free Riders team, which prepared for the race by guzzling beer and roasting a goat on a flagpole the night before – noted that Aung Naing Tun’s time was on par with medalists at the 2013 SEA Games. “He rode an awesome speed. He’s racing at the elite professional level,” Aung Win Tun said.

Aung Naing Tun, who has been competing for eight years and who bested second-place Aung Paing Soe by 7 seconds, said he did not find the downhill course particularly difficult.

“The tracks we ride in Mandalay are more difficult than the course in Nay Pyi Taw. This track is better for riding at high speed, but it’s not technically difficult,” he said.

The national cycling championships closed on December 6 with the mountain bike cross-country race, consisting of five laps of a tough 4.4km course that included several technical sections and some very steep climbs and descents. Winner Ben Rowse (Bike World A Team) covered the course in 1h 17s, beating the previous day’s BMX champion Zar Ni by 1m 41s.

Although Rowse is Australian, he was named Myanmar national champion by virtue of an MCF rule stipulating that foreign residents are eligible to take the title.

“The mountain bike track was really good. A lot of the riders struggled, but it’s good that they can see what a challenging track is like and what they need to improve on,” Rowse said.

“There were some good riders out in the front. One guy [Zar Ni] was pushing me all the way to the finish. I think he crashed on the fourth lap and couldn’t catch back up, so I got a bit of a break and managed to win.”

Bike World team manager Jeff Parry said he was happy with how his riders performed, considering they were competing against the top national cyclists.

“In the mountain bike section, I think we excelled. We came in first and seventh places, and the winner comfortably came in first,” Parry said. “The course was certainly up to Asian international standards. It was fast in places, with a couple of steep climbs and sections that were technically challenging. I think it’s been a successful five days of cycling.”

MCF president Khin Maung Win said he hopes to build on the momentum of the national championships.

“One positive thing I see is that are a lot of new sponsors coming on board,” he said. “And of course the most exciting part for me is the young 18- or 19-year-old cyclists winning. They are showing great potential. That’s the future of cycling. Going forward, we want to go into the middle schools and high schools so the younger kids can enjoy competitive cycling.”

Hammer time at the Tour of Thailand

Kyaw Tun Oo of the Myanmar National Team gets a water bottle hand-up during the Tour of Thailand.

In the sport of bicycle racing, the word “hammer” has several uses. It can be a verb indicating the act of riding very hard and very fast while feeling no pain: “He hammered up the hill, leaving everyone gasping in his wake.” To “put the hammer down” is to initiate the act the hammering.

In the noun form, a “hammer” is a cyclist renowned for his ability to hammer. And to “get hammered” is to be spat out the back of the race as the result of the efforts of hammers who are hammering away at the front. As the old saying goes, sometimes you’re the hammer, and sometimes you’re the anvil.

In this year’s Tour of Thailand bicycle stage race, held in the country’s northeast from April 1 to 6, the five-man Myanmar National Team were among those who got hammered.

The Myanmar team (left to right): Ben Rowse, Chit Ko Ko, Soe Thant, Kyaw Tun Oo and Mang Tin Kung.

Myanmar was one of seven national teams – along with Thailand, Malaysia, Vietnam, Hong Kong, Taiwan and Bahrain – invited to take part in this year’s race. The 13 other participants were sponsored trade teams from Thailand, Indonesia, the Philippines, China, Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, Kazakhstan, Iran and the Netherlands. The races on each day ranged in length from 132 kilometers (82 miles) to 231km for a total distance of 1057km. Like the Tour de France, there was a stage winner each day, plus a “general classification” based on the riders’ accumulated overall times.

As a member of the Myanmar Cycling Federation’s executive committee in charge of road cycling development, I accompanied the team to Thailand in the capacity of manager, which, despite my three decades of involvement in the sport, was a role I had never before filled. I once read an interview with the manager of a professional cycling team who said the best days for any team’s support staff were those in which nothing dramatic happened in the race. It was only after surviving Stage 1 of the Tour of Thailand that I came to fully appreciate these words.

The first clue that things might go wrong occurred at the team meeting the night before the race started, when I drew number 13 in the lottery to determine the order of the 20 support vehicles that would follow the riders. Professional cyclists in Europe who are assigned 13 usually pin the numbers upside down onto their jerseys to undo any potential ill luck. But when it came time for me to affix those impious numerals to our pickup truck, I thought, “This is Asia. Thirteen isn’t considered unlucky here,” and stuck them on right-side up. The gremlins of misfortune must have chortled in glee at my dim-witted miscalculation, but I was deaf to their spiteful mirth.

Indeed, the first day of the Tour of Thailand was nothing short of a calamity for our team. Just 30km into the 187km race from Ubon Ratchathani to Mukdahan, the race radio crackled with the news that there had been a high-speed crash, and that one of Myanmar’s riders was involved.

As manager and driver of the support vehicle carrying our spare bikes and wheels, it was my job to put the pedal to the metal, drive like a bedlamite to the accident site and offer assistance to our stricken rider.

