So scoping that Strava file, above, the super-nerd observer will notice that at 5:40:20 we stopped entirely with still 800 or so meters to the finish line. That’s cause while ripping down the Albulapass and into the very fine city of La Punt, we had to stop for a train. So I may have finished __:__ behind the winner, but we were surely going to finish up a solid minute or even two minutes faster were it not for these Swiss trains and its militaristic precision.

Meanwhile, you might also note that in the first hour and a half — while tackling a category 3 climb amid the relentless attacks — we are still averaging 48kph. Which is very fast my friends, and the sign of a tough day ahead, with still a category 1, a nasty little cat 4, and directly into a beastly HC.

Back in ought-ten, we had a camp atop Bernina Pass at this gem of an albergo. T’was delightful, provided you want to train hard, eat in a relative monk-ish fashion, and have little to no entertainment. The views were fantastic and as I just mentioned the training was superb. It looked something like this back in the day, so now three years later it probably looks the same, but with more global warming and therefore less snow. (sigh)

And on that note, Tour of Suisse is a race known for late starts (2pm’ish every day) and therefore late finishes. We just wrapped up dinner here at 11pm and I’m sleepy. Translation: g’night.

Amid all the bad news in the world, here’s a breath of fresh air: this very exciting news from the Associated Press came out. And before I receive any snark about New Hampshire maple syrup differentiated from Canadian maple syrup being inferior to Vermont maple syrup as compared to New York maple syrup… just stop. It came from a tree. And it has one single ingredient, as opposed to three types of corn syrup, (un)natural coloring and flavors. And best yet, it’s frigging delicious.

Next, I went for a bike ride somewhere in and around Switzerland yesterday. I even got to pin a number on my back and ride with like 180 of my friends. It was really neat.

In particular, four guys rode away from our group. We will call them the “breakaway”. Then the rest of us got lonely and Peter wanted to ride fast at the finish, so I was kindly requested to ride at the front of our group, which we will call the “peloton”, in order to retrieve those four fearless breakaway riders. So I spent about four hours at the front of this pack and eventually with a lot of hard work, we caught them. Then Peter sprinted really hard, but unfortunately came second place behind a nice guy named Alexander Kristoff. Then we went to our hotel and I was tired so I got horizontal and rested.

In other fine news of the day, my Canadian teammate and all around good guy, Guillaume Boivin, sprinted to an impressive victory at the Tour de Beauce AND in doing so took the leader’s jersey! I’m stoked for him for a variety of reasons. But not least of which is that I talked to him afterwards and he won a liter (…or litre as they spell it north of yee border) and a half of maple syrup. That’s simply outstanding.

Here’s the nutshell visual summary of the TK Tour of the Homeland:

It included an all too typically brief swing through my favorite home state of New Hampshire, then onto Colorado for two weeks of glorious altitude/friends/family/focus/…and just a little bit of Kim and Jake’s Glacier ice cream to maintain sanity and adequate blood sugar before setting off to California and the Tour of aforementioned state. A week of racing, my best Tour of California to date, and two stage wins later I then stuck around NorCal for a few more days since I had the hospitably from amazing friends happily putting me up. How do I know they were happy to host? Because upon arrival, this massive and culinarily eclectic gift basket awaited me, full of both my obvious and more obscure favorites. Sure sure, everyone likes corn salsa plus Quinoa & Black Bean Tortilla Chips, but only a few people know that I like garlic pickles, canned salmon (…don’t hate it until you’ve tried it. You eat canned tuna, right? Wild Alaskan salmon is delish, healthier, more omega-3s, less mercury, and is clearly twice as interesting), and roasted honey sesame almonds among other treats.

As if that basket wasn’t enough — and let’s be honest, it has avocados and organic black beans so it’s clearly plenty — I also had the distinct privilege to dine at The French Laundry. I’ve found it difficult to put this meal to words when describing it ex post facto. So I won’t even bother doing it here now, besides saying it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience and simply ethereal.

One week later and a new venue for the USPro championships found me in Chattanooga, TN. I’ve spent more than my share of time in the majority of very cool American cities and towns and am happy to report that I adore Chattanooga. I’ve swung through during a 2006 Priority Health training camp — coincidentally, the same time and place when I started this here website — I loved it then, and the town has only improved the past half dozen years. It’s a very forward thinking city with fiber optic cable intertwined all throughout town, has a collection of superb restaurants and pubs, is environmentally conscious, is drawing some major corporate players to town as exhibited by the new VW plant, plus it has southern manners and charm in spades.

All that plus a beautiful skyline… which would mean even more if you’ve spent time here. And if not, there exist trio of parallel bridges in town and this is the central of the three that is a converted rail bridge-turned-pedestrian and bicycle lane. Then you can see the sharp angles of the aquarium and then the minor league baseball park to the right. I’m sure my views are slightly skewed with the more mild than average temperatures this late spring weekend. If I was suffering through stifling heat, I might have more colorful words to describe ChattanooOOooOOoooga (oh, plus it’s fun to spell). But as is, I loved it.

Oh, plus there was a bike race. Actually four of them! I didn’t bother racing the women’s time trial, nor women’s road race, neither did I participate in the men’s time trial. But the men’s road race throughout downtown Chattanooga, then up and over Lookout Mountain four times made for a nice afternoon of bicycle racing. I won’t delve into race analysis here, mostly cause I don’t want to. I made the front group that was sprinting for the win. At 17 riders, it was bigger than one might have expected. But this being a national championship race on a brand new course, it’s truly anyone’s guess how it will ultimately unfold. If I had to characterize how the race went into a single word, I’d call it selfish. Again, that’s the nature of national championship racing. And my absolute hat’s off to Alex Hagman. Freddie Rodriguez too, since he won the race, but Alex rode an exceptionally un-selfish race and allowed Fred to take advantage of that opportunity. I hope he bought you a bottle of vino. Or Tennessee whiskey or Dr. Pepper or whatever.

