Conti Takes a Digger - and Beats it to Death with a Shovel

Recently, a friend, teammate, and future Peckerhead Invitational attendee took a digger at one of the regional races. Conti (we only refer to him by his last name because he's a badass) broke six ribs, his scapula, and a collarbone. And he's still stuck in the hospital. Probably whistling at the OSU nursing students, doing deals on his Blackberry, watching the TdF and mocking all the baby-whiners who didn't get the yellow jersey because some other team rode too fast.

And so in honor of Conti, I promptly went out and stole the contents of this post from Texas Tailwind and made a few edits. You're a true hard man Conti, and we bow before you.

Conti doesn’t read books. He simply attacks until the books relent and tell him everything he wants to know.

Waldo can’t be found because Conti dropped him on a hill training ride… on K2.

Conti doesn’t spin or mash the pedals… he kicks them into submission.

Conti puts the “laughter” in “Manslaughter.”

Conti climbs so well for a big guy because he doesn’t actually climb hills; the hills slink into the earth in fear as they see him approach.

If you are a Ohio Masters rider and you Google “Conti” the only result you get is “it’s not to late to take up kickball, Fred.”

Conti was a math prodigy in elementary school, putting “Attack!” in every blank space on all his tests. It would be the wrong answer for everybody else, but Conti is able to solve any problem by attacking.

Conti's testicles are bald because hair does not grow on a mixture of titanium, brass, steel, and cold, hard granite.

Conti once had a heart attack on Jack Run Hill. Conti counterattacked repeatedly until he kicked its ass.

Jay was nimble, Jay was quick… and Conti still drove him to quit racing bikes and become an ice dancing commentator on Lifetime.

If Conti was a country, his principle exports would be Pain, Suffering, and Agony.

If Conti was a planet, he’d be the World of Pain.

Conti doesn’t know where you live, but he knows exactly where you will die.

Conti doesn’t have a shadow because he dropped it repeatedly until it retired, climbing into the CSC team car and claiming a stomach ailment.

Conti once challenged Lance Armstrong to a “who has more testicles” contest. Conti won… by five.

When you open a can of whoop-ass, Conti jumps out and attacks.

You are what you eat. Conti eats spring steel for breakfast, fire for lunch, and a mixture of titanium and carbon fiber for dinner. For between-meal snacks he eats men’s souls, and downs it with a tall cool glass of The Milk of Human Suffering.

Conti believes it’s not butter.

Conti can eat just one.

The first time man split the atom was when the atom tried to hold Conti’s wheel, but cracked.

Conti doesn’t complain about what suffering does to him… but suffering constantly complains about getting picked on by Conti.

Conti can start a fire by rubbing two mud puddles together.

Guns kill a couple dozen people every day. Conti kills 150.

Conti’s tears are so tough they could be the world heavyweight mixed-martial arts champion. Too bad Conti never cries.

Conti rides so fast during attacks, that he could circle the globe, hold his own wheel, and ride in his own draft. At least as long as he didn’t try to drop himself.

Conti nullified the periodic table because he doesn’t believe in any element, other than the element of surprise.

The grass is always greener on the other side. Unless Conti has been riding on the other side in which case it’s white with the salty, dried tears of all the riders whose souls he has crushed.

The Case for Lance Armstrong

I don't really give a shit if he doped or not. That's in the past, it's whatever it was or is. This video is why a guy like Lance Armstrong is good for cycling. Period.

Official Pronouncement on Positive Weather Karma

All Peckerheads are hereby called to action!

From this moment on we will send only positive juju to the weather gods. There will be no fretting about thunderstorms, no attachment of fenders, no internal debates about if you should ride the beater bike, no rationalizations about how you could just come for the cookout, no rummaging around for rain jackets, and so on.

We think only positive thoughts about global warming, ozone holes, UV warnings, skin cancer, heat exposure, and 3rd degree sunburn.

Hereby signed and decreed.

