La Riviera Maya

Hola amigos! I hope this finds you well in climes where fall is making itself felt once again.

Morning coffee on the balcony

My current location is the Ocean Coral & Turquesa in Puerto Morales, on the Mexican Riviera just south of Cancun. This is hurricane season, but apart from daily afternoon showers I've been lucky. Daytime temperatures are in the mid-80s, and at night it cools off into the lower 70s. The hunidity is worse than it would be in the spring or summer, thanks to the daily rains, but that's why they have an ocean and three big pools here.

Puerto Morelos' fancy pier

I've been spending my time reading, riding the Ritchey (got caught in a pretty heavy deluge yesterday but then hit dry ground again), and attempting to make diving reservations. The latter has been a bit of a lesson in frustration, thanks to the local haphazard outfitters. Maybe I will actually get to dive tomorrow.

Nighttime at the Ocean Coral & Turquesa

This place is quite fancy, and the evenings are quiet and relaxed. The pools are illuminated, and one can sit in the breeze and watch the sea roll in or simply sip a cocktail. And the food is quite nice, too, as there are various themed restaurants (there's also a large buffet-style one) where one orders a la carte. Even at the risk of having to eat my words next time I'm invited at Martha and Alan's, I couldn't help but order the tiramisu. No, not all desserts are stupid, I'm afraid.

Quite a presentation in the Italian restaurant

It's Sunday morning, and breakfast beckons. After that another bike ride, more reading, and lots of floating and bloating. Hasta la vista,


Jürgen

PS: That bike ride deserves a post script. It was by far my worst ride of the year, one that I thought I would not be able to complete. On the way out (one can ride only south, west, and north from here, and I had ridden in the latter two directions already) I had a slight tailwind, enough to make it unbearably hot and muggy. The practically standing air was stifling, but I soldiered on, going easy and fairly slow. When it came time to turn around at the 16-mile mark, the wind provided some relief, but not much. And I think I had something going on inside of me since I became more and more fidgety, couldn't find a comfortable position on the bike, and finally had to throw up on the side of the road. I had enough water, but those 16 miles became longer and longer, and hotter and more humid. I was sweating like a pig and hurting like a dog, my speed dropping down to 12 and 13 mph. Oh, it was ugly. Somehow I made it back to the hotel where I immediately took a cold shower, drowned several cans of club soda, and then submerged myself in the pool. Half an hour later I realized that I had averted the heat stroke and was back among the living. Damn, that was no fun today. I'll have to be more judicious about future rides, I suppose.

24-Hour National Championships: Don't believe it—it's more like 40 hours!

Oh, the fun I am having! Or the sleep deprivation. Or both. But we all know that sleep is overrated, right?

Well, at least on a short-term basis.

After arriving in CO Springs Thursday night and a wonderful German dinner with race director Tim Scott I spent Friday familiarizing myself with the venue in Palmer Park and helping out at registration, at the very trendy Ascent Cycling, a truly cool bike shop. Palmer Park—like Central Park in NYC or Cameron Park in Waco—is one of those rare legacies of a visionary who realized a hundred years ago that people need more than just their homes to be able to live. I'm not sure of the exact size of this gem, but our race track covered 13 miles and apparently only scratched the surface of the existing trail system. There are gorgeous vistas of Colorado's second-largest city, and Pike's Peak and Red Rocks seem to be within grasp's reach.

Palmer Park, in the middle of Colorado Springs—wow!

But I wasn't here just for the sightseeing. I know, none of you thinks I ever work, but I really do. It may not be lifting stuff, or scraping things off the floor, but it is sometimes similar to being a greeter at Wal-Mart, and we know they do get strangled. During registration I had fellow "greeters" in Kelli Lusk and George Heagerty, two of USA Cycling's minions who not only are essential to keeping the USAC machine humming but who are also long-time friends. In the late afternoon, the venue started to take shape, but it was a long way from being the glitzy backdrop of Velo and VeloNews photos.

Before ...

... and before ...

... and 48 hours later

Let me tell you, Tim's crew worked HARD throughout the night so that we could have a National Championship.

A 24-hour race such as this is completely different from the other types of events that I officiate. Somehow, everything seems to be in slow-motion since the end is so far away. Maybe that's just my perception (and maybe erroneously so), but things appear less urgent, less pressing. Still, the start came at the exact appointed hour, at noon on Saturday with a shot fired from Dean's starter pistol that sent the racers running 200 meters to their bikes in a beautifully executed LeMans start. It doesn't get much better for the spectators.

