Jacquie Phelan's Weblog

Irish champions Tarja and Niall spoil me

•August 25, 2011 • 1 Comment

Yesterday was my first real day on the green island. I’d been scooped up from Dublin airport by Niall Davis, a downhilling pro with a brown curly helmet of hair, and scooted back to the Ballinastoe cottage adjacent to their pet project: the first mountain biking park in Ireland. It’s been their mission for four years, the last year being full-time for him, while Tarja maintains a physio practice part-time as well. No slack time for either.

On the hour’s drive back from the airport I asked if he knew how long they would be allowed to develop the burgeoning fat tire tourism. And– more to the point– did he know Emma Guy and Tracy Brunger got booted from Glentress, the most successful of the Scottish Forestry /bike tourism initiative? Because as soon as it’s shown to make money, ‘real businessmen’ shoved them aside?

Niall replied, “well, we don’t know how long we’ll get shoto stay…”

“Maybe give the women a jingle and find out if there’s anything you can do at the start of your project to protect your sweat equity”.

“Could do. Should do.”

Is it my nature to ferret out the tricky issue within thirty minutes of meeting someone, then digging it up an’ shaking it around?

You already know the answer (faithful reader/rider).

This couple is a much-decorated pair, Tarja (pron “Tar-ya”), 34, anIrish champion, competed at OlympSydneypix but some unfortunate political infighting took away her zest for world level racing even though she qualified for Athens four years later. The loss is the sport’s, but the gain is all the people that she and Niall (pron: “Nile” like the Egyptian river) her partner teach and tour with both here and in Italy.

Once or twice a year they lead cycle tours at a town near lago di Garda, at a hotel where the auntie does the superb cooking, and the trails around t

he lake develop the appetite of the visitors.

The pair organized a meet and ride at the Ticknock Forest overlooking Dublin…and about a dozen people met at the Ticknock trailhead, we rode as a group for a pleasant sunset hour on a lovely purpose-built track, and dove into the cucumber and cheese sammies we’d made. And tea.Of course tea. Thanks to Gordon Lucas, gentleman farmer for lovely organic vegetables, and to Janos What’s his name and Bryan with a Y Joyce, triple great grandnephew of the literary lion

It took all my selling prowess to unload two five-euro embroidered patches to my unsuspecting victims….it’s gonna be tough to sell a hundred, and make about a third of my airfare… hmmm.

Special aftermath. They took me to Johnny Fox’s, a 200 year old pub that resembles the best antique shop I’ve ever been in….had spectacular lamb shank and perfectly steamed farm vegetables, and my first of perhaps a few Smithwick’s …lovely. If chdot wants to add links, i will not object. Unable to make microsoft computer do this…

Posted in "knobby nobility", "Mental health", heinous name dropping, Ireland, Single Speed, singlespeed

Colne Engaine

•August 20, 2011 • 1 Comment

A perfect day with the great Julia King, fastest woman in British off-road when I was here in 1985.

Back then she had a bike-shop owner boyfriend, Greg Oxenham who lived up to his name, as does my husband, Mr. Cleverbacon) and was freshly hatched from Cambridge University, a scholar of Anglo-Saxon studies or something.

All I remember is how good a conversationalist she was…quick with the repartee, and no topic un-delvable.

So now she’s got three little Kings (Orbells technically, she married a man named Nick Orbell, of plant taxonomy reonown) at the dinner table, and they all play musical instruments and take part in the family entertainment, which is Repartee on the Half Shell. Today we’d ridden a couple dozen miles in the lovely Essex hills, on frighteningly skinny roads bordered with wheatfield and hedgrow. Houses were painted yogurt pink and chamois yellow, with fantastically tidy rush roofs (is that the right word?)…thatched roofs. With little lacy decoration along the roofline.

Their youngest, Emily, is already an author. I’ll include her story “Never cross a crocodile’s path” when I can dig it up on this computer…I’m trying to use a Dell PC but it’s a chore. A bore, as these guys put it.

Posted in Uncategorized
Tags: Colne Engaine, Julia King

Singular Sam, Marvelous Monika

•August 17, 2011 • 1 Comment

secret Singular H.Q.

My cup runneth over, thanks to frame designer Sam Alison. He picked me up from the London airport, without even having to park, drove me back to the countryside (Briden’s Camp) home.

At SSWC 07 (Aviemore, Scotland) he lent me one of his powder blue steeds (blogs many years ago) and this year I’ll get to try his latest greatest, a cream colored Singular Gryphon. If I’d remembered to bring my camera umbilicus I could show you, but my packing was sketchy. He has models named for birds, and I suggested he give the underappreciated (in modern culture) vulture its rightful place (floating on a thermal, keenly scanning for leftovers). I guaranteed him that Buzzard, Vulture, Bustard deserve to be bicycle models along with Merlins, Kestrels, Swifts, etc…

When I unpacked, I found: a clean men’s shirt which was missing all its buttons. Must have used ’em on some project and forgotten to replace. I have 30 fine men’s shirts. Just grabbed the top one.

Two pair of socks, of which one is wool the other stretchy. And then a solo sock whose mate is still at home. Probably a reminder that this will be a singular summer, singlespeeding singlemindedly in sublime Ireland…as opposed to being an omen that I’ll lose a leg over here in a tragic auto accident.
No, it won’t happen, but these thoughts do intrude, and i have to beat them back but first you have to hear them.

