I’ve trekked here, clear ‘cross the English Channel and even circumnavigated through the UK border patrol (which I will congratulate them on being even more cut-throat than the nearly impenetrable American border). That adventure was immediately followed by a four hour car ride and arrival to the gentrified town of Bristol. When I was a wee tyke, my Mom used to sing the song, “…the kids in Bristol are sharp as a pistol, when they do the Bristol stomp!” Mom is so hip; a quick Google search has just informed me that those lyrics are from the Dovells’ 1961 hit Bristol Stomp.

Rather than fifty year old pop hits, more apt subject matter is why am I here? This glass protected signage should clear things up.

Red Bull – in this instance not presented by Tim Johnson – is putting on this head-to-head street sprints up a popular downtown shopping hill, Park Street. Called “Hill Chasers“, hopefully as a participant you’re not chasing anyone when you cross the line. Cause then you’re in second place and then you’re just going home. Having honed my diesel engine over the past four years by pulling the peloton along for hours on end, I should point out that a 170 meter hill climb is just… comical. But I’m here to make the most of it and drink a small boat load of Red Bull, so let’s go!

A view from the top of Park Street:

And a view from the bottom:

Naturally, I’ll @Strava the heck out of it when it’s all said and done, so be sure to stay tuned.

Witnessing today’s youth stomping gleefully through the street of Bristol has somehow eluded me in my brief 20 hours here, I did however manage a scenic morning ride, which segued directly into a very British wintery, pissing rain ride. Complete with a ferocious wind coming off the north Atlantic to the left (assuming you operate from cardinal directions and always face north, like I do), I felt like quite the local contending with these perfectly normal UK’ian conditions. Anything less would have been inhospitable.

This photo was enhanced for extra drama. That on the horizon is called the sun, which is going in the opposite direction. Rain is fast approaching.

Here I am thinking that I’m in England but then it dawns on me that I could very well be in the Belgian Ardennes. Cow paths no more than the width of one car, massive expanses of farm lands, some rolling hills intertwined with sharp kinks in the geography, and “mud” – or what comes from the hind end of an animal and a normal person would call poo.

Despite its rain, England is an exceedingly beautiful country and I can’t help but feel like I’m engulfed by an erudite culture. Tartans and lots of plaid, stone and brick building aplenty, hunting dogs – yup seriously, horses everywhere, rugby and polo fields aplenty, for some reason large geese make me think of highbrow folk, people drinking “a spot of tea”, boarding schools atop virtually every hill I rode over, and dozens of other details both intricate and obtuse that makes me feel like these people is wicked smart.

And on that scholarly note, I need to go ride my bike up a hill.

While Voltaire could have taught Ms. ‘locks the same lesson with the sage line, Perfect is the enemy of good, no one seems to find it the least bit odd that an unaccompanied minor was galavanting about the woods before reaching her final destination into the home of a family of bears. Moreover, a furnished home where the bears dined on oatmeal.

Hopefully no cyclists have bore witness to the same fate in order to absorb this message. Regardless of the situation, however, cyclists just like poor permanently disfigured Goldilocks will find a reason to complain.

It’s too hot in Argentina.

It’s stifling in Australia!

The stage is boring.

That climb is way too long!

Brrr! It’s frigging snowing and I can’t ride. La bella vita my eye! This is la tundra vita.

This hotel’s WiFi is glacially slow.

I’ve watched all of the movies on my hard drive, boo hoo hoo!

If you’ve read anything on this website over the past month, you’ll notice that I’m picking on myself as much as anyone. But I’m far from the only one to complain. Like a whole bunch of prima donnas (or the Italian prime donne), we are quick to point out the flaws around us rather than absorbing what’s good.

And why do you suppose that is? Simply because everything is relative and we are accustomed to things being pretty darn nice. Why is the internet slow? Because we have fast WiFi at home. Don’t fret, Facebook will still be there when you get back to civilization. A bit chilly on your ride today? Sop up those tears my friend, and throw on an extra base layer and an iamnottedking neckgaiter and you’ll be perfectly fine next time around. Hotel food is boiled chicken and extra boiled pasta? Again?! Seriously, did you expect anything else. It’s a bike race. Deal. The hail was piercingly ferocious? Umm, okay well that one I can’t help you out on, Ted. That just sounds painful.

