I started off the year amid Italian style by witnessing my first man-purse in its native environment. That is, around a dude’s shoulder and placed securely by his hip. I was just so baffled that I had to snap this photo. This is in Sardinia at the first camp of the year.

How does one get to Sardinia? Some folks use modern technology and take the airplane, but those in the know take the motor-yachting ferry. I’m on a boat!

Won’t like, still have no idea what Vitamin Teddy C does. But given my middle name is Carrington, I’ve probably replied to someone calling me Teddy C at least once in my life. Apparently I’ve now been bottled in delicious capsule form, which stinks because I haven’t seen a single penny for this. (This is in an Italian grocery store, obviously.)

And now it’s time to get down to racing. Early in the season we kicked off some Giro di Sardegna. Yessir, back to the mythical isle of Sardinia.

The advantage of racing alongside the likes of Peter Sagan (dot com) is that he wins a lot of bike races. That generally quenches one’s longing for champers… or Prosecco if you race for an Italian team.

From one bottle to the next and from and one part of Italy to the next. This one is Tuscany in late February. The Tuscan grocery store sold StEEves Maples in their ethnic food section. Everything about this product made me happy.

And everything about this picture makes me happy too. Click, click, click, click… the sweet sound of metal cycling cleats on grocery store tile. Timmy and I are grocery shopping.

From Tuscany onto Tuscany. In particular I drove from camp in Tuscany to my Italian home of Lucca in Tuscany. Italian vistas provide very most excellent views.

Similarly, inside the Lucchesi walls there’s some excellent views to be had. This one in the Piazza dell’Anfiteatro.

About two towns away from Lucca is Collodi, the home of the author who once penned Pinocchio. More importantly, Collodi is the home to the world’s largest statue of Pinocchio. Titillating!

Speaking of big, THAT is one enormous piece of meat. There isn’t much scale to offer here, but the diameter on this pile of protein is at least a foot and a half.

Lucca at dusk. I’m going to say that this is about mid-March, if you care.

Rode my bike with some Americanos while in Lucca. Bjorn and Tejay lead the chase to the man with the massive fishing boots.

I green-thumbed a pretty righteous garden throughout the spring. It was a caprese salad just waiting to happen with basil and tomatoes as the centerpiece.

Following that bit of homespun agriculture, I arrived Belgium. And what do people think of when they think of Belgium? Yeah, this stuff. (Mind you, this photo is a Belgian airport, not a grocery store of bar.)

And when people aren’t thinking of beer when Belgium is on their minds, they’re likely thinking of flat, windy, farmlands. Perhaps something like this:

One advantage of professional bike racing is having mechanics to tend to all your needs. Saul, how’s my front end looking? Solid? Nice.

Tour of Flanders was my favorite of the super Belgian mega races. Paris-Roubaix was pretty wild too. Here Ben King chases a harried Ted King.

Jered Gruber is rumored to take good photos. I think he took this one. And if not, compliments to whoever did take it.

Following Paris-Roubaix, I returned stateside to prepare for the next round of bicycle racings. However even before that could happen, I made my way to Boston to see some friends and in doing so witnessed the Boston Marathon. This is somewhere in the latter section of the race when people are really suffering. As in… REAAAAALLY suffering. It was nearly as painful to watch as I’m sure it was to run.

Oddly enough I endured near summer-like weather in northern Belgium for the Classics, but then returned to New England to bask in late winter snow for the Milliman UV Epic ride of New Hampshire and Vermont. Here the diminished peloton slogs up the 23%, muddy incline (I took KOM honors on this climb, clearly. Soon after, I also took on a hot cocoa).

From New England, I set forth to CA to get ready for the Tour of California. Two weeks prior, in helping throw a birthday party with friends in Napa someone managed to snap this photo which truly shows that I rock the party that rocks the pinata.

Napa is obviously known for it’s wine and therefore picturesque vineyards. Here I am escaping that swarm of vehicles, workers, half drunk wine samplers, and other four wheeled beasts in order to seek out some quiet roads.