A further thank you goes out to all the fans, the chalk-on-road drawers, the bakers, the feed zone personnel, the mechanics, the friends, the staff, and sponsors who made this event a success. I offer you a heartfelt thank you.

A professional cyclist’s life is some nebulous amalgamation of business and pleasure. (Well, that is assuming said cyclist is not so jaded and far removed from reality that (s)he still enjoy riding a bike. I love riding my bike — as I say, when it’s good, it’s great.) So with the Tour of California and nationals done and dusted and therefore the business end of my trip out of the way, it was time to soak up the last few days in Americana. So from Chattanooga, I was off to Boston’s Ride Studio for the Burrito’s Not Bombs — the Tim Johnson Ride on Washington Reunion and (ahem) better yet, the world freakin’ premier of the 200 Not On 100! You know that there is nothing but good things are in store when Ryan Kelly is signing autographs…

…there’s an Airstream sized/shaped burrito fake driven by the three amigos…

…and Allagash tastily supporting the event for our thirsty friends as well as Richard Fries emceeing the event.

For serious now, if you haven’t seen it, pop a seat and watch it now. Cause she’s a beaut.

And besides ardent procrastination of packing for my mid-season return to Europe, what better way does one wring the full extent of fun out of a trip like this? Naturally, slay the Green Mountains in a mega training day.

This photo below does about one-tenth the justice to the absurd 18% wall we’re climbing in sopping dirt. You’ll find this gem of a road (or slip and slide mud course) around km 80, if you feel like retracing my tracks.

It was right around hour four that we saw a place literally called, “Mom and Pops Maple Sugar Shed”. We first rode by it, but then better judgement set in and we quickly flipped a U-ie. So wonderfully hokey and so maple sugary sweet. One ingredient here folks, maple syrup. Corn Syrup Association of America be damned!

Here’s what $4 buys you: a palm sized, maple syrup’y trip atop Brandon Gap.

And now that you’re up to speed I’m now terribly jet lagged. I’m sleepy. My head aches a little bit and my feet hurt a little bit more. I’ll therefore leave you with a modeling shot inside the Boloco burrito Airstream. Ted, Tim, and Ryan spewing style.

Thanks for reading. If you made it this far, I encourage you to go to Boloco and buy yourself a recovery burrito. And an Allagash Curieux.

Paris-Roubaix sees its first set of cobbles about twenty meters into the race. But I’ll call this “Sector Zero” since twenty meters from the start line is actually still in the neutral, parade roll out and therefore doesn’t actually count.

The first real set of cobbles arrives just shy of two hours of racing when the odometer clicks past 98km. That means we are trucking along at a good clip those opening 120 minutes – roughly 50kph or a hair over 30mph.

Almost exactly one-fifth of the 256km race bounces along on these defining Paris-Roubaix cobblestones. With 27 sectors totaling 52km, they run the range from perfectly acceptable, where you’re gliding along at a nice 49′ish kph pace with a low ranking on the arbitrary 1-10 Perceived Rate of Exertion scale, to mind numbingly frustrating, at which point your brain is spinning where-the-crap-is-my-rhythm, I’m-spewing-out-500-plus-watts-and-I’m-going-12-kph?! …frick.

The irony isn’t lost on me that this hitherto dank 2013 season – the season where winter won’t release its stranglehold on savagely cold temperatures in addition to copious snow, sleet, and hail – featured arguably the nicest day of European bike racing weather all year during yesterday’s Paris-Roubaix. A race renowned for notoriously nutty conditions only exacerbated when the weather turns inclement. The only “weather” we had to deal with on this particular Sunday was swirling, blinding, and suffocating dust. Correction: I saw a puddle at least once and two unfortunate dudes caked head to toe in mud, so they clearly found either that one or another errant puddle.

The pace today was stiff from the get-go. That’s to be expected since there are probably 120 guys with either general or explicit orders to get themselves into the breakaway. Teams with big aspirations around the business end of the day want to have cards to play, while smaller teams know that they won’t factor into the race when the front of the peloton reaches Roubaix’s Velodrome and therefore seek invaluable television exposure. Guillaume Boivin, my Canadian teammate did some fine work to get himself into an early group of fifteen riders. That looked to be the successful breakaway of the day, quickly gaining nearly a minute, only to be yanked back by a pair of hard charging French teams unhappy not to be represented in the break.

In turn, I then jumped into one promising move which was soon after reeled in. I then intrepidly set out alone, was then joined by three other guys jumping as far away as maybe ten or twelve fruitless seconds. Time to rest up and get ready for the rapidly approaching first set of cobbles.

Let’s step aside to reflect how my mind spins; I spent a good chunk of the day wondering what would be the single worst place in Paris-Roubaix to get a flat tire. Maybe with 500 meters to go if you’re about to unleash your ferocious sprint in a two-up battle for the win? Or is it somewhere in the final three cobble sectors, again if you find yourself in a small group vying for victory? Perhaps. Another particularly terrible place to suffer a flat is 100 meters into the first cobbled sector. Pavé secteur Troisvilles à Inchy. Sector number 27 and 98.6km into the race with an ample 157.4km to go. Is it the worst? I don’t know. Probably not.

