I got the call last week to join a crew of people on the annual Color Run, held at Candlestick Park … what is that, I hear you say? It’s a fun run, where you get absolutely pelted with paint, every 1000m, ending up in a completely crazy, multi-coloured finale of techno and tacos.
Why? No moral. No ‘stop-racism’ message built in. Just paint being pelted at you, surrounded by screaming people … a fun day, with some great people.
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A couple of months of expectation and marginal planning, and it was all almost ruined by yours-truly setting the Monday-Friday alarm on his iPhone, rather than the ‘other’ alarm, set for the next day only. So, 5:25am, and Marc is waiting outside my house with the engine running, waiting for the Brit to emerge from slumber.
“We’ll have to go on without him…” (or more likely less polite words to that effect, and in German)
6:20am, I awoke, proud of the fact I tuned my body to wake before the alarm sounded – at least for all of ten seconds as I stare at the clock on the wall in horror. “SHIT!”
Throwing my things into the car (almost literally), I career off in the direction of Palo Alto, and screech to halt at the registration desk, apparently still with time to sign up. Frantic SMSs to Marc sent, new helmet purchased (yes, it was sitting on the kitchen table) and away I go up the hill, alone with my thoughts and Clif bars for quasi-breakfast.
Sounds of the forest waking up for the day were rudely interrupted by one panting British cyclist on his way up the first major climb of the day (“out of my way, scumbag trees!”). No souplesse, no elegance, just mashing the pedals on the way to the first food stop of the day. Check the phone for messages (Marc still 40 minutes ahead!), and off I go down the road, slip-streaming the first stragglers on the descent towards the Pacific.
Three quarters of an hour later I slide into the mid-morning fuel stop. More than half-way through the course, and with a crazed look on my face, I hear a ‘Jonny!’ and turn around to see Marc waiting with our other team member. In my exhaustion and jubilation at seeing them, I lifted my bike to turn around and dutifully knocked over both someone else’s bike, and my own in the effort to save the first one. “Hi guys…”. Further muffins crammed down my gullet, M&Ms poured mostly into my mouth, and we are away – I felt the relief washing over me, and could finally start enjoying the ride.
And so we did. Riding up Route 1 towards San Francisco, we took in deep sea cliffs, arid hills patch-worked with forested gullies and horses copulating by the side of the road. Some of the old stage towns around there were fascinating – I suppose there is no real reason why these ‘startups’ of the day weren’t successful against San Jose or Palo Alto, but at least we are left with the old buildings and odd general stores.
Turning inland, we began the climb back into the trees. At this point, we were both overtaking large numbers of slower participants, and being trounced by local cycling clubs – there is always someone faster than you. Twisting its way up through the hills, it was surprisingly steep, and suitably punished my 60-mile year-old legs.
One immense downhill and a puncture later, and we landed back in Menlo Park. Rolling past old-growth Silicon Valley stalwarts such as HP and Lockheed Martin was something special – especially when high on endorphins and adrenalin. Visions of barbecues guided the way for the final ten miles, and thus it came to be – we did it!
I’ll be back next time, but perhaps setting two alarm clocks. More importantly, we raised some good money for the American Diabetic Association – thanks to all those that reached into their pockets.
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One of my minor ambitions during my stay in the USA was obviously to head to baseball game. It was extra-special to go there with my old man, and reminisce about all the other baseball games he didn’t take me to as a child while not growing up in America.
The pleasures of living in California … while it is a bit of an effort to get up to the slopes, it’s worth it. This time, it’s Squaw; a much larger, almost European resort, and host to the 1960 Winter Olympics. Super amazing (if cold) conditions were marred only by having ski boots that were a size too big … something to add to the shopping list.
Taiwan’s natural environment is a wonderland for outdoor sports; I have long said that it could be an Asian version of New Zealand. Some sports, such as cycling and hiking, already have a strong foothold, but the scale and breadth of the natural resources on offer here mean many more activities are possible.
River tracing (or river trekking) has been on the rise in Taiwan in the last few years. Similar to canyoning combines hiking, climbing and some swimming, negotiating obstacles and often working in a team. A host of friends have been recently, so I was delighted when one of Yuyin’s friends invited us to go.