The 24 Hours of COS open with a LeMans start

The course in Palmer Park was about 13 miles long, most of it not overly technical and but with lots of short power climbs and little time to recover on long downhills. These National Championships saw both single riders competing as well as teams of two and four riders, in various combinations. And there was even a category for singlespeed riders, who were amazingly fast. While the teams generally traded off after one or sometimes two laps each, the solo riders were facing a grueling 24-hour slog all by themselves. Some of them have support crews, but others are self-sufficient and will stop for just a few moments at their campsite in the "village" to grab something out of their ice chest and then continue on yet another lap. The top riders such as eventual champions Josh Tostado and Monique Mata turn almost the same time on each lap, slowing down only a little bit over the course of the day. They are like machines. The teams' fastest lap times were around 56 minutes, while the solo males turned a number of 59-minute laps. I believe the winning team churned out 23 laps over the course of the 24 hours, and Tostado was right behind. Simply amazing.

Racers on the first lap in Palmer Park

After two hours of racing, about the time for a "normal" mountain bike cross-country race, the race doesn't stop. It goes on. The clock suddenly shows four hours, and one realizes that we still have 20 hours to go! That's almost another full day! Reality slowly sinks in, and the time slowly ticks by. Racers come through the start/finish and transition area, where the teams exchange their timing chip, which serves as a "baton," and then go out on another lap. The clock and the sun indicate it is five o'clock—another 19 hours to go. By this time we had found out that the bulletproof chip timing was rather bullet-riddled, and our crew of three commissaires knew that we would have to record every racer on every lap, with a precise time, if we were to stand any chance of ending the day with legitimate results. Why does chip timing work for 3,000 athletes in triathlons but has been more than just mildly troublesome in every mountain bike race that I have ever worked?

At 6 p.m., racers who enter a new lap are required to go out with lights on their bikes. Now, if you have not seen those fancy $400+ lighting systems that are either helmet- or handlebar-mounted, you wouldn't believe the light output. One company is aptly called "Nightsun." Some of the racers don vests and arm warmers, others head out into the quickly arriving night still in their salt-encrusted short-sleeved jerseys. Tinted sunglasses give way to clear lenses. In the transition area a certain routine has settled in, and the exuberance has calmed somewhat. We still don't have any accurate results updates, and we will continue to work through the night trying to sort out the progress of the race together with the lone woman who is working the chip timing. We still have 16 hours to go.

A racer enters another lap around 3 a.m.

Rogene, Dean, and I keep track of the racers, with me spending much time in transition and walking around to tend to other tasks (sometime as mundane as finding coffee for Rogene). Time starts to flow together. Dean takes a break for maybe 90 minutes, and Rogene and I record racers going by. Dean returns, and Rogene takes a break. Mine comes for 40 minutes around 5:30 a.m. Meanwhile, the solo-riders have been going, going, going. Faces look drawn, the team riders who get rotated out are cramping and shivering from the cold. One rider comes in, desperately looking for a teammate to substitute him; a handler tells him that he has to go out for another lap, that for some reason his substitute is not available. He takes off, slowly.

Rogene and Dean trying to keep the night gremlins away

Daylight finally arrives, and at 8 a.m. (still four hours to go, twice the time of a "normal" race!) the quiet hours are over and our announcer returns. Music starts to blare again, and some life returns. We have finally posted a reliable set of running standings, and we now update them every hour. I make the round-trip between commissaires' stand and chip-timing every 10 minutes to work out yet another kink. When we post the final preliminaries at 11 a.m., ten minutes before riders may enter the course one last time, we are accurate.

The spoils are waiting for the new national champs

Finally, at noon on Sunday, it's all done. Eyes are bloodshot, some of the riders are a bit delirious, and everybody is craving sleep. But there are first the stars-and-stripes jerseys and the medals for the winners, and then the tear-down of the venue starts. Rogene and Dean leave, I debrief with the race organizer, and his visually worn-out wife finally drops me off at my hotel around 4:30 p.m. I tell you, it should have been called the 40 Hours of Colorado Springs!

And now it's Monday morning, I have slept well, and my plane is leaving at 10:40 a.m. The beginning of a week of R&R in Cancun is just 48 hours away, and we know how fast that time goes by.

Jürgen

One year later

Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days ago, on a morning very similar to today—clear skies, little wind, a fresh, crisp whisper of fall in the air—the first rays of the sun entered a hospital room in Lubbock, casting a golden glow on Judy's relaxed, almost happy face as she left me and us. Her physical time on Earth came to a peaceful end at ten until eight.