The management

Hour by hour weather forecast as of 9:00 am Friday.

Getting to PeckerheadQuarters

It's pretty easy to find my house, but for the out-of-towners here are some links:

From NORTH of Mansfield on I71
From SOUTH of Mansfield on I71
From WEST of Mansfield on Route 30
From EAST of Mansfield on Route 30

See you on the 20th!

Or if that doesn't work, I live here:

Random Thoughts

Just finished marking the route. I didn't think it was possible to improve the 07 and 08 routes but, I gotta tell you, I think we set a new mark, especially for the Full Pecker. Better in every way. John Holmes riders are in for some new roads, too. You'll earn your stripes.

No maps this year. You have to trust me.

If you really look around, this part of the country is damn good for bike riding.

The generosity of our attendees never fails to amaze and humble me.

No gravel this year, but watch for dirty corners.

The arrows are yellow.

We'll miss Thrasher this year, he's on tour in Japan.

Looks like we might hit 50+ this year.

Grandpa Jess is gonna man the grill.

Wondering if Vermilya is gonna man up and do the Full Pecker?

The wife is drunk on a Tuesday. She's a teacher. Fucking dream job.

I'm already planning for number 10. Look the hell out!

What Makes a Peckerhead?

Some of you've read this before, but in a supreme act of literary self-satisfaction (hey, if you can't love yourself, how can you love someone else...?), here's the summary. To those seasoned attendees, use the comments section to add your own literary masterpieces. Haikus, anyone? I'm calling you out, Corroto!

Ahem...

The qualities of a true Peckerhead, abridged.

First, hubris is key. A true Peckerhead really believes that 70 miles in the hills of Richland County is no biggie. He knows his vast experience (old age) and steely resolve (self-delusion) will surely make up for no training and fifteen extra pounds. Second, a sense of humor in the face of humiliation and suffering is required. Reference item number one.

But don't sweat it. For the Peckerhead Invitational is neither a race nor a tour. This is a ride, man! A jam session. A rolling reunion. The Peckerhead is like hanging with local friends at a dive bar where the cable's out and the popcorn machine won't work - but you don't give a shit. You have to be special cat to dig that vibe. In that situation, a true Peckerhead just orders pizza, listens to the game on the radio, and chats up the waitresses. Again, reference item number one regarding hubris.

So come out and ride with us. If you have friends that fit the profile, bring 'em along. If your friends are lame, leave 'em home.

See you next Saturday. Whoo hoo!

Only a Week Away! Are You In?

Sherwin Out of Hiding -- Attendance Confirmed

RSVP's have been rolling in, but we had a significant one today. Apparently, M Sherwin has not taken his TARP funds and taken up residence in the Caribbean, but rather has been spending time on the Continent. In a cryptic e-mail received tonight, Sherwin indicated that he will return to the states in time to do one training ride, grab a six pack of beer, and make his presence known.

Laguna Beach Memoirs

In my life, I have never done anything resembling a cycling training camp. Seriously, does TOSRV count? No, not really.

Well friends, thanks to the organizational genius of one S Conery I found myself in Laguna Beach, CA last Tuesday, adjusting the brakes on my rental bike, watching Mark assemble his new Wilier, wondering if it would rain, and fiddling with my arm warmers as Conery bounced around the hotel like a kid on Christmas. Out the door we went on to the PCH north to Huntington Beach and back for our first 50 miles. And so it went for the next five days.

355 miles, 13,000 feet of vertical, untold volume of laughs.

Here's some observations from camp.

Every 3rd car in Laguna Beach is a Porsche 911, thus making it the official mayor of LB. Rumored first act was to outlaw shitbox Buicks like the one I drive.

I looked for LC, Spencer and Heidi -- no dice.

There are no overweight people in Laguna unless they are from out of town.

There are a lot of people from out of town. In Porsche 911's.

Getting out of town is basically impossible by Ohio standards but, surprisingly, that isn't all bad.

