After an all too speedy but successful swing through New England after the spring Classics of which you can see the highlights in this brief photo essay, I hopped aboard a plane bound for the crisp, thin air of Colorado.

Tour of California is next on the racing horizon, so an amalgamation of friends, family, and ample New England training in late April provided me the opportunity to press-and-hold what I call the Life Reset button. Thoroughly brought back up to speed on life, backed mail, and bills, plus it brought me here to the Centennial State. The first few days upon Coloradan touchdown, I was with my aunt and uncle, with whom I lived briefly back in 2001 when I had a few months of relaxing, outdoorsy reprieve before starting college. So not exactly parents to me, they’re superb people whom I know and love and like to pretend to call my three-months surrogate parents. Back then in aught-one, I soaked up the mountain life and continued to cement Colorado in my mind as an excellent place to someday call home — that is, when I hang up my bike and move more permanently out of my suitcase. Ahh, someday…

So now thoroughly lost in the time warp that I’ve unfolded to you above, fast forward to last week, the weather was stellar here in Colorado those first few days, the training was stunning as testament to my laser precise tan lines, which had previously long been hidden by the arctic freeze across Europe all spring. Here I am soaking in natural excellence near the very top of Flagstaff.

This being spring in Colorado, they’ve already received their standard alternating snowy dump/beautiful weather/blizzard/stunning weather that’s characteristic of this area the past month or two. Thinking that this was now out of the system — especially with the last storm less than a week ago dropping a foot of snow in Boulder — it came to some as a surprise that there was another big’n in the forecast.

Because it’s been so frigging freezing across Europe the previous six months, I finally had my first hard effort amid 70 degree heat which resulted in acidic sweat burning my eyes. It hurt so good. So that happened one day and then I woke up to this the next day. Please note Timmy front and center out for a morning hunt with Karli:

Let me toss in the reminder that this is Colorado Awesoming, so how does one make limeade from these limes? I hung out with my cousins by road tripping it to Denver to speak to my cousins’ 2nd and 3rd grade class. It’s hilarious speaking to really well versed seven and eight year olds as found here in the fittest state in the nation, Colorado. For example, when one of these adorable kiddos politely raises his hand when I am telling the crew about the “Tour of Colorado” by correctly explaining that it’s the “USA Pro Cycling Challenge”… now that’s a kick.

Cousin Billy, with his radical bleach streaked hair and his ear to ear grin, is just a little bit stoked that he got to bring me to school for Show-and-Tell.

It’s not just fun and games and making excuses when there’s a blizzard spewing outside. Back to Boulder and back to the office.

And, of course amid Colorado Awesoming, one day later we had a bit of this cloudless sky and brisk perfect training weather.

And on a side note, I also met Justin’s of Justin’s Nut Butter fame. He’s the frigging man, so I’m mildly star struck in this photo. The King of Nut Butters meets the King of… iamtedKING. The entire operation at Justin’s is outstanding — their original farmers’ market to going big story, their ethics and ethos, and best yet their FLAVOR. Consider me a fan.

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!

People frequently pick my brain on the full spectrum of topics regarding life on two wheels. Ranging from tire pressure to how to dress, I’m always more than happy to oblige with a response. So when Martin posted a question on the last blog entry I figured that rather than answering on a one-off basis, why not make it a regular thing? Without delay, let’s kickstart the Tips from Ted campaign. (…actually, the KoS has partaken in at least one TfT. That’s style, this is function.)

Martin astutely asked, “Any tricks to keep your feet warm Ted?”

Boy do I ever! Mind you Martin, I’m born and raised in bucolic New Hampshire, home of the world’s highest recorded wind speed; I got into cycling in Middlebury, VT during my collegiate days and during one particularly snowy winter, I proudly only rode the trainer inside three times – those other days I just put on enough neoprene and Goretex to scuba dive or row a boat around the Antarctic, if that sounds like a fun weekend adventure. Moreover, I’m also the creative director of TUSB: versions 1.0, 2.0, as well as 3.0. Plus some other iterations thrown in for good measure.