From Napa to Tahoe to acclimatize to racing at 7,000′, here I shared this hearty portion of raw fish wrapped in rice while up in Lake Tahoe. They apparently refer to this food stuff as Sushi.

More pre-ToCA bike practice, this time north of Tahoe at Donner’s Pass.

Here’s a day of riding around the lake with a good friend and teammate, Cameron Wurf. In this photo I’m playing with the camera’s settings and I’m highlighting his blues. Nice right sleeve Cam.

Team presentation, ToCA. I’m that handsome tall fellow in the middle waiting for Paul Sherwin to ask me about what it’s like being a handsome tall fellow.

Aaaaand of course all my hard work at altitude became moot when the snow cancelled the opening stage and a half.

Brad: “Ted, is that a neckgaiter?”
Me: “Yes it is Brad. This is called ironic foreshadowing. Wait until later in the year and you’ll see a much more stylish neckgaiter unleashed to the world.”

And instead of racing that first day, we rode the trainer in a parking garage at Squaw Valley.

Someone sent this photo of their computer screen. We won this stage with our speedster Peter Sagan. If you look really carefully at the screen, the computer shoes that I’m putting out a smoking million and a half watts.

California went swimmingly and from there I was off to Greenville, SC for the national championships. Aptly artistic chalk adorned the treacherous summit of Paris Mountain.

And then I was in a breakaway…

And then I didn’t win the race. I got 2nd loser. Cheers to that George!

Albeit blurry, I like this photo of my housemate for the majority of 2011, Tejay, and me exchanging a post race high five. Actually, more like a low or mid-five.

And that euphoria all came tumbling down when I went from national championships podium to the Philadelphia emergency room after cracking my shoulder in an unmarked crater on the race course. I later learned someone was attempting the hole to China. My loving parents made the trek to one of their first “big” races of my career only to accompany me to the hospital. Sheesh. Dad’s thumbs down brought a tear to my eye.

The only good news of such precipitous tragedies like broken bones is that I got to take my red socks to Maine. Vacationland is an apt state motto.

Beneath that sweet muscle shirt is the scar over the slab of metal holding my shoulder together. Maine gave me a chance to practice my sea legs. Here I am trimming the sheet on the high seas. Yaaargh! Ahoooooy!

Continuing the perpetual life on the road, it was also a good time to visit friends in Middlebury and go for a wicked awesome bike ride. If you find yourself in Middlebury, I recommend the Otter Creek Bakery. Regular mid-study-break jaunts to OC-Bakes were the best when I was once a college studying lad.

Around this time, my cousin practiced his artistry and drew this masterpiece. He’s on the top, clearly, because he is announcing that “I am not Ted King.” Meanwhile, festooned in appropriate attire, I’m at the bottom.

In unrelated news, I nearly was forced to bunnyhop this mythical prehistoric animal riding around New England. He snapped at me, so I took his photo.

I eventually made my way to the Naaawth Shaaaaw’ Wicked Not-Good-At-Golfing Tournament of Champions. Tim Johnson, left, practices his no sighted driving while growing a mustache, while Jeremy Powers tweets accordingly.

200 on 100 was a good way to make up for any lost base miles in this shoulder recovery. Hello Canada, I’ll be seeing Massachusetts soon!

Proper New England fuel for this quintessentially New England’y ride: 5lbs of Fluff and Fluffernutters.

Ta da! Arrival in Massachusetts. (And if you have 10 minutes, go spend them here.)

And if you have a heart and even an ounce of style, you can purchase this shirt which helps rebuild the flood ravaged and excellent state of Vermont.

From New England, Aspen seemed the best subsequent place to spend some time.

Some more Aspen. Actually here’s me on a mega ride scoping the roads from Aspen to Crested Butte.