Urged on by the hysterical shrieks of Myanmar coaches U Naing Win and U Khin Myint, who were with me in the truck, I pulled up to the scene of carnage to find one of our cyclists, Mang Tin Kung, sitting in the middle of the road already getting his injured wrist bandaged by medical personnel. Meanwhile, the frantic coaches leapt from the pickup and performed some quick repairs on the damaged bicycle. Within seconds, Mang Tin Kung was back in the saddle and on his way.

Among the daily spectators were elderly cyclists inspired to take up the sport by recreational rides held in honour of the country’s king and queen.

Bicycle racers are generally a resilient lot – the polar opposite of football players, who can’t seem to stop themselves from flopping to the ground in feigned injury whenever another player passes within half a meter – and despite skidding across the scorching-hot pavement at 50kph, Mang Tin Kung was keen to continue racing. Unfortunately, circumstances conspired against him: Unable to grip the handlebars due to his fractured wrist, and stuck in a monstrously high gear compliments of a broken rear derailleur, he gamely struggled on in agony for more than 10km before realizing there was no way he could catch the main group of nearly 100 riders, who were racing at full tilt and weren’t about to slow down for anyone. Mang Tin Kung’s race was over before it had even begun.

From this bleak start, the day never really improved. Not long after Mang Tin Kung’s retirement, and before we had even reached the halfway point, another of our cyclists – Australian Ben Rowse, the sole non-Myanmar rider on the team – suffered a flat tire just as the race pace was increasing from torrid to downright infernal. Again I responded to the race officials’ radio instructions to speed forward like a lunatic to where Rowse was awaiting mechanical succor by the roadside. The coaches tossed him a spare wheel, and he was quickly back on the road chasing the relentlessly charging peloton.

Incredibly, after pedaling furiously for nearly 30 minutes – all the while, his bike computer unhelpfully informing him that his heart was thumping away in excess of 180 beats per minute – Rowse was able to catch back up to the main group. But he squandered all of his physical resources doing so and, a few kilometers later and sapped of all energy, he dropped off the back and was forced to abandon.

The teams begin to gather for the start of another day at the Tour of Thailand.

By the finish line, two more Myanmar National Team riders – Chit Ko Ko and Soe Thant – had also quit, victims of the first stage’s Tour-de-France-worthy average pace of 45kph over more than four hours of racing in 38 Celsius heat. They were simply undertrained and psychologically unprepared for the difficulties of the day. That left us with one finisher, 21-year-old Kyaw Tun Oo, who crossed the line tucked safely in the main field more than 10 minutes behind a couple of smaller, faster groups of riders who had taken off up the road.

While our riders were getting hammered out on the course, I was also facing personal challenges in my first experience as a support vehicle driver, which basically involves several hours of fighting for position on limited road space with 19 other team car drivers, all of whom are intent on handing up water bottles and food to their riders, changing wheels as quickly as possible when flat tires occur, and fixing bikes that have been broken by crashes. I was just happy to make it through the day without nose-diving into a roadside ditch or running anyone over.

The good news was that after Stage 1, the rest of the race was relatively incident-free as far as we were concerned. This was largely due to the fact that, according to the rules of stage racing, riders must finish each stage to continue the next day. Our team’s four abandons from Stage 1 were therefore out of the race for good, meaning that U Naing Win, U Khin Myint and I only had Kyaw Tun Oo to look after for the remaining five stages. Each day Kyaw Tun Oo finished strongly in the main group, avoiding crashes and suffering only one flat tire, on Stage 3, after which he was able to chase back to the main group without much trouble.

Kyaw Tun Oo’s riding was astute enough to catch the attention of the other teams, and managers from the Netherlands, Taiwan, Malaysia and other countries approached to tell me how impressed they were with his performance, despite the obvious shortcomings of Myanmar’s national team program.

Sweat-drenched Kyaw Tun Oo survives Stage 2. Only four more days to go.

Like most institutions under this country’s odious military government of decades past, for years the Myanmar Cycling Federation was largely dysfunctional, contributing little to the advancement of the sport and, at times, actively suppressing its development – this latter point was aptly illustrated by a bewildering incident in 2005 when MCF officials actually called in the police to prevent a well-organized and well-sponsored mountain bike race from taking place north of Yangon.

But in the past couple of years the federation has turned a page under a new president who is passionate about, and understands, the sport of cycling. More races are taking place each year, and more riders are participating in these competitions. Most important, more locals are simply getting out on their bikes for recreation under the auspices of vital, independent organizations like Bicycle Network Myanmar.

For now, Myanmar’s top riders are struggling just to finish big international races like the Tour of Thailand, but the pool of potential champions is set to grow, and it won’t be long before a hammer from Myanmar is hammering at the front of the pack, putting the hurt on the cyclists getting hammered at the rear of the peloton.

***

This article was originally published in the July 22-28 edition of The Myanmar Times Weekend magazine.