In reality the life of a cyclist ain’t all that bad. We have our gripes and bouts of bellyaching, we often complain about being hungry, tired, or bored, but that’s because we are accustomed to a relatively pampered living. When the biggest decision of the day is where to indulge on a mid-ride cappuccino, and your afternoon is capped off with an hour massage, I must admit that we have it pretty good.

…even if that means I couldn’t feel my toes for the final 90 minutes of my 5 hour training ride and in the shower afterwards tears of pain spewed down my face. Again, dry those tears friend. It’s not so bad.

If you’re curious what Liquigas-Cannondale has in store for the weeks ahead, give this a quick read Team Liquigas Cannondale

Coppi e Bartali was a mixed bag. The TTT was a particular lowlight when we went from a very Ricky Bobby’esque “if you ain’t first, you’re last” best time to worst time with a team crash just 1km from the finish. With much skin from five of our collectives butts (not mine, thanks for asking) missing, that sucked.

But on a lighter note, the knee was up to the task including yesterday’s pancake flat and righteously fast 195km stage, which was then trumped in the effort department by today’s mere 155km stage. In true Italian fashion the race bible’s elevation profile came nowhere near to telling the true story. Here’s a telling anecdote: we had a relatively lengthy 11km climb averaging 6%, bottom to top. But what’s at the top? A sprint line. No, not a king of the mountain line, but a SPRINT. I love Italy and it’s infinite confusion. Italy makes me happy. Another testament to yesterday’s being tough were the eighteen dudes over the time limit. Or the half dozen others who didn’t finish. Ouch.

Anyway nearly 3,000m of climbing and nearly an average wattage 100w more than yesterday zapped through a lot of kilojoules. Like 4,200 of ‘em.

But enough numbers yackidy yack; I’m headed home, will water the tomatoes, have a tasty dinner with some friends, unpack, repack, sleep, ride, and go to Belgium… all in the next 20 hours.

(Meanwhile I’m updating this post about 17 hours after initially writing it; I’m therefore t-minus 3 hours until airborne. I’ve dined with Tejay, watered the tomatoes – and caffeinated them since it’s been recommended that I fertilize them with coffee grounds – just went on THIS ride…

…and now need to continue packing. GO!)

Yeaa bikes.

A friend just asked if I’m getting sick of the bubbly with all of Peter Sagan’s recent bounty of wins. I assume it was a tongue in cheek question, but the answer is no, as you could probably guess, since winning is awesome and so is celebratory race winning refreshments in the form of Proseco.

Here’s an artful shot of Peter about to pop the top on last night’s bottle. Art because of the low angulation and the champ’er glasses in the foreground. Yup, art.

In other news, I am finding my nose in the wind more this week than perhaps, oooh let’s say my entire stay at any previous team(s). Chopping off at the front of the peloton, controlling the pace of the race is actually rather therapeutic. More importantly, with the leader’s jersey within the team, it’s an honor and privilege to take the reigns at the front. It’s ready, set, go then put out a lot of watts for a long time and then time flies by and boom you’re done! Sure, there’s lots more to it than that, but since this is another phone scribed blog entry, I hope this description will quench your early season yearning for behind the scenes racing.

Speaking of behind the scenes, our first hotel was downright palatial by European standards. Plus the TV was not one of those goofy toaster sized boxes the are a dime-a-dozen. Or maybe a buck for a dozen. Anyway, more than just the TV, we also had some pretty swank cable setup so in mid-February I watched Superbowl highlights for the first time. Well done NFL Network coming to Europe!

This cryptic shot is actually me giving the camera a thumbs up. In my excitement of watching the game, I didn’t actually get much fist in the frame to accentuate the thumb.

And with that said, my thumbs and legs are tired so I’ll switch off the blogging and switch on the getting on the table for a massage. G’night moon.