A particular highlight of the USA Pro Cycling Challenge – or what should be called the Tour of Colorado – was my parents attending the race. Even a rainy, somewhat frigid day into Aspen with two trips over 12,000′ couldn’t quell my familial happiness seeing Mom and Dad being able to attend one of my races. You see, travel isn’t the easiest after Dad’s stroke, but they’re a mighty duo. Plus this made up for any poor showing at stupid Philly.

Next stop was up to Canada (eh?) and the duo of Quebec and Montreal. Known for my vicious sprint since I once upon a time won a sprint from about 800 meters out in a local New England spring classic many many (many) moons ago, I was selected to do the Sprint Challenge the day before Quebec.

With my road race season finishing up in mid-September, and with the itch to keep on racing given my bone healing mid-season absence, I dabbled in cyclocross. No big deal, but I got some UCI points in my first ever UCI race. I hear Sven Nys is nervous that I’m gunning for him at the World Championships this year. Anyway, here I am in the beer garden run-up at Gloucester. Don’t worry, I partook…

I went for a mega ride from New Hampshire to Portland, ME and then back home sometime this fall. It wasn’t quite a 200 on 100, but seven hours later, I was satisfied with my day. It also provided some nice New England photography.

The hard working people of Scratch Baking Co. That was the entire reason I went – for a bagel.

What better way to embrace the off season than with a bike trip to Chianti?! Here’s one of a million little Italian towns that date about a thousand years older than our mighty nation of America.

Here I am riding with my good friend and former teammate Joao. He put the F in FMT. Want some good food, wine, and maybe a bike ride or two? I’m serious: join FMT.

This fall marked the first ever Krempels King of the Road Challenge, my eponymous charity ride benefiting the Krempels Center. Timmy Duggan served as one of the keynote VIP riders so in this photo he and I are at a presentation to the Krempels Center explaining our exciting lives as bike racing bike racers to the media and members of the Krempels Center.

My best friend from youth, Matthew, took up bike riding four days before the KKotRC ride. He rode once, tapered for two days, then did the entire distance. The Cannondale shorts are nice, but better yet are the duct taped shoes. That just screams quality.

Ahh, good friends standing and good friends squatting semi-awkwardly after the Krempels King of the Road Challenge.

PATRIOTS game. Whoop! Thanks Matty T. They won, naturally.

And after all that, it finally was time to embrace the off season. So I bought a straw hat… aaaaand went to Hawaii. Not necessarily in that order.

Wow, Hawaii is nice.

The top of Mount Haleakala is mysteriously amazing. It offers the feeling comparable to being on the moon.

Hawaii to Mill Valley, just north of San Francisco. That there is called the Golden Gate Bridge. Side note: on a bet in 8th grade, my friend Jon and I did our science fair project on the subject of suspension bridges, and of course we showcased the GGB. Ironically we were the only group in the entire class who received an A.

The quickest swing through New England on record, coming in around 72 hours, included an off road Turkey Trot which I did not win. And better yet, Thanksgiving with an electric knife. Just like the Pilgrims used.

Meanwhile I made a Martha Stewart award winning pie. You simply cannot argue with height, and that meringue’y badboy is the better part of a foot.

Right back at it! Dominik (farthest), Timmy (stylish shades and hat), and I crammed into the back of the team car and were off to team meetings and camps in San Pellegrino and Sardinia. Rallying in the back of said car with three adults fitting into room presumably designed for two is less than awesome. Good thing we’re friends with each other or else that really would have sucked.

In between San Pellegrino and Sardinia, I actually managed to sneak back home to Lucca. Ho ho ho, Santa Clause is coming to town. This photo showcases the 750,000 people shopping in downtown Lucca as well as the Christmas lights. Very festive.

Sardinia: back to bike riding with 28 of my neon and blue clad best friends!

Also back to the proper Italian ways: (miniature) coffees and La Gazzetta dello Sport. Two peas hanging out in the same pod.

And from there back to my folks’ home sweet home. That can mean just one thing: thumb war with my dad. After three heated battles, it was a draw.

