IT WAS THE BEST OF RIDES; IT WAS THE WORST OF RIDES . . .

Yeah, yeah, I know – clearly a rip off of that hack writer of Spanish drunken fame; seriously, I never claimed any originality. But really, the title fits the weekends training.

As we officially entered the less-than-three-week out point for the Grande Depart, it has become apparent that sitting around the local coffee shops and talking about our training may not have been the best preparation. So here we are, trying to stuff in whatever miles that can be found.

Saturday was no exception.

Two events dominated the weekend: one, a monster ride lovingly known as the 2010 Breathless Agony. The OC, who have vowed to recapture their long lost glory, stood mono-a-mono with the top climbers as they headed out on what turned out to be a 124 mile, 12,000 foot ascent, just shy of nine hour sufferfest. Now, don’t get me wrong, this is a stud ride if ever there was one, especially when you get a late start, make a wrong turn adding a dozen miles and spend the rest of the day chasing the clock and the aid stations, all while begging for tubes and CO2 carts and massaging your aching legs.

For Rick and Bobbo, I imagine this is how their day began,

“Hey JPEG, we better get moving, the ride started 40 minutes ago”, Rick shouts out in what has become a terminal case of disappointment in the choices he has made in friends.

Bobbo, still basking in his new-found sprinters title, simply turned, his nose perched firmly in the air and stated, “That start time is for the lesser riders, I AM A CHAMPION!”

Well you can pretty much figure out where that got them – seems the “Green-Bra” winner at the Biking for Boobs club ride and the Breathless Agony have about as much similarity in cycling circles as the Bingo Kids and Led Zeppelin, you can find yourself humming along to both, but only one guaranteed the chance to woe that local hottie as you riffed off your own version of Stairway to Heaven!

Course’ this stairway led to anywhere but heaven.

Reliving the classic tale of the tortoise and the hare, Bobbo completed his “dominance” in the ride by hammering past those “lesser riders”, only to pull over to the side, time and time again, falling dejectedly to the ground, tear rolling down his cheeks and crying out, “wait, I’m a champion” as those same “lesser riders” rode past – shaking their heads and snickering under their breath.

And what of the long suffering Rick. Well, with the embarrassment coupled with a deep rooted sense of self survival, he did the only thing he could – he dropped his head, gave a tiny wave and rode away – thinking once again of the mysteries of life’s choices.

Down south, the San Diego crew joined an 80-mile gut check in the north county. This included 7000+ feet of climbing and temperatures finally reminding everyone that global warming might be more than a catchphrase that our former VP and inventor of the internet Al Gore made up to explain that mountain man beard he was sporting after his turn away from the big desk in the round room.

With an invitation from the North County Cycle Club, the 30 strong field rolled out for a relatively easy warm-up before being introduced to the famed De Luz climb – a two mile, 9% route that blew the field apart. Nick “it’s good to be 25 around all you old men” Stoner moved to the front, lifted the pace and left the lead group panting in the background. There’s a reason why this team is a Master’s Club – these young kids have little respect for their wise and worldly elders.

With half the ride behind us and a long descent through Rice Canyon it all went bad. Poor Len, just back from his honeymoon – which happened to include a lifelong dream trip to Ireland just in time for that little ash cloud to shut down travel – was finally back on his bike and beginning to find his legs. Trouble was that what he really found was the breaking point for carbon. Seems at 35 mph it’s best to stay on your bike, vice attempting your own version of “don’t try this at home kids”. In full tuck, he hit a bad hole and launched over the bars – his once pristine Felt impacted the road on the back of the seat. Some of you math wizards out there can probably tell us how much force came into the equation, but it was clearly enough to snap the frame and turn 15 lbs of state-of-the-art bike into so much junk. Len came out much better; while he is now about a pound lighter in missing meat, nothing was broken; he could still basically remember his name and stopped drooling after a couple hours. His new wife is still sporting that 5-mile stare at the thought of spoon feeding him for the rest of eternity. I soothed her worries when I reminded her that she never made the “in sickness and health” promise, so she should be ok.

So there we are - broken bikes, broken egos and only a few more days to find that magic training that will lead to the coveted yellow. So here’s to no more crashes, good legs and a couple more weeks till the big ride.