I happen to know from firsthand experience yesterday that that particular place is remarkably inopportune.

Back to the action. So I was just caught from my stabs at the breakaway and the pace has recently shifted from fast to faster-nervous-and-hectic as we approach the first section of cobbles. I fought hard to be in crucially good position, we then entered the cobbles, and it only took a few seconds before I felt the telltale bone jarring rim-on-pavé sensation rather than the considerably more plush, inflated-tire-on-pavé sensation. In a word, it just feels hollow. It’s deafeningly loud already, but the unforgettable echo of carbon pounding on stone screams louder than the thunderous crowd. We fetched caravan car position 21, which means a tediously sloooowwwwww wheel change will follow.

In my three editions of Paris-Roubaix, 2011, ’12, and ’13, I’ve had three flat tires, which is probably about par for the course, heck maybe even better than average. Last year I flatted a few sectors after Arenberg. You may remember that without any support behind my group, that earned me some luscious Easter chocolate, a thermos cup of coffee, and three generations of friends. Then coincidentally in my first and third editions I suffered flat tires both times on sector number one. I’m considering in next year’s race, I’ll scout for a shortcut to avoid this sector… or for the sake of keeping within the rules, just avoid the sharp rocks.

At this point in the race, there are about twenty people behind me and 170 or so ahead of me. Crud. Time to play a serious game of catch up.

A furious and dust blinded chase ensues after my front wheel change. There are plenty of people who start Paris-Roubaix exclusively to go full bore to sector one, then pull the parachute and clog the already congested roads, looking for a team car to take the considerably easier route to Roubaix. Others are woe like me plagued by flat tires and other mechanicals. I’m therefore left to deftly negotiate this human shrapnel, cars, drunk-by-noon Flemish, French, impressively well traveled American, and plenty of other cycling fans on roads no wider than a single car.

You’ve possibly noticed that so far this above column has a lot of numbers and here are a few more: four, seven, forty-six. As in April 7th, 1946. Dad’s birthday. Yesterday was the 111th edition of Paris-Roubaix and Dad’s 67th birthday. My parents have always been stalwart supporters of my cycling career and while I’m not sure if the phrase has ever actually been uttered by Ted King the senior, I occasionally think “Papa didn’t raise a quitter”. Whereas two years ago when I got a flat in sector one, I soon rejoined the peloton thanks to an aggressive chase on my part and a conveniently timed nature break on the peloton’s part. This year after my flat, an infuriating hour long chase among a small group of riders with the peloton always painfully in sight, before realization that it was not to be.

From there, you’re presented with a Yogi Berra-like fork in the road. There are a pair of feedzones in the race lined with the luxurious comfort of supporting team cars, snacks, and a means to a piping hot shower awaiting you at the finish. Or you can keep going. Our groupetto’s population ebbed and flowed between ten and thirty guys as we picked up and lost riders. Some just entirely sapped of energy to continue (mind you, I did 310 watts for six and a half hours. That takes its toll to the tune of 7,300 calories), others suffer flats without team support behind just as I did last year. While others understandably just crave the comfort of the car. But Papa didn’t raise no quitter, so especially with Luke Rowe, Luke Durbridge, Jetse Bol, and Russ Downing we made it to the finish line.

So a very happy birthday Dad. And Paris-Roubaix, you’re an awesome beast and I love you.

Oh… wait a tic. Oops, yup that’s right, Paris-Roubaix is Sunday. Okay well then, I’ll head up to le France and bang out another cobbled classic in a week, but my point still remains that finishing Tour of Flanders yesterday wraps up two exemplary weeks for Cannondale Pro Cycling in Belgium.

In the meantime before Sunday’s menacingly nicknamed Hell of the North I’ll rest up with ample siestas and enjoy this quick week at home in tranquillo Catalunya. For a quick run-down, over these past two weeks in chronological orders, Peter nabbed 2nd at the race with the coolest, most robotic name since the Ster-ElectroToer, that is E3/Harelbeke on Friday. He then took the win two days later in the ragingly fast, kermess-like, wind-torn, weather shortened Gent-Wevelgem. Carrying solid momentum we won stage one of the ZreeeDaaasgeofDePa(i)n… naturally with Peter. Elia Viviani had a solid 2nd place on stage two an then he rounded out the podium on stage 3a. We decided that riding “easy” in the final time trial would be prudent with the gem of the entire week, the Ronde Van Vlaanderen taking place just about 60 hours later on Sunday, so no podium on De Panne’s stage 3b. Easter Sunday, just yesterday, was RVV and Peter came up one step short of the win. Obviously Peter is a prodigious young talent and will have his day on the top step, but we are a hard working team and are still pleased with the hard work throughout this chunk of time.

I’m also pleased with this picture from BrakeThrough Media. See that fellow in the green? That’s me rolling to the start, whistling a lively tune, amid the 80,000 person masses in Brugge. The energy at Flanders is just mesmerizing.

And if the above information and rad picture were too much to handle, I’ve created a nifty chart. It has both color and images, but it’s neither color coordinated nor in any way congruent.

My oh my, now that’s a nice chart!