Anywho, cold weather and winter conditions are rapidly approaching and Martin needs a response on how to keep his feet from freezing off and crashing into a snowbank. Probably more the former but whatever. Let’s go.

Hey Martin!

I’m glad to hear you’re sucking it up and going for a ride when it’s cold. Of course this all depends where you live; if you’re worried about your cold feet and you live in Phoenix, AZ then I’m sorry to be the first to tell you, but you’re a wuss. If, however, you’re inquiring about managing cold feet in the heart of winter in Anchorage, AK, well now you’re drinking my sake, Kimosabe!

Resolving cold feet will involve an investment, but frigid tootsies are a fast road to a miserable ride so I think you’ll find the purchase to be worth it.

First, you need to find as thick, wool (or similar synthetic) socks that you can fit into your cycling shoes without having your feet go numb due to the fact that there is now so little room in your shoes. One pair of socks is totally affordable, but shopping around for a dozen pairs to find the right ones will set you back into the triple digits. So shop wisely, feel how thick they are (as in, don’t buy 1/2 inch thick snowboard socks), and hopefully try some one before you buy.

Actually, let’s backtrack one more step: make sure your shoes fit with regular socks first. If your shoes are uncomfortable for any reason, maybe you’re strangling your feet and they’re freezing cause you have no blood flow in the first place. Just trying to cover all grounds here.

Depending on where you live, investing in some winter mountain bike shoes is likely a stellar idea, a la these. They are usually slightly larger to allow those warmer socks plus you gain the benefit of traction and studs if you’re a winter, snowy-conditions rider. As a fringe benefit, mountain bike cleats engage with the pedals easier if you’re fighting through snow, sleet, ice, and slush. But 9.9 out of 10 times you can work your road cleats/pedals with mountain bike shoes just fine as well.

Next, the thickest, ugliest, biggest pair of neoprene booties will soon become your best friend. They’re a brash effrontery to style, but looking extremely good on a bike when it’s 17F takes less precedence than not loosing your digits to frostbite. Usually in the sub-$100 range, this might be your best purchase yet.

Meanwhile, “waterproof” shoe covers are a moot point when it’s actually raining. Sure it’s a good way to keep your white shoes white(r), but with water coming down from above and up from below (the road and your tires), your feet are going to get WET, hence the use of quotes. Again, this means big, thick, ugly neoprene booties trump thin waterproof ones.

If it’s dry and it’s absolutely frigid, consider yourself lucky. In said scenario, I often slap one of those chemical toe warmer/hand warmer packs on top of your shoes and under the neoprene shoe covers. Heck, your toes might actually sweat with this genius set-up. I suggest a box of 20 or whatever, since they’re a buck each when you buy in bulk, versus maybe $4 a pop otherwise.

Lastly, as for mere “tricks” like you ask, try to cover up any secret holes in the bottom of your shoes. Often there are more cleat screw holes in the soles of your shoes than are necessary to accommodate all the cleats options out there. So either plug them somehow or make sure you have a durable, non-breathable insole to prevent cold wind from venting in and freezing your feet.

I wish you the best Martin. Warm feet are happy feet and Happy Feet is a movie… which I’ve never seen.

And that draws to a close the first ever Tips from Ted. Feel free to keep the questions coming, cause I answer them as long as they’re not dumb.

Happy weekend y’all,

Ted

…instead we have man eating craters that rival the Grand Canyon that span the middle of the everyday thoroughfares.

My post-Paris-Roubaix/pre-Tour of California self titled Tour of New England is rapidly coming to a close, as I’m off to California tomorrow. It’s a blast for me to have family and friends all throughout the northeast because between weddings, baseball games, bachelor parties, and simply traveling for the sake of seeing close friends whom I would not otherwise see, I’ve been blessed to tackle some riding across the finest section of America – even if that means occasionally catching air at 70kph on a screaming downhill when I hit a frost heave and jet over it’s frightening crevasse.