Perhaps even more exciting than thumb war, my return to America also marked the debut of the iamnotTedKing neckgaiter. With just a hint of irony, the iamnotTedKing neckgaiter is a versatile thing of beauty. If you don’t own one yet AND you don’t live in Hawaii or southern California/Arizona/Florida, well by golly you’re wasting your own time.

I think it’s more than just convenient circumstance that camp ends two days before Christmas… I think it’s so that we can be home FOR Christmas. That would make sense. So this photo is at our festive Christmas dinner. I have a Christmas sweater, an ever-growing white person’s afro, and a loving family. All three of which are excellent. Ho ho ho!

You see this? That’s snow on the road in a photo taken the day after Christmas. I love snow and I love being in my home state of New Hampshire and I love winter and I love bike riding. I just don’t necessarily love doing all of those things at the same time.

So where am I now? Sunny Santa Barbara of course. Mid-January of 2012 marks the start of my race season and it’s time to ramp up the training. New England is quaint and amazing and all, but late December isn’t the nicest in the weather department. In related news, much like the next cyclist, I love a good Chipotle buttiro. But now that I have bona fide Mexican food right at outside my door, this el pastor burrito is a billion times more authentic and just about as big.

And lastly, I brought in the new year with a dinner at a local seafood joint. I shared a “Two Tiered Seafood Tower” which was like whoa. It included sea urchin. I’m fairly certain we can agree that new years isn’t new years without a proper, raw sea urchin.

Pretty much sums it up in random photographic excellence. Over and out.

Maybe the health concerns are the reason it’s no longer in obvious existence, but if this brings back great childhood memories of yours, then by all means, join the petition to BRINGITONBACK.

(For those of you still perplexed with this talk of 1-2-3 Jello, it was almost like standard Jello except that after putting it into the fridge for a few chemically enhanced hours, out comes three layers of Bill Cosby’s favorite jiggly treat.)

Next, I think it was my friend Darby who introduced me to the less artificially altered, savory three-layer alternative to Jello: three layer cornbread. For my reading audience unaware of this creation, if you have even the slightest taste for cornbread – and I seriously mean even if you say in the most lackluster, unenthused tone ever, “Umm, yeah I guess cornbread is okay” – I truly recommend making a batch of this immediately! Recipe HERE. A delicious accompaniment with virtually any dinner entree, one secret I discovered is to nuke it in the microwave, drizzle a bit of molasses on top, and call it dessert. The custardy bottom bit is divine.

To summarize the preceding paragraph, this is cornbread in three distinct layers.

Teddy, where the crap are you going with this post? A great question…

What brings this blog installment together is my three layer arm tan. Instead of happening over the course of a few hours in the refrigerator or 50 minutes in the oven, this takes place over the entire course of a cycling season. But my three layer arm tan is already sprouting wings and taking flight. With superb weather finally upon us, my arms are beginning to exhibit yet another three layer phenomenon… which actually is no phenomenon at all. You have the following:

1. Race Jersey – where the jersey sleeves fit flush and lengthy down one’s biceps. Lots of time spent with jersey in this length, generally with a number pinned on one’s back.
2. Training Jersey – for me, I roll them up or fold them over. Others cut their sleeves or let them flap in the wind. Either way, this gives a lighter tan alternative to what lies below the Race Jersey. It also gives a nice pink toasty burn the first big day in the sun.
3. The Farmer – this is the part of the arm that is virtually always covered by both the Race the the Training Jerseys. Skin is virgin, pasty, and white.

And with that exceedingly random post (except that I further enhanced my three layer tan… and now have another hankerin’ for Handisnacks and Jello), I need to pack my bags and go to Paris-Roubaix now. I bid you adieu.

As you can see here, a certain noteworthy bike race will come streaking through my European home town in a short while. Paris-Nice, you ask? Nope, I most certainly do not live in France. That would be altogether too French for me – with all due respect to the French. Rather, Tirreno-Adriatico will literally race directly by my front door.