Here are even more interesting numerical tidbits from the week:

29F = Estimated average temperature for our entire stay in Kortrijk. This is spring, right?
2 = Number of Trappist Westvleteren 12s that I acquired during my stay, through means I won’t explain here. But I will say a sincere thank you Dave.
10 out of 10 = my stoke factor for the above acquisition. Remember, these beers are perfect, 100 out of 100.
3 = Number of times in two weeks that I nipped from the secretly delivered maple syrup. My Sunday’s RVV was certainly helped fueled by nature’s mapley goodness. Thank you Dave, Rory, and flannel clad maple sugaring man who produced this sweet prize.
7,300 = kJs burned on Sunday’s race.
1 = # of hours of sleep that we were robbed the night before the race, because Europe does their daylight savings the inconvenient evening before RVV. This is particularly painful when we have to wake up when the clock reads 6:30am… so it feels like a 5:30 wake up.
10 = lbs of exquisite Belgian dark chocolate shaped into an Easter egg that Peter won at Wevelgem. It may have been more than one meter tall, it may have shattered in transit back to the hotel that evening, and we maaaaaay have wrapped up the evening of Flanders with what I’ll call “recovery chocolate”.

I will also add that the mysterious Kermit the Frog green Cannondale, photos of which you have have seen circling the internet, on which we have been perched the past two weeks, have been outstanding and serving us exceptionally well. More details, you ask? TBD. Patience, young Grasshopper(s).

And lastly, I snapped one final photo just before leaving Belgium that I needed to share with you. It’s a rare picture of the native Flemish Speculoos in it’s natural habitat. Moreover, it’s the even rarer sighting of the pair – yellow and red. Extremely elegant as they stand there, I dare say.

None of this knock off TJ’s “Cookie Butter” which just sounds misplaced, artificial, and wrong.

As soon as a stage finishes, we’re quickly trying to escape the barrage of people pouncing on us for a bidon (that is, in France, they want a bidon, in Italy it’s boracha, in Belgium… well I guess they ask for bottles since they dabble in English there). With all due respect, we’re seeing cross-eyed after the day’s effort so smiling for cameras and being picked apart like indefensible meat from vultures to satisfy someone’s appetite free cycling swag doesn’t rate highly on our to-do list. Sorry to be crass. We’re tired.

Onto the bus and usually you’ll either chug a recovery shake or jump right into the shower, depending on if there’s a line. Some folks make their drink mix with soy milk or regular “white gold” from a tried and true cow udder, but I opt for water since I do a whey based protein recovery drink. It’s delicious, and especially sates my wary muscles.

A shower is a magical thing coming so quickly on the heals of a hard effort. To rinse the road grime off your wary body, out of your ears and eyes and nose is euphoric. Shower: done.

Soon the bus is rolling and we’re sorting our day’s laundry into bags. Soigneurs are a wonderful asset and will have these bags whisked away and into the laundry in no-time-flat upon arrival at the hotel. Their ability to remove a lot of the mindless chores that would otherwise take away from our time is invaluable. Thank you swannies! That goes on their laundry list (yes, pun intended) of things to do to pamper us as much as possible throughout the day/week(s).

There’s usually  (…hopefully) a bowl of some type of carbohydrate rich food waiting for us as the bus rolls towards the evening’s hotel. This being an Italian centric team, you can safely guess pasta will be available. Olive oil and salt make for great accompaniment. Thankfully they’ve been mixing it up this week, so potatoes and rice are also occasional options. We even had some rice intermixed with corn, peas, plus diced ham and cheese one day. T’was delightful if for nothing else than the variety.

The fridge has yogurt, all the water you could ever want, Coke, Fanta, and, well that’s it. Oh, one day I saw some iced tea. Actually there’s usually a quarter wheel of Parmesan cheese but taking a bite of that doesn’t sounds terribly appetizing. Fruit is usually bouncing around somewhere too.

Here’s a shot taken from the back of the bus, looking forward out the front window which captures a lot. You can see a teammate gnoshing a plate of food, we’re watching the end of Tirreno-Adriatico on TV, and we’re stuck in the maze of traffic as the exodus of cars winds out of the city center. Dirty laundry, towels, and anything else that looks misplaced is on account of us being treated like babies and the soigneurs will soon clean up after our mess. Have I said thank you yet? Grazie mille rigazzi!

Upon arrival, we’re immediately given our room assignments, by, you guessed it, a soigneur patiently waiting for us. I’ve been rooming with Argentinian awesome guy, Sebastian Haedo, new to the team this year. He’s always happy, forever smiling, and brings some good vibes to our room. Suitcases are waiting in each room – again, thanks to the swannies – and we’re given a massage right away or are second (or third) in line for a good rub. There’s an order of operations what pros prefer: massage, stretching, or a visit from the chiro. Massage is always available, stretching you can obviously do on your solo, and a chiro is occasionally available. I’m a massage-first kind of guy, with stretching and the super visit from a chiro in a dead heat. Unless there’s something clearly not right with my body, perhaps after a recent visit with the pavement. Then I’ll feel well tweaked and a good chiro session is in order.

There’s a food room belonging to one of the sougneurs. I can surely guess with about 98% accuracy which team is which based just on their food room. And surely with 100% accuracy the national origin of the team. Abundant (or absent) peanut butters, maple syrup, certain cereals, are all giveaways. The importance (ergo, cost) of olive oil is a serious indicator. And speculoos means the team is has a generous swanny or else the director hasn’t recently visited the food room to confiscate  (read: eat) it.

If I have any energy whatsoever, I’ll do some stretching and then it’s off to dinner, typically at 8pm. I’m not kidding about that; staying in bed often sounds luxurious as compared to standing up and stretching for three minutes.