One of my recent adventures took me into the White Mountains. I started the day in the basking sun of home down south, nearly two hours’ drive from my riding point. Down yonder it was warm and pleasant and I was definitely not expecting anything but a pristine day. So when I stepped out the car and saw my breath I was less than psyched. But I soldiered on and soon warmed up a bit, until I reached the top of the Kanc’ at which point it was snowing on me and I was reaaally unprepared and freezing, I therefore decided that a rapid descent into Lincoln was in order. A $0.99 coffee complete with a splattering of instant cappuccino warmed my soul while a $5 pair of gas station gloves warmed my fingers.

What’s topped even that is that I then began another, separate five-day journey that saw me in the Upper Valley of NH and VT for a pair of days, followed by a blustery day of riding in Burlington, and then off to the most northern and remote town in all of New Hampshire called Pittsburg (nope, no -h at the end). When you’re in Pittsburg, NH you may as well be on the moon except that we still Live, Free, or Die here in the great Granite State. Despite now being in the midst of New England’s well documented turbulent spring weather, I was still not anticipating snow… or maybe I was just not appreciating snow. So when it dumped snow in downright blizzard-like fashion for 18 straight hours, and I woke up Saturday morning to a blank white scene, I was extremely pleased that I still had those $5 gas station gloves safely stored in my car. I doubled up the riding gloves that day and my toasty warm and extremely stylish fingers were all the happier for it.

If you’re curious what the nether reaches of New Hampshire look like, when you haven’t seen a car in hours and there are far more “Brake For Moose” signs than there are moose, then you know you’re practically in Canada, eh, then let this photo above appease you. To one direction you look back south at New Hampshire and you see this wonderfully English and French signage. Bienevue!

And in the other direction you’ll see the fiercely impenetrable and vastly underused New Hampshire–Canadian border patrol.

Which, believe it or not, on the other side of these buildings looks curiously like northern New Hampshire.

Oh, I was concerned that I wasn’t going to see any moose on this adventure to the great white north. On my big ride in Pittsburg I saw one hedgehog or lemur or ferret or something sprint across the road. That was exciting, but I really wanted a moose – the forest’s most awkwardly tall and gangly animal. Then after feeling defeated upon leaving Pittsburg early Sunday morning, I was about an hour south on my way to show Tim a thing or two about how to ride a bike, I saw my elusive moose walking across the road.

No photo because it was too awesome.

And if you’ve made it this far into the post, you deserve something actually worth reading. Please let THIS site satisfy your viewing pleasure.

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.

This tech-savvy day in age, that’s the ambiguous and frequent expression when more than one person is on a wireless network. Turns out that 97.3% of cyclists have no idea what that means on a technological level. Superficially though, it turns out to be quite true – when you take a team of six riders at a South American race hotel with already poor internet, and then supplement the hotel’s capacity with another dozen cycling teams, plus cycling press, and their corresponding need for internet, the result is flickering hopes and shimmering seconds of working wifi followed by mind-numbingly futile hours of hitting Connect. Again and again and again all for not. That goes to explain why I became internet-quiet as soon as the race started.

Now that I’m back in the arctic tundra that is Europe, let’s quickly rehash some things and then move on to the present. Aaaand GO!

The team presentation for the Tour of San Luis was the most entertaining such event we’ve ever experienced. You see, a typical presentation in Europe lasts 30 seconds in the time leading up to a race, right on stage where we sign-on; line up as a team, shoulder to shoulder, they announce your name, you wave, smile (or frown and look badass) at the camera, step off, done. Meanwhile in America, it’s generally the night before a race in a ballroom with the race/town/state/city’s VIPs wearing their Sunday finest.

Definitely a different scene here: in stifling heat in the center of main street in downtown San Luis, we arrived at the tender hour of 8pm where it was still light out, and proceeded to wait protected by metal barricades from the ebullient and growing crowd.