One year can be such a long time, and yet it is nothing but a brief interval. Even though September 29, 2010 is completely clear in my mind's eye, I was not myself as it all seemed so surreal. I have looked back on the minutes and hours and then days and weeks and months after Judy's death, and I have come to the conclusion that our life is, indeed, surreal. Read that however you want.

For the past year I have continued to do what I had promised Judy: to go on living and to be OK. Judy was so full of life that it would have been an affront to not follow her steps and courageously build on what she and I had been working on for such a long time. I'm not just talking about the "retirement" aspect, because that could be misunderstood as saying that we worked for the "golden years" without her being able to enjoy them. We lived the "golden years" as everyone who knew and knows us will attest. No, what I mean is that we worked on our humanity and our zest for life and our love for everything and most around us. And I have continued that path.

I have not lived the life of the typical widower—I didn't wear black, either physically or spiritually. I didn't sink into the doldrums of despair. I didn't change my life for changing's sake. What I have been doing is embrace life, realizing more than ever before how little time we have here. My friends have helped me along in untold ways, being there for me, no questions asked. I've stayed busy, which undoubtedly has helped—traveling the way I have certainly makes it easier to forget the sorrow.

Not everybody may agree with my lifestyle or my relationships. That's OK. We are who we are, and this is now my life. Judy is with me, as I can honestly say that there has not been a day when I have not been thinking about her and there have been very, very few days when she hasn't come up in conversation. And that's how I want to continue: with her at my side, in wonderful memory, continuing the path that we once walked together but that I have to explore now on my own.

Here's to a wonderful woman.

Jürgen

And another 70.3: This week it's Augusta

A week ago I updated the blog from dry and cool  New York state, and today I sweated my fanny off in hot and muggy Georgia. It was my final triathlon for the year, and what a race it was. Just imagine, close to 3,300 racers entered the Savannah River this morning, with goals as humble as simply finishing and as über as qualifying for next year's World Championship in Las Vegas.

Transition at 6:00 a.m., jam-packed with athletes

I had worked this event (then in its second year) for the first time last September. It had been a bad weekend, as I had left Judy in the hospital in Lubbock and her condition suddenly deteriorated so badly that I had to change my travel plans and head for the airport even before the awards had been started. It rained last year, and much of the race is still in a haze for me. For 2011, I was determined to enjoy Augusta's southern hospitality and get a btter idea of what this place is like.

You know you're in the South when you see tillandsia usneoides

To add a bit of fun to this trip I decided to take the Ritchey along so that I would get a chance to ride a few times. As it turned out, I was able to go for several rides just across the river, in South Carolina, where most of the bike course for the race is located. Smooth roads, beautiful countryside, and little traffic were a real bonus on these 30-mile jaunts.The bike also allowed me to monitor the Pro field during the run portion of the triathlon, especially useful since none of my other officials had brought bikes. While sitting on the motorcycle had been pleasant with the day's early 80-degree temperatures, riding the bike quickly showed me how brutal today's conditions really were. No wonder the medical tent was chock-full of poster children for heat exhaustion and dehydration.

Who says being a ref has to be boring? Checking the Pros...

The crew consisted mainly of the same officials as last year, plus the welcome addition of veteran Marty F. from Florida, with whom I had worked the San Juan race earlier this year. He and I get along superbly, and we share a common love for good beers. Nothing like the Terrapin Hopsecutioner, I tell you! Marty's wife, Lauren, drove to Augusta with two racing buddies, and all three finished their race, Lauren with a PR. All of us had dinner twice so that I really didn't spend much time holed up in my room in the Marriott.

Triathletes have a wicked sense of humor

It's a crazy world: Tomorrow I will fly back to Lubbock, try to bring order into my life for two short days, and then fly up to Colorado Springs (the upgrade cleared this afternoon!) for the 24-Hour Mountain Bike National Championship, for which I am the chief. I doubt that it'll be another weekend with 98% humidity!

So long,

Jürgen

Ironman 70.3 Syracuse

Boy, it was cold this morning! When I drove out to Jamesville Beach Park, just outside of Syracuse, at 4:15 a.m., the car's thermometer showed 44 degrees! Comparatively, the water was outright balmy at 62 Fahrenheit. That made for an eery scene, with fog slowly lifting over the lake while the swimers entered the water at the crack of dawn.