Obviously the woman riding in front of me here is ecstatic with this news as exhibited by her bright clothing and her cycling specific neckwear exuberantly giddily cast over her head.

Meanwhile, it is with a great deal of pleasure that I report my knee is on the mend as I’m riding my bike again with regularity, although it’s not yet full-gas training yet given my therapist’s restrictions. I’m still timid on my knee so as to feel out what it can and cannot yet withstand. I’m about three weeks off from my next race and will give it adequate time to be awesome again. Go knee!

In other news, the KoS was rumored to be on the prowl when I went for a round of bicycle practice earlier this week. It was a pleasantly cool easy day, noodling around town when I was approached on two wheels by a kindly British gentleman named Alan, seen here. Alan proceded to ask me a few question in fluent Italian, which I perfectly understood, but replied in a thick, proud New England accent, “Io sono Americano!”

We chatted a bit longer, but the entire time both the KoS and I were taken aback by a certain distinguishing feature of Alan’s attire. Can we please look at the photo above again and take a guess as to what I am referring…? Yes, obviously his stunning DOUBLE-CAP-TECHNIQUE.

More than anything I suppose I was entertained by it all. Sure, it was chilly this morning, but certain aspects about the double headwear seem counterintuitive. For example, if it’s cold, then why not simply wear one thicker hat? Or if it’s that cold, wouldn’t one be more concerned with keeping one’s ears warm? Or, this being Italy, wouldn’t one be wearing the cycling rife neckgaiter for risk of the elusively Italian near-50-degree-facial-frostbite?

Yes, all prudent questions. But the KoS applauded Alan’s doolie cap technique for no other reason than it’s unique. And individuality in this sport is rare and (usually) awesome.

Lastly, I’m pleased to report that my tomato plants are more than three inches tall and the basil is knee high to a grasshopper. Literally. We’ll be having caprese salads in no time!

The number of comments in my last KoS blog dwarfed anything I’ve ever written before. Every single comment except one was positive, so I recognize that this topic of style is one that elicits some serious debate. Despite this sole comment of dispute, I have to assume that there are a few more readers out there who don’t agree with my style thoughts as well. And despite the fact that I am correct with all things style related, I think it is (nearly) needless to say that KoS deserves a follow up. So without further ado, let’s jump headlong into it.

Look, the best summary to these rules is simply to Do-unto-others. No one wants to be visually assaulted by horrendous style, since this sort of cacophony of panache stands out like an 8-speed cassette in a 10-speed drivetrain. For gosh darn sakes, we see you! It’s a public sport; you train, race, and put out your vibe at coffee shops in a very public manner. Social Darwinism is a remarkably strong factor in day to day life, and when you look like an idiot, we all recognize it and we will ridicule you. Geezum crow, even people who aren’t cyclists recognize it.

Thus, simply doing-unto-others is a common courtesy so that we’re all not ashamed to be classified in the same category: cyclist. We’re all ambassadors to the sport, and everything we can do to promote the sport is a step in the right direction. After all, progressing the great sport of cycling is WTF-good.

Well that’s sad. When I added a new lesson to the previous post, I lost all my comments. I had an all-time high with 18 comments overnight – all of them in support of my style points. Feel free to comment. A lot.

I am appointing myself the King of Style for the time being. I have a handful of credentials to back this up – the first of which being that my last name is King. Additionally, I have a keen eye for all things stylish; with that comes the discerning ability to notice as what is glaringly unstylish. I’ve ridden bikes for a handful of years, which furthers my street cred. Moreover, I have a degree in economics.

I will also preface this little diatribe by emphatically stating that this is MY blog. See that part up at the top that says “Ted King.” Yup, well I am him (or “I am HE,” to be grammatically correct). As a result, if you support me, then proudly say so and your comments will be published for all the world to see. If, however, your opinion is against what I have to say below, then frankly I don’t really care to hear your feedback. Unfair? Yeah, probably is, this is called a blog and I am dictator of this blog. Don’t like it? Start you own. (They’re free – Google “free blog” and you’ll probably find a billion responses).