Team after team are being called while we wait. We learn later that each team is standing under deafening speakers and in front of a roaring crowd, so we’re actually winning this situation since we can sit in relative quiet peace. After a good long while, we’re called up, and in this photo are waiting behind an enormous TV monitor:

And to the booming delight of the crowd, dodging a canon shooting glittery paper, a smoke and light show, cheerleaders, we walked on stage. Smile, wave, move right… and join the other 150 cyclists standing on another stage.

The point being, these San Luis’ians know how to have a good time. The entire town, and I do mean the entire town, came out to this rock star team presentation. It set the tone for what was going to be a unique week of bike racing.

And since I don’t write race reports more than once ever seven years, let’s say simply the following, in no particular order:

-We interrupted the Saxo-QuickStep show by taking an impressive victory with Elia Viviani. Yup, I called it that morning.
-The weather all week leading to the race and the entire race itself was roughly 38-45 degrees Celsius (100-113F). Except the first day which featured hail, sleet, wind, and three turn over the course of 170km. That day was bitter in every sense of the word.
-The TT featured a variety of set-ups. I had a skinsuit and shoe covers, which shaved 0.8 seconds off my time. I’d guess 1/2 the field had TT bikes. I just used it as a sweet fitness test and sat at a million watts for a bit shy of a half-hour.

-Courtesy: Bettini Photo

-And you can see the entire race on yonder Strava website. (Hark friends! Use the code tedking2012 and knock $10 your annual paid membership. And as always, you can still use the basic account for free.)

And then it was time to make a sufficiently long trip to Europe. I started to take photos of all the modes of transportation I used to get from our hotel in San Luis, Argentina to my apartment in Lucca, Italy but after the first three successful photos, I found myself sprinting between terminals and airports and vehicles so it became impractical to snap a photo in lieu of missing my connection. So for a quick summary: San Luis hotel, 20 minute bus to San Luis airport, 3 hour delay, 1 hour flight to Buenos Aires, 3 hours checking in/security/passport control, 13 hour flight to Rome, 2.33 minutes in Italian security and passport control,… ooooh, mind you it’s now day two of my travel which means it’s my birthday, everyone’s favorite day January 31. So with 32,000 of my best friends in the Rome airport, I bought a celebratory glass of Brunello and a mixed app’ plate. T’was excellent and since I like to photograph food, it looked like this.

And for the record, that short red cylinder on the left is beef tartar and the one on the right that looks like a red, disembodied finger is a stuffed red pepper.

Continuing on, I passed through Roman customs in a matter of seconds – opposed to America’s 2-3 hour wait to protect our borders – and then took another hour long flight to Lucca where I had our friendly soigneur Michelli pick me up and drive me the half hour to Lucca. I noticed upon landing that the ground was damp and the arrival staff was wearing lots of clothing. Clearly this was a far cry from the stifling heat of Argentina. Moreover, on the drive to Lucca it started misting, then sleeting, then a full fledged blizzard. (Sigh.)

With internet coverage deader than a doornail in hotel-Argentina, I didn’t know what sort of weather to which I’d be arriving on The Continent. Wet precipitation isn’t fun, cold isn’t so bad, but the combination is heinous. As Michelli said as he graciously chauffeured me from the airport, “Merry Christmas! Welcome to white Italy.” How thoughtful.

The biggest shock to the system hasn’t been the culture shock nor time zone shock. It’s the 47 degrees Celsius at the start of day seven San Luis (116F) as compared to -1C here (30F)

BrrrrRRRrrrRRrrrrr

Thankfully I’m here to help out those of you trying to stay warm this winter and have created this gem. (Yes, sold out, but check back in daily as inventory is about to be back up to stock.)

An Italian winter wonderland, complete with blanketed vineyards, craggy snowed-in mountain roads, and all of town/school/banks shut down.

And if you’re still after more Argentinian stories, give this a minute of your time. Time to bundle up and go for a bike ride.