Back to the room right around internet o’clock. Write a blog about recovery, go pass out for the evening because breakfast is at 8am.

And before I bid you farewell, I will note that I could talk about breakfast at length, but it’s now 10:07 and I’m amply exhausted. I did want to include a picture of breakfast though, because to this day, I still find it fascinating. Pasta for breakfast:

Some folks can do it, but I fervently try to avoid it. Which is why you see an empty bowl of oatmeal, previously occupied by oatmeal, yogurt, a banana, a few nuts, a spoonful of rice, and some raisins in the foreground. Yes that is mine and yes, that’s my Starbucks cup and empty Starbucks Via. Who else would I happily pay $1 for a cup of delicious, instant coffee? Funny enough, I would pay a lot of people that kind of money for such a product! But currently only Starbucks is pulling it off. Any other takers out there in the coffee world, I would pay you 10% over Starbucks to make a similar product! In the meantime, thanks SBUX. And the aforementioned main point of this photo: a heaping plate of pasta, olive oil, and a few scoops of Philadelphia cream cheese for my teammate, right. Breakfast!

I’m beat. See you tomorrow.

I hit the road two days ago and will be a nomadic cyclist for, umm… a while. Fresh back from the first training camp for the 2013 season in Tuscany in mid-December, I embraced a scenic, white Christmas in New Hampshire before jetting out to the bay area of California. I’ll set up shop here for not quite a week, then come early January I’ll spend nearly ten days in sunny SoCal, complete with a bold and brash team presentation for the new Cannondale Pro Cycling, followed by travels to Argentina where I’ll have my second go at the Tour of San Luis, and then onto Europe for my spring campaign which runs through Paris-Roubaix. No moss grows under my feet, which is a weird expression, although I suppose it’s literally true so I’ll go with it.

Home sweet home for the holidays was exactly that. In recent years I can be found returning stateside from team camps about 48 hours before Christmas, which is a surefire way to be unjolly and brimming with stress. So it was a peaceful alternative when we were wheels down in Boston a full 10 days prior to Christmas, and it was merely three hours later that I donned my most festive yuletide apparel and was off to the first Christmas party of the season.

“Ho Ho Ho” indeed.

Mind you, that vest is reversible to a plaid green and white which is twice as amazing as it sounds.

A few other holiday parties filled my time home, in addition of course to riding my bike a’plenty. In two weeks home I was on the trainer a mere trio of days and the rest was a mix of neoprene, Gore-Tex, and sweet fenders. The trip home also provided a mirthful Christmas at my aunt and uncle’s house in Portland, ME. At every family holiday gathering, aunt Betsy provides some table-side party favors that are highly entertaining and in all likelihood made in China. My earphone-earmuffs were a hit this year, but the real crowning jewel to the dinner festivities were Dad’s stick-on mustaches which he generously shared with his two boys.

Goodness, if we three Kings don’t look regal and distinguished then I don’t think anyone does!

From there it was onto Wednesday and with just 364 days until next Christmas I had a smashing day on the bike. That was followed by a delicious home-smoked dinner of salmon and pork ribs, and while I can’t make the direct connection and I’m vehemently not pointing fingers at anyone involved, I then had a very unsavory 12 hour bout of food poisoning. Thank the good Lord I recovered miraculously because the next day, Thursday, was Mom’s birthday. And for goodness sake, if I’m going to be on the road as much as I am, I sure as shootin’ better be a good son and be home for Mom’s birthday. So I was.

When it’s written in cursive and in chocolate, you know it’s sincere! Even if they forget to cross the “t” and dot the “i”.

(Another sign of sincerity is when your two sons take you to one of New England’s finest eateries, Arrows Restaurant. You’re the BEST Mom! I love you and happy happy birthday… again.)

Yet another high point in this snowy time home was trying to remove my car from the driveway. A mere 4 inches of snow fell one day, but then it was topped by a crusty layer of rain and ice. My new snow tires didn’t stand a chance to such treacherous conditions. In an hour of shoveling, pushing, and tractor pulling (no lie), we finally got my car out of our 1% gradient and 100 foot long driveway. (That awesome noise you hear is the tractor idling in the background, waiting to give her snow-chained all.)

There is, of course, this YouTube masterpiece which is precisely what I was trying to avoid. Which we did, thankfully.

Well, life on the road continues and while I should wrap up this post right now, I’ll just say that from time to time I like to jump into my Way-way-back-machine and reminisce the days of yore. There’s this, for example – I decided that after having what feels like lived out of a suitcase for a few years, despite having apartments in various countries throughout my career, it was time to decorate my plastic’y, wheeled home with some housewarming accoutrements and make it really feel like proper digs. I’m still a huge fan of Santa Clause hanging out on my roof with Steve’s submission to that contest.

Okay, time for more adventures. Tootle-oo!

Three days ago it was about 7C / 45F and it was raining down buckets. I plead hearty New Englander and just don the appropriate neoprene and Goretex combination to handle the task. The task, of course, is to not lose a limb or smaller appendage of your body to hypothermia. A lesser man (namely my teammates, and virtually everyone in Italy apparently since I didn’t see a soul on the typically cycling strewn Saturday morning streets) would not brave the elements, especially when the calendar has hardly cracked December. But I plan on winning everything in sight in 2013, so excuses aren’t part of my training routine. Two words, my friends: game. on.