The people in the Porsches, they're unbelievably polite and deferential to cyclists.

The Pacific Ocean is a magnificent thing.

When you do 1000' feet at 20% grades in about a mile, you're gonna be tired.

There are at least three climbs like that in Laguna Beach. We did two of 'em.

Sometimes SoCal is not sunny. This was one of those times.

When your taint hurts, everything else kind of hurts too.

If you need to find out what your taint is, go ride for five days straight. You'll know.

Finally, I am a very fortunate person to have a friend like S Conery. Class act all the way.

See you in two weeks.

Jay

82 Miles and 5500 Feet! Whoo-Hoo!

Peckerhead Conery Gives Rare Interview

Have You Guessed Yet?

Where's Waldo?

Sighted Near Plymouth, Ohio

I really wish I had a picture. But here's what I saw this Sunday that is so very Ohio. Riding on flat farm roads headed north toward Plymouth, I passed (just) two teenage Mennonite / Amish boys in pressed jeans, white shirts, their best church hats, and regular shoes on Fuji tri-bikes. Homeboys were hustling on their way to services, probably.

Carbon frames and corn fields. Only in Ohio.

Jay

On Motivation

Usually, this time of year finds me completely motivated. I've been racing for six weeks, the Peckerhead Invitational is coming up, the weather is getting better, my fitness is starting to sharpen up... all roads are rising to meet me. Now mind you, that's all relative. In reality, the above means that I've been getting my ass kicked for six weeks, The Peckerhead is about to take over my life, it isn't snowing anymore, and I am less fat... but still completely motivated.

This year has been different. Really different. I spent the winter just kind of looking at my bike on the trainer. Not longingly, but through a cloud of vague contempt I could never quite define. I rode infrequently and with no focus. I did not log mileage or hours, and paid little or no attention to my diet. There were moments where I circled back to a passion for cycling, like when I opened my mail order jar of Mad Alchemy embrocation. That stuff is truly a magical product that feels and smells of what I imagine Belgium to be in the middle of April. The smell is an undefinable combination of stone, flowers, farm fields, coffee, and grease. Wonderful, comforting and effective in every possible way. I would smear it on my legs and suit up to go outside, and feel the freedom and oneness that had always come with cycling. But those feelings would inevitably wash off with the embrocation and I would drop back down into apathy.

There were reasons for how I felt, for sure. Some professional, some personal, but really it was my problem. I just wasn't finding motivation in the same places I always had. And it surprised me how little I really cared as I gradually missed race after race, ride after ride,... until, well, there I was.

And then, someone asked me today how I felt about not racing this spring. Ironically, we were riding when he asked me. I answered instinctively and right away, with no hesitation. I was pissed, I said, and disappointed, and angry, and bitter that I had not raced and wasn't ready to race this spring. The words - strong as they were - slid out calmly and with little inflection. As if they had already been removed of their raw meaning and were now under my control after the speaking. There was a counterintuitive peacefulness that came with admitting the truth: life had taken over and I just wasn't prepared.

I knew right away that I had taken a turn and was now coming out of the weeds and back toward a center I had strayed far away from over the last few months. I began rescheduling my season in my head and adapting myself to this year's reality.

"Prep for trip out west with lots of hills, start sprints and speed work, okay... watch my weight, huge miles in California in late May, yeah... then do a couple more hard weeks and you'll do a great Peckerhead. That leads right into criterium season! Your favorite races! And the height of summer! Yeah. The season can be salvaged. It doesn't have to suck!"

I have no idea what this post means to you. On re-reading, it's kind of melodramatic to tell you the truth. But maybe you're relating to my lameness. Maybe you're wondering why you suck so bad this year. I have no idea how this season is going to turn out for me, but I know one thing: it will see me on my bike. Smiling, suffering, racing, laughing, cramping, and riding with my friends, which is what it has always been about for me, anyway.

And with that, please join me me in officially kicking off my season on May 6th, 2009. See you on the road, Peckerhead. Jay