There are several outfits offering outdoor activities in Wulai, but White Squall Adventure School is run for the benefit of improving the lot of less advantaged kids, so while the price was a little higher than the other places we thought it would be worth it. The company’s owner, Rock, is a true salt-of-the-earth type, and I really enjoyed spending the day with him.
I was imagining climbing up a very small stream, perhaps through trees, negotiating rocks and roots while making our way up the hill. Actually, we navigated our way up the river feeding into Wulai; a river I have ridden or driven beside many times and as a result even better to have a chance to splash around in.
Rock’s approach was to allow the group to discuss, try out, fail, retry and eventually succeed. This is in stark contrast to the typical teaching techniques in Taiwan that preach a digital correct / incorrect approach that yields accuracy, but does little in the way to foster team work or creativity. It was a wonderful day working as a team, looking out for each other, keeping eye-contact and slowly making our way to the end of the river. I would recommend it to any group of friends or colleagues.
So I have the bike, the glasses, the funny shorts and the lingo down, but true graduation to road-biker status would not be permitted by Tony without first joining him for some rides in Austin, and participating in the local Driveway criterium series. Tell a lie; I also need to shave my legs.
Instead of renting a bike, Tony had expedited assembly of his 1992 vintage Bianchi. A proper professional-grade thoroughbred from the early 90s, it is a marvel of lugs, lucious Ferrari-red paint and chroming. It showcases the cabinetmaker-standard construction techniques that were employed in Italy, and is in stark contrast to the carbon jelly-moulds around today. It also offers partial explanation for the rebound in custom steel frames that are flooding out of Portland, Berlin, and East London, recreating their ideal of an industry that has long since shifted to Asia.
Turning up at the race track, I quickly donned Lycra and went about warming up. Visions of the Cat 5 ‘beginner’ race had me finishing in the top ten and applying my fitness and handling skills to turn the screws on some of the locals. These thoughts vanished when I saw the waves of carbon, shaved legs, and steely gazes singeing the grass. Yup, this was my first race, I had never seen the back 70% of the track before, and it was my first time riding this (20 year-old) bike. I was absolutely bricking it. Shit!
Criteriums differ from the ‘stage’ racing format, given they are typically hosted on a tight, twisting track and offer fantastic opportunities for spectators to take in the racing, enjoy some drinks and scream their support at the riders. The atmosphere was alive with kids trundling around, music pumping out and the warm sun setting in the distance. America takes its recreation very seriously, and the results are communities like this, with families and friends getting together.
Meanwhile, in Hell, the pack of fifty-odd riders is slowly picking up locomotive pace, and my senses are a mess of static electricity, trying to process sounds, feelings and a spectacle that is completely different from anything I have experienced before. Looking at a pack of riders go by, and it seems so serene, like a rolling flock of birds. Inside that flock of riders, surrounded by a thousand fluttering wings of gear trains, aero wheels and bearings, it is a cacophony of white noise, expressionless Oakleys staring back at you. It is intimidating.
I keep pace pretty well for the first few laps; it’s surprising how little effort you need to apply when air resistance is removed from the equation. But a dull thud, shouting voices and a spray of arms, sunglasses and feet in the air up ahead, and it is quite clear there is a crash at the tightest corner – probably a clipped pedal. The pack splits up, and while we try our best to catch up, the air has suddenly become viscous, and I seem to be plummeting back through the field as my legs turn to plastic. I pick a couple of riders that seem to be attempting to bridge a gap back to the field, but it’s hopeless; they disappear from view.
There is no need to give up though. It’s a lovely evening with the sun splintering through the trees, and myself and a few others keep a reasonable pace. The finish line shouts out numbers: “6 to go!” but I don’t know if they mean minutes, laps or kilometers. I make a mental note through my panting to check with Tony. They scream “1 to go!” and I pick up the pace with the remaining stragglers to give a shot at sprinting for the final lap. Weary, we spear for the line and I see him peeling off, and all of a sudden I am surrounded by riders: were we lapped? Is this the next race starting? Do I stop now? Please?