Two days ago was simply absurd, but goes without mention. Whereas yesterday was quite simply frigid. But complete with crystal clear blue skies, so I was pumped to stay dry even though the thermometer read well below freezing. (Oh, mind you that I packed for this three week trip to Italy having seen forecasted temperatures never dropping below 10C / 50F. Apparently Mother Nature doesn’t exchange notes with the friendly folks at the Weather Channel where I did my reconnaissance. But nearly five hours later and without ever breaking into a shiver, I call it a success.)

Today, however, was the most epic combination of both cold and rain that I’ve ever experienced. And that’s not hyperbole. Rolling out the door, the temperature was hovering around 3C / 37F. Meanwhile, the rain was truly indescribable. I’m staying at my friend and new Danish teammate Brian Vandborg’s house along with our Canadian amigo, new teammate, and lover of hockey, Xbox, and riding his bike fast, Guillaume Boivin. The two of them were absolutely floored that I was stepping outside – let alone attempting a ride. The combination of wind and pounding rain make the house a consistent 80ish decibels… minimum. All said and done, I still eeked out almost 2.5 hours despite dodging fallen trees, being diverted amongst roads due to flooding all throughout Lucca, contending with virtually black-out skies meet white-out rain, and nearly being blown off my bike perhaps a dozen times. Freakin’ nutty.

(And when you delve deeper and look at the temp on this ride, mind you the GPS was tucked safely under my jersey, under my raincoat. Nice and warm, nice and err… less-sopping wet.)

Let’s also celebrate my mere surviving today by giving you the coupon code: tedking2012 which will entitle you 10% off a Strava premium membership. There are some incredible things coming down the line from the Strava braintrust, especially in the premium arena. You want premium, trust me.

So hopefully this should paint the picture of Europe in the winter for you. Sure, Italy juts prominently into the balmy and majestic Mediterranean Sea, but go stare at a world map for a while. We’re flipping far north.

Anywho, 2013 team CANNONDALE PRO CYCLING(!) meetings kicked off last week up in Milan and we were greeted by pissing rain and being holed up in a hotel for four days. Which I suppose is efficient for conducting meetings, but I like to at least see sun, or at least know it’s there. Or perhaps see less flooding. And now tomorrow we are off to the start of a ten day camp in scenic southern Tuscany. I’m just going to guess that in 10 days we ride the same loop, hrmm… oh, 9 out of the 10 days. (Psst, shoot me a reminder in a week and a half and I’ll give you the update on how close my guess is to reality. We might even go 10 for 10!)

And now down to the real business: Food Porn.

Brian VB turns 31 today so we are celebrating by cleaning the house, surviving the impending elements, doing a massive round of laundry all before trekking off to camp tomorrow. So in our last moments of freedom we are hosting a dozen of his Danish cycling buddies and their family who live in town for a birthday dinner. I made a smashing pulled pork, roasted sweet potatoes with red onion, and deep ruddy red beets two days ago for our romantic dinner of three. Turns out it was such a hit that Brian asked I do it again. Birthday boy gets his wish! Given this gnarly weather of late, a heartwarming and hearty home cooked meal warms the soul.

And now, to backtrack: the best third Thursday of November in all the land has come and gone. Thanksgiving arrived complete with all the token fixin’s: a morning boost to the heart rate, hors d’oeuvres, cocktails, friends, family, schmoozing, wine, more hors d’oeuvres because they’re still out, more wine, throwing the football in our Sunda… err, Thursday’s finest attire, stuffing-potatoes-creamed onions-turkey-mashed potatoes-more stuffing-gravy-and-more-turkey-plus-celery to make it healthy creating a mountain on my plate, wine, a riveting game of smashing old pumpkins against a tree in the backyard, an aptertivo, watching the Patriots thump the Jets, wine, and watching the Campaign. This photo of dinner is blurry cause I’m in the early stages of a fine food coma. Ahh, just like the Pilgrims…

Of the ten desserts on the sweets table, my entirely homemade maple-pumpkin, gingerbread trifle was the hit to end all hits. T’was truly glorious. Again, just like the Pilgrims.

And simply for the sake of sharing more food photo-ops, I partook in an orphan Thanksgiving the week before while training in Palo Alto and created another rendition of my 2011 Thanksgiving dessert masterpiece, the Martha Stewart Mile High Pumpkin Pie. For something loco, like 30 people at this party, I decided to double up and make two pies. Despite all the self-discipline in the room, they were gone in no time flat.

Looking above, there are pies beneath that velvety smooth meringue topping, I promise. Just look at this for proof. And no, of course I don’t make my own crusts. That’s hard.

One last big meal tonight, then time for salad and team camp. Over and out.

More to the point, all the fun and travel and adventure and excitement and baked goods and beers and copious wine and overall gluttonous living and burning the candle at both ends in order to maximize all things awesome have come to a close. Which is only slightly ironic that I now find myself in Napa for the better part of November – there are nooooo good restaurants nor wine here, right? Right. Good.

We can all agree that over the past month the internet has experienced a noticeable dearth of anything interesting. The fact that I haven’t written on this website in a month exhibits an starkly obviously correlation. So in order to bring you all back up to speed, please allow me to take you along my travels over the past 45′ish days, where we’ll rehash a bit of September and then tackle October before we all jump into November together.

Mid-September brought me to the rugged and pastoral Green Mountain state of Vermont. Which brings up a point of confusion in regards to me. Not that it really matters nor should you care, but let me clear the air and announce here and henceforth that I’m from New Hampshire, still have residence in New Hampshire, attended college in Vermont, have family in Connecticut, visit Massachusetts frequently when am back in New England, and we have a family island house in Maine of which I am the sixth generation to be lucky enough to summer there. (Yes, summer is a verb when you’re a snotty New Englander lucky enough to have a summer house in Maine.) Got it? Again, good.