Who knows what the locals call it, but I’ve dubbed this the Paradise Loop north of Santa Barbara. It starts out entirely paved with a nice climb, San Marcos, out of Santa Barbara. Then a ripping descent, then a right handed turn, an entertaining visit with a local grocer who unsolicitedly blurts out, “Boy, those have to be the most uncomfortable shoes I’ve ever seen!” I took the time to correct him, that they are in fact quite comfy and that even though I walk as though I’m struggling through my seventh day of having learned how to walk, they’re not actually made for walking and that they make the sport of cycling much more pleasant. He didn’t really care what I was saying because he interrupted to say, “Cycling is one sport I just don’t get. My wife? She’s a sleeper. She’ll sleep all the way until 7 o’clock in the mornin’. Meantime, I’ve already run six or seven miles by then. I wake up around four, four-thirty and get out the door. I just like to run…”

Thanks for sharing that Forrest Gump. Please give me my water and stop dissing my shoes. I bid you adieu.

So from there, you rip through a park and past maybe one car for the subsequent ten miles before you dodge your first road closed sign, river crossing, and ardent attempt to be badass while wearing spandex all within a short mile of each other. Minutes later, you’re greeted by the above photo of very foreboding nature. But ignorance is bliss so I darted by it and crossed my fingers that I wouldn’t get flats and started issuing watts to my bike.

Many watts later, the view was spectacular. You’re now approaching Gibraltar Reservoir, you’re surrounded by some amazing mountains, spectacular rock formations, and you’ve seen one mountain lion too many (yup, true story – darned scariest animal on earth in my humble opinion). You’re also low on water, but you just know that everything always works out in the end. So you carry on…

Look closely and you can see the road crossing left to right through the mountains ahead. Three miles later, I’ll be over there.

And now even more than three miles later, I reached the summit and descended Santa Barbara’s well known Gibraltar Road. I took the opportunity to rest my brakes pads and speak with some local hang-gliders who were about to launch. Without much thought, I just figured you could stay up in the air for an hour max; turns out when the air, wind, and temperature are all working in harmony (and user error is low) those folks can stay afloat for six hours or more!

And so many hours later, zero flat tires later, a few NPR podcasts later (excellent, edifying riding “tunes”), and many watts later, I arrived home.

In the meanwhile fastforwarding to the present, after 36 legendary hours of travel in which I drove to the Santa Barbara airport, flew to LAX, jogged through the airport, flew to Miami, sat on the tarmac for about an hour which caused me to unhappily run through the Miami airport, I then flew to Buenos Aires, Argentina, waited for my luggage to arrive on another incoming flight from Miami because putting my suitcase and bike onto my plane would have made too much sense, ignored customs and security entirely because I had a bus to catch and it was exhibited to me that playing ignorant and acting as though I’m in a hurry will make most people get out of your way here in Argentina, then bussed across town to another Buenos Aires airport, flew to Mendoza, then took a bus to our final hotel here in San Luis. Obviously that’s how you get from point A to point B when they’re on nearly opposite ends of the western hemisphere.

Oh, so I was saying in the meanwhile, I’ve arrived to Argentina where it is hot and dry and the people are friendly and the billboards are excellent for honing my high school Spanish. My favorite so far translates to, “It is easy to be happy!”

Here are a pair of photos of our ride today. I’m particularly fond of the first one which takes place in our hotel’s version of our team HQ-slash-garage. Everyone is carrying about their business, filling bottles, airing tires, putting on shoes and helmets… including Timmy who’s already accomplished that lengthy list of stuff and therefore found time to read the paper (a lot of being on any pro cycling team is finding time to occupy time).

Next are the friendly folks riding along and taking photos of us. Given how freakin’ hot it is here, you might think this is just fifteen minutes into the ride – optimum for mid-ride water topping off. But no, we made it a full hour before thirst got the better of us. Anyway, Argentina is so far excellent.

As I said to the verbose grocer before, adieu.

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.