Yes, so I was a bit confused at the end (I was lapped, and I think there were still a couple of laps to go), but it was a rush, and the memory of being surrounded by riders with ‘that sound’ was intoxicating. I shall be back!
Sunday was, naturally, Superbowl. The Pittsburgh Steelers played against the Greenbay Packers, in a northern-states head-to-head. This was my first Superbowl, so I was pretty excited to join in with the junk food, half-time adverts and shouting at an inert black box. I had effectively no idea what was happening the entire time, asked countless silly questions, and was probably more intrigued by some of the strange advertising; which was, I must say, a let-down.
Still, it was lots of fun to be there with committed Packers fans, and a bunch of work friends. You can’t but help be swept up in the sheer enthusiasm and pomp of the thing.
Team Latitude enjoy an afternoon of sport (on the sofa)
Insanely excited kids, air pumping and whooping at about age four.
Welcome to America, folks.
While Taiwan celebrates Chinese New Year, my boss took the opportunity to bring me over to Austin for a week or two with the team. I didn’t struggle too hard, since I can reschedule the holiday, and anyway flights out of Taiwan are pretty expensive during the holiday period. I have been through LA a couple of times, but never stopped for more than a couple of hours, escaping from LAX to Manhattan Beach for a swift beer.
This time, however, was different. I finally took Pip up on his offer to visit, and he picked me up at the airport in his new Range Rover. Without hesitation, he asked ‘do you surf?’ and I was too deep in exhaustion and jet lag to say anything else but ‘hell yes’ … I am not going to look a gift horse (or a Brit in a Range Rover) in the mouth. So, before I had even sat down, I was walking out of a surf shop in Santa Monica with surf board and wet suit in hand. Life is Awesome. Otherwise known as LA.
Range Rover + Surf Boards x Los Angeles = Pip Tompkin
Pip in his natural environment
Manhattan Beach in the daytime … long board in hand.
Limited snowboarding and wake-boarding experience have even more limited application to surfing, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me from trying. I mean, first time surfing here … what a start. Pip gave me the basic pep talk; essentially, paddle really quickly, jump up in one motion, don’t fall off … and we were off. I was far from completely fluid, but I did legitimately have some real standing time … I will be back.
After an extended chat on the beach and with my brain still being faxed over from Asia, we spot that the waves had receded. We grabbed the boards, paddled out to beyond the break, and hung out a little more. Some fins approach in the distance … “are they sharks?” I calmly ask. No, a school of dolphins swims by us, flirting in the wake. I bob there, mouth agape, and more than a little overwhelmed by the scene of dolphins, salt spray, and California rising up in the distance.
Jet lag completely forgotten, I decide this is time to catch a proper wave for the first time, and am caught by a fairly serious swell building up behind me. Arms darting into the salt water, I build up precisely the right amount of speed to catch the full momentum of the wave, and it picks me up like a rag doll as I dive off the six-foot wall of water. Screaming like a schoolboy (and with feet flying into the air) I plummet to oblivion, only to be spun around like an old t-shirt at the bottom of a washing machine. Twice.
Emerging from the water, I had nothing but a smile on my face, and water leaking out of my ears. My first proper wipe-out. Time for a burger. Time for In ‘n’ Out Burger.
While only having about three things on the menu, other styles, ingredients and upgrades can be had with the use of secret code names … a very cool idea.
The burger was pretty awesome, but mazing out on all the code names that I could think of broke my flat-mate’s #1 rule of buying burgers: get the basic one. ‘Animal Style’ and whatever happened to the fries, was delicious, but oh so oily. Ah well, start as I mean to go on!
After a quick brunch at Santa Monica staple, Norms, it was time for a tour of the LA sights. Naturally, we swap cars for something a little more befitting of Beverley Hills, Bel Air and Hollywood; yup – a drop-top BMW coupé. Music, shades and attitude packed, we prowled the streets, wowing at the cars on display, the wanton display of wealth, and imagining what celebrities are waiting around the corner (or at least I did). Since we were not rich Chinese tourists, we pointed the car at the mountains, and took in views of Hollywood from Mulholland Drive. It was surreal, taking in all these sights that I knew so well, and yet had never seen.