Age-group athletes try to warm up in the lake

Last year the race was held in similarly cool but foggy conditions, and hypothermia had been a really issue. This year, the sky was clear, the air was dry, and once they got going, the athletes seemed to warm up better than we on the motos. Without fog I got to marvel at the beautiful countryside, with its rolling hills, bucolic villages, and gently green pastures. Following the Pro men's field I had ample opportunity to look around. My driver, Charlie, chauffeured us safely on his beautiful Triumph, and once again I had to p[inch myself to make sure this job is real.

Charlie, the Triumph, and I

Compared to last year's inaugural event, today's race saw far fewer racers, even though the run course had been completely changed (for the much, much better) and other improvements had been made. So, as referees our job was relatively quiet, especially since the many hills discourage drafting and break up the various waves of athletes. Still, the atmosphere was festive, and the sunshine brought out lots of supporters.

Fans at the entrance to T2

This race must have the tidiest porta-potties that I have ever seen. Every one of the portable toilets has a small carpet, flowers, a bag or two of potpourri, and a nice picture of athletes. Now, that's classy! The company responsible (www.msunlim.com) calls these honeypots Home Sweet Home Portable Restrooms.

You won't want to leave them ...

The awards were on time, the afternoon had warmed up, and it seemed that everybody (except my two DQs) was happy. How could one not, in such a locale?

Jamesville Beach Park, home of the Syracuse 70.3

When 5 p.m. rolled around I was finally done with my day (kinda), and I drove back to the hotel to change. Then I was off to the downtown area, where Syracuse was celebrating its Italian roots with music, food, and street dance. I ambled around for a time, looking at some of the historic buildings and unwinding.

This former (rehabilitated) stretch of the Eerie Canal is used in the winter as an ice skate rink

Syracuse sees red, green, and white (and orange, as well!)

I finally ended up at The Limerick Pub where the beer lines are clean and several nice IPAs were on tap, among them Southern Tier IPA and the Californian Laguinitas. Since the pub doesn't serve any food I grabbed another Philly cheesesteak sandwich at the Suds Factory and finished the evening off with good beer, tasty food, and a chance to write my race report. Ah, the man never rests.... Tomorrow night I'll be in my own bed. Yeah!

Jürgen

Interbike in Las Vegas, and now in Syracuse, NY

It seems that I simply can't keep the blog updated fast enough to keep pace with my schedule. Just yesterday, it seems, I was hanging out at that pool at the Marriott in San Jose, waiting for my flight to Miami after by Dallas flight had been cancelled. Check the calendar: It's Saturday night, five full days later!

So here's what I've been up to: I took the late flight to MIA, where AA put me into a Sofitel for a few hours before I had to catch the early-morning flight to DFW on Tuesday. That flight, as a matter of fact, was one of the very, very few this year for which I was not upgraded—the entire First Class cabin was full of full-fare customers. Now, I can't argue with that. My upgrade percentage is still over 90%...

Arriving in rain-starved West Texas, once again

Once in DFW I connected to LBB, where I arrived around noon. By 12:30 p.m. I had unpacked my bags and had the washing machine going. (No, it's not that I have that few wearable items—heaven, you know how much crap lies around the house!—but I just don't like to have dirty laundry sitting around.) Between returning accumulated phone messages, talking to the neighbor, trying to hunt down the UPS guy who had a red-label package that I had to take with me to Vegas, and packing for the tradeshow and the immediately following 70.3 in Syracuse I somehow found a few minutes to Skype with Sabine, who had re-entered the real world in Munich over the weekend. At 7:30 p.m. I checked in for my flight to Vegas. Ufff.

Nobody was around to personally welcome me. Unbelievable!

The tradeshow—I think my 21st or 22nd since 1988—was good. Not spectacular, but good. I had a chance to renew quite a few industry contacts after last year's hiatus, I connected with a few people face-to-face whom I only knew through our telephone contacts, and I had a chance to spend quality time with my old buddy Lee, who goes to Interbike as one of Tandem Pro's, ahem, employees. (Incidentally, the current amateur road champion from Luxembourg, Christian Helmig, is also on my "payroll," and while we are at it, his lovely girlfriend Christine rounded out the staff—all are seasoned cycling industry veterans who were working the show to strengthen the sponsorship ties for their Dallas-based team.)

Lee, Christian, and Christine—Tandem Pro's world-class employees

It's good to have folks like Lee and Christian around, because they know the industry just as well as I do and are helpful in spotting new product, introducing me to new contacts, and being wing men when it comes to Happy Hour, which starts around 3 p.m. at Interbike. In other words, we had a great time.