I mentioned yesterday that it snowed here in Sardinia on our fourth to final training ride. I did not put enough emphasis into the fact that the snow was preceded by some righteous wind and sopping rain. I also don’t mind pointing out that when it snows after such conditions, one feels it straight to the core. It was wicked Brrrrrr. I’m currently deep in the heart of the Mediterranean and I longingly miss the holiday cheer currently transpiring 8,000 miles from home in New England – alas the appropriately corresponding festive holiday cold and white goodness has arrived to “the Continent.” Odd given that the thermometer was reading a hearty 8 degrees Celsius at the time.

Under the impression that not everyone believed my claim to snow, I recommend staring off into the distance of the grainy photo above – we set out today to the majestic beauty of white capped peaks in the distance. Sure, just a few snow flurries on us yesterday, but snow is snow.

Regardless of all that, snow is not the reason I began this post today. Rather it is to offer my observations from last night’s feast.

Groundhog day gets kicked squarely in the teeth as once per ten-day camp we are allowed a pizza night. Giddy like a group of twelve year old girls at a slumber party, the anticipation is palpable. To set the scene, we’re in the same hotel as last year and dine in the same restaurant for every meal. It’s quite a lovely spot and I should add that being surrounded by an abundance of local wines decorating the wall – the forbidden fruit that we are allowed to enjoy strictly visually – only increases the excitement for this special occasion.

Timmy opted for the Frutti del Mar, which scared the living daylights out of our teammates. Seafood? On pizza?! E-gads you’d think he ordered a deep fried block of SPAM. With the plumpest mussels that I’ve honestly ever seen and a handful of their best friends named Shrimps, it looked a bit like this.

Meanwhile I was the only one of us who went with the aptly titled Fantasia! The subtitle read the Flavor Choice of the Pizzaiolo. I had met our friendly pizzamaker, err pizzaiolo, a few days prior and I came away with the distinct impression that he knows a thing or two about how to please his clientele. Who knows what exactly inspired this specific amalgamation, but my mini hot-dogs, zucchini, artichoke, mozzarella, and Gorgonzola was quite tasty. I personally would have opted for an additional salty kick found in olives, but I’m obviously no pizziaolo.

And now an appropriate commentary regarding Italian efficiency.

No one in their right mind will accuse the Italians are being overly efficient. Exhibit A: one waitress who serves as the sole barista taking table orders for 29 caffeine deprived cyclists and a dozen staff, producing, ooooh probably 100 espresso beverages in the morning. Last night elicits Exhibit B. One pizzaiolo making personal pizzas for 29 riders – plus an addition 15 pizzas for everyone to share for a grand total of 44 pizza pies – in an oven that reaches capacity with seven pizzas. Yes, all individually hand-made, all extremely delicious, all extraordinarily inefficient.

Here’s a photo of hungry riders watching their teammates eat whilst pizzaiolo prepares to toss dough in the background.

And lastly I offer you this warning: do not even begin to sass me that this is all part of the Italian charm, because the true “charm” becomes evident when 1/3 of the team is already finished with their dinner while another 2/3 haven’t yet submitted their order. Violent and gratuitous hand gestures ensue in tandem with heated voices from the hungry hoards of cyclists. Not me, however, since I just sit back and take it all in.

You see, this isn’t my first time around the proverbial Italian block. I’ve grown accustomed to this unique element of charm and appreciate it entirely. I’m by no means asking Italians to change nor asking them to take a page out of American (or Indian or Swiss or Japanese) efficiency. It’s these confounding human interactions that make waking up every day a treat. Quite simply, la dolce vita, I get it.

Oh, to appease a mass audience you propose sharing a pizza? Not a chance, ace. One pizza per person to start – may as well be a law, no matter if you’re Grandma or Fat Tony.

And at the end of the day I will not cry fowl to all of Italian efficiency. That is, these gems are rife across this country. Mark my words, the utilitarian dynamo three-wheeled pick-up truck will someday dominate all the world’s streets, not just here.

Leading teammate and co-Captain-America, Timmy Duggan, during this week all throughout Lucca, we’ve have many discussions and decided that these gems are better than a money tree. While everyone knows what money is, it’s amazing how few people know the incredible value of a ripe, fresh, and juicy persimmon. I would say priceless, but Whole Foods says $3 a pop, which make this tree above worth a few grand.