Wait a moment for the movie to load
Pip has two rather beautiful fixed-gear bikes, and he was kind enough to take out his baby for a spin – what a host. Cruising along Venice Beach was a cultural lesson in taking recreation very seriously; this is the melting pot that lead to skateboarding, surfing, hip-hop and BMX. It’s pretty humbling, and highly entertaining to see new forms of street culture bubbling up in front of your eyes.
Swap four wheels for two.
LA all the way.
Cavendish takes the green jersey.
Santa Monica amusement park at sunset … why doesn’t the whole of America live here?
Watching the scene; I could stay here the whole day.
An absolutely phenomenal weekend … thanks so much Shannon and Pip. You are welcome in Asia!
Myself, Tony, Ken and Sandra … ready to roll!
I am almost positive that if I did ever end up moving to Austin, my waist line would do one of two things, depending on a series of decisions I would need to make. These decisions would essentially revolve around two of the central tenets of Austin culture; high-intensity sport, and high-calorie Texmex food. Until the middle weekend in Austin, I had done a fantastic job at tackling the second of the two pillars, but an astoundingly poor job of moving the centre of gravity (literally and figuratively) the other way.
Luckily, Ken (my big boss), Sandra (big boss’ wife, and former pro-mountain biker) and Tony (shave-legged roadie compatriot from the Austin design team) were on hand to lead me round a few of the best trails in and around Austin; quite literally on a large portion of the population’s doorsteps.
I spent the week sorting a bike out, eventually opting for a 5″ Trek Fuel EX8 from Mellow Johnnie’s bike shop – owned by Lance Armstrong no less. I also took the opportunity to top-up on bike kit and clothing that tends to be more expensive or simply unavailable in my size back on the ROC.
Trek Fuel Ex8
We tackled the Green Belt the first day, escaping the rain just as we returned to the cars (the best type of rain?). It mixed in highly technical rocky sections that were reminiscent of our own ‘Graveyard’ run, but with long flat-out sections where it was possible to stretch your legs in ways impossible in Taiwan. Tony is pretty bleeding fit, and we laid down some rubber for the final kilometres, with Sandra hot on our tail whooping encouragement and tips at us sweaty guys in the engine room at the front. Texmex perfectly filled the hole left by the early start and the exertion.
Pioneer spirit
I was pretty impressed with the Trek, both up hill and down dale.
It was certainly much tighter than the average rental bike, and seemed to have similar responses to my Giant Trance.
Tony, rocking a similar vintage bike to the one I ride back home.
Sandra – a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Wonderful to ride with!
Tony and I both flatted on the same rock step, within seconds of each other. As ever, the CO2 cartridges managed to spray a mixture of ice and condensed water everywhere except into the tube.
Trail vision
Hanging on, back up the hill
Tony – I want to see you with some better equipment next time – bloody impressive skills!
The clouds returned the next day, so we opted to head a little further afield to trails that are a little more tolerant of erosion than the downtown trails. Indeed, I was quite impressed to see how protective people were of the trails; riding in the wet was positively anti-social. Not quite sure that would be feasible in the UK. Ending up at Mule Shoe (doesn’t that just sound so Texan?) and passing by banks of hill-top haciendas, the trail begins by weaving through an intricate series of tracks with entertainingly technical ups and downs. We managed to get in a few kilometres before the heavens well and truly opened once more, and we got thoroughly dumped on. I was like a pig in shit, but we opted to turn back, since flash flooding is a very real risk.
So, and early exit, but a great experience and two days of excellent riding. Hopefully, I will be back to finish the rest of that Mule Shoe trail some day. I hope I also proved that the opposite and opposing forces of mountain biking and Texmex may some day find a happy balancing point.
Single track heaven …
… and some more mechanical hell. Typically – just as the downpour begins.
Mud, glorious mud.
Water splash 1
Water splash 2
Rain stops play – and Ken has rather a nice toy!
Sandra and I enjoy drying off a little
While I am left with the distinct memory that Austin is wet and rainy!