Vermont brought great weather and some stunning scenery. That will likely be the theme of these past 7+ weeks since I seem to only go to stunningly beautiful places in the offie.

I participated in my requisite “handful” of cross races, which is anything from one to six depending on my level off off-season vigor. You’d be smart to guess that I’m smoking everyone and winning in this photo at the Green Mountain Cyclocross weekend. Unfortunately, you would be incorrect.

Speaking of, umm… beautiful landscapes, I made my way to Las Vegas for Interbike for the first time in a trio of years. Which was thrilling as usual and well worth the trip, but reminded me that I only need to visit Sin City once every three years to feel perfectly satiated in the department of overwhelming senses. Bright lights, loud noises, caustic smells, and delicious food. I also bought these shorts for myself. They are stunning.

Lining up 5th row, even with my copious UCI points (or maybe UCI point, singular. I don’t remember) did not help my cause at CrossVegas. The field was STACKED. Worse yet, the officials warned us that we would be immediately ejected if we took a beer feed. Which is lame as heck since it was hot as balls. Thankfully after a few embarrassing laps, I pulled myself together as well as pulled $10 worth of dollar hand-ups. That’s ten bucks more than anyone else who finished well out of the money like I did. Suckers.

I graciously have stolen this photo from Danny Munson. The crowd looks riveted.

The best way of celebrating a criterium in your home city is to win it! However, when the field is lined top to bottom with crit racers and when you haven’t raced a crit in a quarter-dozen years (that’s three years if you’re counting along today), then the next best way to celebrate is to sign some dude’s cast at the start line.

Early October had me treking down the eastern seaboard, beginning in NH, down to VA by way of NYC, then back to PA, and onto CT, and back to NH. This is all of course well before that heinous bit#& Hurricane Sandy reared her ugly head so things were still tranquil and beautiful. This photo is from the PA portion with the Bicycling Fall Classic; in particular, this is the ride winning final breakaway (“ride” and not “race”). Those thousand of us smart enough to disregard the weather forecasters call for rain, who were entirely incorrect, had an incredible day in the saddle.

Remember hanging out with my cousins? Well two weeks after kicking it with them in Vermont during my glorious VT50 win, I swung through CT and had a Patriots game, massive dinner, watched a four year old break dance the night away, and went for a bike ride to the center of town the next day. 2.6 miles round trip. Ayuup, all of 2.6 miles. Off season watts!

I may have mentioned gluttonous living and sweetbreads are nearly always categorized in the over the top delicious/over the top surely unhealthy column. Here they are at Fore Street, which I would argue is the best restaurant east of the Mississippi. Don’t believe me? Give it a try.

I went hiking a quartet of times and twice with my good friend Damon. I also attended his wedding this fall, so hats off to him for getting married during the season in which I can actually attend his wedding. As for the hike, it was warm and pleasant down at basecamp 1, then frigid and pleasant at the summit.

It has also been three years since I attended the Dempsey Challenge last. It’s up in the middle of nearly nowhere Maine and it’s truly amazing the number of people who come from far and wide to catch a glimpse of Patrick Dempsey. Thankfully, I’m called up as a VIP rider so I get to hang out with him and end up as the buffer amid a gaggle of frenzied soccer moms. It’s very entertaining. Plus there’s Gritty’s for ample late night entertainment.

The 38 degrees of rain on ride day were enough to make me want to keep trucking the entire day and not really stop and warm up (because warm up is followed promptly by cool down). But the day before was another smaller ride and I got to know Matt Updike who is a really great guy and something of a stud both on and off his bike; the paralympic gold medal in London this year is a testament to that. This photo shows Matt teaching Patrick how to use his ridiculously low to the ground bike with Freddie Rodriguez giving pointers to the side. Or else Fred is just trying to hold Patrick’s hand.

Six words, folks: Krempels King of the Road Challenge. My BFF, teammate to the stars for two years, and TBI survivor himself, Timmy Duggan made the week-long trip to the east coast to kick it with vigor, eat seafood like a champ, crush wine, and speak about TBIs to the Krempels Center. Plus he saddled up and rode the KKotRC with me, Jesse Anthony, Pat McCarty, and 200+ of our best friends and family.

I spy with my little eye…

Here we are slaying the dirt, also with vigor. Actually the dirt has just abruptly ended. Which is probably safer.

Our ride also featured an off season smorgasbord of riding delicacies. Peanut Butter & Co., Simply Stroops, and of course New England’s favorite Marshmallow Fluff were only part of what powered us through the ride.

Sheesh, where are we. Still two weeks of off season to go!

The day after the ride I went with a triplet of friends plus extended family to a New England Patriots game. I’m a Pats fan with the best of ‘em, but I only go to about one game per year. Or every other year. These guys know how to rock out a good game, and it all starts with the pre-game tailgating party. This array of scallops is only a taste of what we had on the tailgate that day. And yes, those are very nice bottles of vino.

The man, the myth, the legend George Hincapie retired this year. He’s a stalwart member of the pro peloton and as an American, something of a pillar to look up to over the years. His accomplishments of 418 grand tours and however-many national championship wins is enviable. I was flattered to be a distinguished guest among friends, family, and my ilk of pro cyclists at his Gran Fondo. I give him a hard time because I tell George that I was coming to settle our on-going battle of best tennis player in the pro peloton (me) and he really clinched my arrival when I learned chef Michael Chiarello would be cooking. I’m in!