Yessir – or yes’m – we’ve arrived back to Lucca. I think in an attempt to make us more integrated as telltale Italians and therefore care very little for our personal space, the team has crammed us three Anglo’s into the back of the car not once, but twice in recent days. Furthermore, it has occurred in progressively decreasing sized vehicles. If we look cozy in the photo below, it’s because Timmy, Dominik, and I are growing accustomed to sitting on each other’s laps while hitting the autostrada for hours upon hours at a time. It’s also because we’re crammed like sardines in a space built for two small children and one doll – not three grown adults. Thumbs up!

As I’m slowly alluding to here, I’ve been able to play host to my two good friends and teammates, Timmy and Dominik, this week. One of the early nights here I took them into the heart of the walled city that is Lucca, along with a good buddy of mine Rob, and we dined at Osteria Manzo. Don’t mess with this trio (plus photographer, me) on the sparsely populated mean streets of Lucca late at night.

Indulging on an amazing fixed price menu at Manzo, dinner was absolutely breathtaking, but I only had time to snap a photo of the petite panna cotta along with a stabbed series of fruit for dessert. Thankfully if anyone among us was still peckish after dinner, the restaurant was adorned in festive Christmas decorations and the wait staff didn’t mind when one of us – I won’t say who, but I can promise that it was not the author – grabbed for a gingerbread ornament on the way out the door.

It was twice as delicious as it was festive!

Another dank, early winter night in Italy was spent warmly surrounding a fireplace. A generously helpful friend of mine and his lovely wife introduced me to their local butcher, who will soon be my local butcher, then we saddled up to their homestead for a wholesome night of food, drink, and merriment. Namely, bohemouth slabs of meat roasted in that fireplace you see below; tasty, local Tuscan wine as Dominik so naturally demonstrates; and excellent conversation throughout the night.

Properly fueled by this hearty meal, a day or two afterwards (heck, come to think of it, it was three days afterwards – like I said, we were well fueled with the 3kg steak that night), I introduced the guys to an institution when it comes to crossing cycling with coffee in Tuscany. Namely in the town of Monsummano there’s the aptly named King of Cappuccino – Il Re del Cappuccino. The first serving of this tasty Italian capp’ is spot on, but the real catch is when the elderly owner comes from around the counter to refill your mug with an equally generous, serving of coffee and billowing portion of frothy milk as exhibited below. I’ve only seen him do this to the spandex clad cyclist clientele, so I reckon he’s a fan. Pretty soon a handsome Liquigas-Cannondale jersey signed by yours truly will adorn the wall as a thank you for all the second servings.

That smile and my curious eyes are authentic – three hours round trip for a cup of coffee was entirely worth it. My companions completely agreed.

Coming back into Lucca this time of year is a lesson in foot traffic navigation. I mentioned before in the car episode that personal space is not something that many folks take into consideration here. I swear that observation is not a knock, it’s simply a dose of reality. The holidays epitomize this invasion of space during downtown, Friday evening shopping sessions where it’s a bit like observing an ant farm at feeding – people piling into the streets, crawling over each other, shoulder to shoulder, intermingling and walking in virtually every direction, all the while baby strollers and commuter cyclists futilely trying to take up twice the space among the blissfully happy throngs of people. This poor photo doesn’t do it justice, but I’m trying to capture the entire scene: from the hours of about 4pm through 7pm, if walking at 1/10 of a mph amid 50,000 of your best Italian friends sounds like a lot of fun, then by all means make your way to Lucca the weeks leading up to Christmas! Ho ho ho. Oh, plus EVERYONE wears black – except that obvious foreigner in red in front of the camera.

So with these highlights of my time now having been aptly highlighted, I’d like to take this opportunity to welcome myself back to Lucca. Sardinian riding camp, coming right up tomorrow.

(And how do I get there, you ask?! I’ll let you guess.)