Lesson 1.

When you’re riding your bike, your helmet belongs on your head. Buckled to your handlebars? Umm, nope. Actually, there shouldn’t be a “Umm” involved in that previous answer. This is an emphatic NO. I saw a guy descending on his mountain bike two days ago with his helmet safely secured to his handlebars. I couldn’t read his jersey’s team name as he wizzed by, but I think it said, “Team Moron.”

Ancillary to that is that your helmet shouldn’t be put on your head and left unbuckled. Stylishly, you just look like an idiot with the straps flapping in the wind.

Lesson 2.

You’re a track cyclists or a triathlete? That’s outstanding and I encourage you to keep sporting those short socks. For any other circumstance, however, nothing less than medium-to-tall socks will do. Short socks is one of the biggest ways to lose integrity as an aspiring cool cyclist, so take note.

Lesson 3.

As self proclaimed dictator of this blog, I can say whatever I want. More importantly, I can do whatever I want. The most quintessential example of this is today’s choice of attire. There was a bit of a chill whilst out on today’s ride, so various warmers and covers were necessary… most notably, white leg warmers with white shoe covers. White (helmet) on white (glasses) on white (jersey) on white (bibs) on white (leg warmers) on white (shoe covers), baby!

If you can’t handle THIS heat, then get out of the kitchen.

That’s how I roll.

Here’s a little side note before I amend a 4th lesson of style:

I love, LOVE, the fact that someone has googled “bowlcut” and somehow ended up on iamtedking.com. (As I’ve pointed out a handful of times in the past, I can see the search terms people use to land themselves on my blog. Bowlcut is a new high.) I trust it has to do with yesterday’s Tweet that read, “I don’t mean to judge, but Balloon-Boy’s dad has a bowl cut. I’m not calling him a liar, but it is nearly 2010.”

I digress.

Lesson 4.

Wear whatever you want. Do whatever you want. Being independent and pretending to not care about style is as instrumental to being a style whore as exclusively using white handlebar tape. That being said, not waving to other cyclists is not just plain rude, but you leave the other guy (or gal) hanging and as a result, you leave him looking like a friendless turd for initiating a wave and not receiving requisite reciprocity.

Now THIS guy has style.

Look, we’re all in this big bike game together. You ride a bike. I ride a bike. The next guy (ahem, or gal) reading this rides a bike. So there’s no reason to avoid the obligatory wave – or at the very least offer up a head nod. I fear that our egos have gotten the better of us so that we simply C.B.F.’ed to lift a hand for the universal “Hello.” Moreover, aren’t cyclists such weenies about diet and losing weight and counting calories and all that crap, that lifting your hand serves as some sort of extra exertion, and therefore will burn more calories? Dare I say yes. Ride in a really cycling-popular area, be sure to use both hand to wave, and you’ll be 5lb lighter in no time!

Did I ride my bike the other day and not get waved at? Obviously yes.

Okay, here is yet another amendment. But once again I will add an aside beforehand: to the person who Google searched “awesomeness bad ass mother f*@$er Ted King” …well done. You arrived at www.iamtedking.missingsaddle.com and you’re happy to be there.

Lesson 5.

With some exceptions* skidding is stylish. Pull this off casually and with minimal wear to the tire by “unweighting” the wheel you are skidding and you’ll be the envy of your bike-dork-club. Front wheel skids are the epitome of style, but are extraordinarily dangerous. I emphatically DO NOT recommend trying front wheel skids until you can classify yourself as a S-M-F… or Skid Master Flash.

* Exceptions to this rule include:

-if you have not followed rules 1-4. If you fail any of these style rules, then pulling a skid will result in you looking like a Fred.
-you can RARELY get away with skidding in races. For safety sake, I recommend avoiding race-situation skids.
-skidding that results in someone getting hurt is not cool at all. They say chicks dig scars. They don’t dig blood oozing from your body though.

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