This blurry and terrible picture is of Chiarello on the far left, his right hand man from Uruguay who is awesome in the middle, chef Lucas Euser in the middle, and my good friend Tebbetts stoked to be poaching the photo on the right. Hi Matt!

George’s Gran Fondo was ridiculously hard. I’m 100% certain that the folks who designed this course did so in mid-season fitness. They didn’t realize that late October would be zilch in the fitness department. Ouch.

This photo is a pure thing of beauty. I’m, umm, smiling and saying hello, the peloton is shattered, Scotty to my right is actually smiling despite the 18% grade, and Brian is looking less than content behind Scotty. Good work team breakaway!

Meanwhile in Charleston, SC there are more good friends needing a visit. Moreover, it’s a corner of the world that I don’t know much about, so I took a 48 hour reprieve there. Actually it was slightly longer because even though we had pristine weather, Sandy was wreaking havoc on the northeastern United States so my flight was delayed a whole bunch of… hours. And thankfully just hours and not days, because not even 36 hours of being home, I unpacked, repacked, and hit the road onto Napa where I find myself today.

So from Greenville, SC it was on to Charleston. In Charleston is Husk. And in Husk is an amazing restaurant. Their 2011 Best New Restaurant in America claim was worth investigating. Everything we ordered was delicious and the pig ear tacos were a highlight for sure. Turn on your adventure and taste buds, cause Husk is awesome.

It wasn’t just gourmandism ruing the day in Charleston. I also went for a pair of runs and took in some history. This here is a photo of Fort Sumter on the central island in the distance. 42 arbitrary Ted King history points if you can tell me exactly why this place sits prominently in the history books.

And that, my friends, is a chronological smattering of my off season adventures. I assure you that this is only on fraction of the fun had, but I figure this is enough to give you a taste of what I’ve been up to of late, which explains my lack of blogging.

Bring on monk-like living and the ruckus of 2013!

I am riding parallel to a busy road, so I find myself on a bike path. Very few patrons in sight; in fact, I haven’t seen anyone for a good five minutes. I am approaching what is obviously an elderly lady, who is very well kitted-up on a fancy European bike complete with Euro-stylish riding clothes. That is, she looks both smart and ridiculous.

I slow considerably and upon noticing that she is resplendent with a helmet mirror, I spend a fair amount of time behind her so that she’ll observe that I’m there. I even make some noises and shift and so forth so that she’ll really notice me. I then slowly come back up to speed and approach to her left to initiate the pass. I’m now decently close to her and call out, “On your left”.

It was around about this time that I immediately recognized that she had NO idea I was ever there. She absolutely freaks out, clearly nearly has a heart attack, and cries “Great Jiminy Cricket!” …which just might go down as the best curse word ever. When I’m scared out of my wits I tend towards uttering four-letter words; apparently the elderly crowd in this town happen to be considerable fans of Pinocchio.

Oh and best yet, as she was crying out to Mr. Cricket, she also pulled one of these moves (that is, the awesome shimmying that takes place at 0:13). Thank goodness she stayed upright.

I apologized and she proceeded to scream that “…young man, I am a 75 year old woman! How dare you frighten me like that!” No harm, no crash, no heart attack, no foul. That’s what I always say.

(End of scene. Exit right. Look at trees in the town in which I was just visiting.)

The off-season adventures continue to chug along in high gear. I was easily convinced to go to Interbike for the unveiling of the Cannondale Pro Cycling team. This is enormous news and no better place to tell the world than in SinCity. So that was excellent. Rather than making Vegas a mere 12 hour adventure, I also opted for my first attempts at CrossVegas. My optimism ran high since I had just completed two UCI races the previous weekend, thereby completing 66.667% of my cross season in just two day, and therefore my cross skills were adept and honed. I also still had 10 UCI points from the fall of 2011 at my disposal for an awesome start position.

Wrong. I found out that at a stacked race like CrossVegas – where the beer, credibility, and ego run high – 10 UCI points plants you prominently in row 6. Out of 10.

From Vegas to Boston Criterium. Reaaaaady, and go!

I present unto you Boston’s TD Bank Mayor’s Cup Criterium. I haven’t raced a criterium since I did this one two years ago. So much like the stop-start of a cross race, this isn’t my bag. But it’s oooooh so much fun. If every criterium were run as smoothly and well as this, if every race took place in a major metropolitan city, if every race were thoroughly endorsed by it’s mayor and therefore were able to be run prominently through it’s central city streets, then cycling would gain an enormous foothold in America and everything would be perfect. If only…

So while we wait for that utopia, we graciously accept this amazing race in the meantime.

And then onto more adventures like 2 days in the Rocky Mountains

Followed by a wedding this Friday evening for two great friends, either watch GP Gloucester or attend this once in a lifetime (or once per year, I’m guessing) event on Saturday, and then defend my title in the Vermont 50 marathon mountain bike race on Sunday.

And lest we forget, we are now down to just three weeks and three days until the Krempels King of the Road Challenge. We’re thrilled to announce that Cannondale has generously upped the ante and will give away Cannondale EVO 2 complete with SRAM Red to folks who surpass the $5k mark in fund-raising. So that’s massive. So I encourage you to sign up today and start towards that goal (you have until November 30 to reach that mark, so bonus 1 month+10 days).

And if you can’t make it to NH then you can always participate in the very generous opening of your wallet and helping me reach my goal. A sincere please and thank you.