The Venetian, where Tandem Pro's staff stayed (on their own dime!)

At 12:50 a.m. Friday morning, my flight to Chicago left Vegas' McCarran. Thanks goodness for the upgrade and the little bit of shut-eye after a fairly strenuous 48 hours in Sin City. Three more hours in the Admirals Club in Chicago and another two hours in an Eagle to Syracuse, and I had arrived at the location of my penultimate triathlon of the year. Should you ever watch "Up in the Air" with my look-alike, George Clooney, well, just think: There are really some people who are pulling the portrayed kind of schedule.Still, I still think that the movie is a bit unrealistic since Clooney stays handsomely trim throughout the flick while I continue to prove that the principle of entropy is, indeed, verifiable. Yes, I am the poster child of the expanding universe. But I find it impossible to turn down a flight attendant who is proffering a G&T. I simply can't be rude. Seriously!

I worked on the entropy thing one more time last night when Dave Ragsdale, the best triathlon announcer in the Delta Quadrant—if not the known universe—and I went downtown to have dinner. We hit Syracuse Suds Factory for, duh!, suds and food, managed to force down a pint at PJ's (don't go there—worst beer ever!!!), and finished the night off at the Empire, where the beer was better but not on par with the finest that NM, WA, or CA have to offer. But the company was great: Dave and I have been working races together for four or five years, and we'd never had a chance to sit together and exchange notes on life while yelling over the roaring ding of pre-pubescent shrieking nubiles who were on a fraternity-sponsored pub-crawl in downtown Syracuse. I love the races.

...sans mots...

Today was more of a workday, with the usual Saturday prep: Take a water temp reading (64° F, most definitely wetsuit legal), check the course, attend the Pro meeting, train the volunteer marshals and Penalty Tent personnel, go back out to the race site to de-clusterf**k the mandatory bike check-in, etc. Hey, they pay me the BIG bucks, in case you didn't know.

And now it's a bit after 10 p.m. Eastern, I just had a Caged Alpha Monkey IPA (bought at Wegman's—a heckuva grocery chain in these parts where my moto driver, Charlie, works in the produce department), and now it's time to add a few pics to the blog before I turn in for the night and an early, 4 a.m. start of the day. New Monsoon is playing on the little JBL sound system, there's the promise of a good-night beer (Southern Tier IPA), and I think that I lead the damn coolest life of anybody I (or you) know. Let's hope that last night's freeze warning is not going to be repeated tonight ... yes, it's nipp(l)y here!

Is this what one calls a quiver of beer?

G'night, and thanks for reading.

Jürgen

Why I fly American

OK, so every carrier, sooner or later, is going to have a problem—like, for example, a cancelled flight because of the lack of a crew. I know, it sounds pretty elementary, but when you think about it, an airline such as American can't have an extra eight or so crew members hanging out in  Costa Rica just in case one of the flights from the US doesn't make it down. Sure, it sucks when you get to the airport and the display cheerily proclaims that your flight has been cancelled, but shit just happens. What is of importance is how you fix the diarrhea.

Well, American this morning came through. It wouldn't have been a big deal if I weren't supposed to fly on Tuesday from Lubbock to Las Vegas, after picking up my officiating gear for this upcoming weekend's 70.3 triathlon in Syracuse. To make a long story short: Instead of flying at 9:40 a.m. to DFW and then on LBB, I am now in Miami, and it is midnight. Early in the morning (6:50 a.m., to be precise) I'll fly to DFW and connect to Lubbock. With some luck, I'll be there by noon. At 7:50 p.m.—yes, Tuesday.—I will be back at the Lubbock airport to catch the last flight to Sin City and the bicycle tradeshow.

A nice way to spend an unavoidable delay, eh?

All this was effected by the counter personnel (and the Premium Services Rep) in San Jose. But not only that: All my mainline flights were rebooked into First (except the MIA-DFW in the morning as it was fully booked). Additionally, I was set up with a day room at the Marriott Airport in SJO, where I spent a few delightful hours at the pool.

One more night ...

Lunches and breakfast are on AA as well, and I am updating this from the rather nice Sofitel Miami, all courtesy of AA. Now, I'm not crazy enough to think that they would have treated me like this did I not carry the Executive Platinum card, but man, they really went out of their way. So why would I send my loyalty in any other direction? Tonight, I am one happy customers who feels that I was treated right in an unfortunate situation. Props to AA. OK,  let's see what I have to say in 24 hours....

Jürgen