Author: Bob Brooks

On Saturday evening, 135 cyclists lined the red carpet at the Indy Colts Complex to greet Lance Armstrong and his guests for a fund raising dinner for the IU Cancer Research Center. Among the greeters were doctors, children and cancer survivors, all of whom cherished the thought of catching a glimpse of the illusion who has given hope to so many.

Amber from the IU Cancer Center wanted to create an Alpine ascent-like atmosphere for Lance and his guests, so she gave cow bells and flags to all the greeters. Guests were surprised and pleased as the greeters clanged and waved with wild enthusiasm akin to something like Lance might have experienced on one of his legendary ascents, to show their appreciation for the generous donations made by the $10,000 a table dinner attendees.

For nearly three hours the cyclists stood in the hot sun with hopes of a glimpse. After the first two hours, organizers realized dehydration was setting in and brought bottled water to the heat-weary greeters, but still, no sign of Lance.

Approaching the third hour, it was revealed he’d snuck in thru the back door. In and of itself, no big deal. But when the cyclists were told he would not come out to greet them, you could feel the air being let out of their fragile psyches. Understandably, Lance faces security issues none of us can imagine. But for him to neglect even a short thank you with a wave of acknowledgement to these people was just wrong.

Clearly disturbed by the invisible dis, Amber took matters into her own hands by inviting the cyclists inside the Colts complex to hear him speak so they’d at least have a chance to glimpse the illusion. Yet upon being told Lance would not acknowledge them, many chose to leave rather than go inside the building to hear him speak. No matter what he may have said, his message now rings hollow for those children and cancer survivors who’d hoped to receive a general wave or a smile of hope and acknowledgement. Sadly, it appears the illusion caters to the old line “that money talks and bullshit walks.” Take your money and run Lance, because you’re gonna need it when the illusion is completely stripped away.  

For years I have messed with my saddle position; had to get it just right. The boys below need marshamallow comfort while allowing for the most optimum thrust angle – for pedaling, that is.

Five score and six years ago, I had my perfect position. It looked like shit, with the saddle shoved all the way forward on the rails and my back hunched like a cat about to pounce. But it worked for me and that should have been all that mattered. NOT.

Over the past six years, I have f….. and f….. and f….. with my saddle to the point where the cut out in the center began to grow hair around it. Did I mention I’ve f….. with my saddle? No doubt my ex-wife would concur, and if you co-habitated with her, you’d wish YOUR saddle grew hair around the cut out, too.

Ah, but I digress. After trying to ride with my saddle centered on the rails, which puts me much further behind the center of the BB, procures the sleek, flat-backed posture of the classic racer, and compromised my acceleration such that I had become slower than our turtle mascot, I’ve acquiesced to my body’s own rationale; saddle high and all the way forward on the rails. Not coincidentally, she returned to her smooth, peachy origins.

I was asked for at the McCormick’s Creek RR by none other than the Druber, himself. Sorry to disappoint you mate. Likewise, I was disappointed in your absence from Ceraland. The saddle needed a shave however, er, rather, an adjust. Actually, with no 1,2 Category our squad chose to save the weekend for our significant others. Repairing hail-damaged windows and flower beds were the order of the weekend. But don’t worry Druber, we’ll race soon. Might wanna put that 53 back on in lieu of the 54…

Speaking of 54s, one contemplates TTs. Last night the first Trader’s Point 7-mile TT took place on the northwest side of Indy. Twenty-five or so ventured out to test their legs and minds against the out and back that featured a big-ring climb on the way out and again, 500 meters from the finish.

I’ve enjoyed TTs about as much as I’ve enjoyed Druber over the last couple of years. But the new, kinder, gentler Druber, who says he is finished bashing Hooterville and was disappointed in my absence from Sunday’s RR, may have opened the door to a more amicable relationship between myself and TTs. It wasn’t first place, but I did finish 3rd last night. Phil Liggett, in his overly accentuated British enthusiasm, was overheard, “Brooks on a TT podium; now there’s a turner for the books.”

Mike Sherman of the Zipp squad, an elite level Triathlete and converted Roadie in the 40+ Category, took the top spot with a time of 15:56. Francis Manfred of MOB Squad, a TT specialist who improves every season, finished 2nd with a time of 16:05. My own 16:19 stood up for 3rd.

I went out a bit too hard, as I was actually ahead of Manfred by the turn around, but paid for my over zealousness on the return. Approaching the turn around, I heard Paul Sherwen proclaim, “Put a guvanah (governor) on it, mate.” Advice I wish I’d heeded.

About that race on Sunday, Great job to Bruce Miller, Adam Rodkey and Gary Palmer for their efforts and high placings. Next up is the Anderson Stage Race, and yes Druber, “When you need a friend, just call out my name, and I’ll be there.”