Three pair of green trousers, most notably the Bonobos kelly green ones with paisley pocket-linings and impressively designed zipper tab. Details. This men’s clothing company is all about the details. Charlie and I have been smiled upon by the god of …um…nerviness. I wrote the company and they agreed that we would be acceptable endorsers of their super top-shelf corduroy wearables (I sent a pic of Charlie in his 1980’s triple-patched thrift shop cords). another pair are pale celery green, made of tee-shirt cotton, very soft and so stretchy they fall down. Took them in a lot, hope they behave. And the last are my race togs, stretchy black tights from North Face ( a gift from a friend).

Three shoes: bike, birkies, and English riding boots. I might try walking barefoot to keep up the rhythm of attempting to improve my I.Q. by teaching my soles to grip the earth, thereby exciting old dead neurocircuitry into action. Is this possible? Can proprioception be topped off?

He showed me the towns (will hope Chdot can insert map here) which alternate between lovely and loathesome, countryish, then council estately, then countryish….and I saw the canal boats on the Grand Union canal (who here remembers the grocery chain in Vermont by that name?).

Monika and he have been together years but one morning they were lolling in bed and he heaved a huge sigh, wondering aloud….’should we get married?’

They did it in her country at a beautiful painted old building, a mere two months ago: 11-6-11 . Easy to remember and fortuitous in the numerical balance department. If you’re into that…Wedding shots showed a couple of excellent Czech traditons: sweeping up a broken plate together (shows partnership in good times and bad) and Sam had to prove his mettle by sawing a big log in half. Three inches diameter is big, right?

They met at a summer work internship program in Czech Republic, she was in the same program.

I toasted them with ‘ mamrada zhivoty navenkovia’ (‘I like the country life’), one of my three memorized (since 1984 when Kvetoslav Palov taught me to say ’em) phrases: Bes problemu, and Vsecho moc skodi are the other two. The last one refers to the fact that too much of something isn’t good. That enough is perfect.

Posted in Uncategorized
Tags: Bonobos trousers, Briden's Camp, England, Gryphon, Singular Cycles, Singular Sam, SSWC2011

Bally-ho

•August 15, 2011 • 4 Comments

Here’s my almost-finished canvas for the ‘race’ in Ireland.
Since I discovered that Phelan was an Irish name (no kidding, my parents never mentioned it my entire childhood) I have been thrilled by the Book Of Kells.
It’s a work of “cold-blooded hallucination” according to Umberto Eco.

But according to history, it’s a sublime illuminated text in Latin, of the gospels of the various saints. The crazy knots, elongated legs and daintily crossed lion’s feet speak to me. The fact that there are only three recognizably feminine faces irritates me. But it is enchanting, mysterious, ecstatic. Brilliant colors and lots of red dots and gold.

Too tired to go on…there are plenty of sites dedicated to this Irish treasure.

My new friends at Biking Ireland, Niall and Tarja will be showing me their country. Jac Marquis has secured a visit with the greatest living woman cyclist (in MY opinion), or maybe the oldest…anyway the prolific, opinionated, decades ahead of her time Dervla Murphy.
I have lobbed fan notes to her addressed as followed: Dervla Murphy, Lismore, Ireland.

They never drew response.

She was always away away away, writing and experiencing the formerly remote corners of the world. No person born today will see the planet as she saw it….and I just want to look into her million mile wrinkled face and let her know she’s inflamed a rider or two over here in California.

Posted in "knobby nobility"
Tags: Ballyhoura, Book of Kells, SSWC costume

Mud-Life Crisis

•August 9, 2011 • 1 Comment

Is a pleasant kind of crisis. The kind you soothe with a little ride out in the woods.
This $7.50 item was created for me by the great Craig Coss, in partial fulfilment of the Keep Jacquie Busy project.

Posted in Uncategorized

A meal fit for a king

•August 3, 2011 • 3 Comments

Charlie Kelly (chef), JP (procurement)

For many a year Charlie (Mary’s Charlie, not mine) has boasted of grilling up a pile of meat on a summer weekend, and each time I whine, “and you didn’t invite me?”

Now, I try to be mature and share in the glory of a recounted triumphal repast, but the starved rodent in me always wishes she were there.

Each of us has a mate who….has Visitor Issues.
When I realized I might never get to taste CK’s epic dry rub babyback ribs, I thought up a solution.

I happened to have a supply of tender ribs ready to roast, and I proposed making them on my kamado (Japanese earthenware cooker), running half of them over to his and Mary’s place, and (using long tongs) deposit the hot ribs on his doorstep (in foil, of course). Then flee as if I’d left an ignited paper sack of dog shit (this is supposedly an activity that immature sorts do…I’ve only heard about it. The door-answerer sees fire, stomps it out…and…you know the rest.

“Tell you what. I’ll load my Weber (classic backyard barbecue) in the truck and drive it to the park, we’ll do ’em there.”

A few hours later I met him in the perfectly groomed, grassy park near the log cabin. The coals were already ignited, I was only a little en retard. A cardboard box held his half of the picnic: corn, butter, commercial sauce, plates and those darling ear-spears shaped like corn. He showed me his trick: NEW tin foil, a couple of teaspoons of water in the packet, anoint the ribs –we used my Yoakim Bridge Zinfandel meat sauce instead of the bottled stuff–then fold up little bundles of ribs, and wrap the corn–six for a buck–and crack a couple of Sierra Nevada ales.

The afternoon breeze wafted the fragrant smoke toward the kids on bikes across the playing field. Mount Tam lay in bright sun. There was no hurry. Time was precious, but felt abundant. How lucky we are to have ~~antisocial~~ magnanimous life partners….and rock solid friends.

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Yet Another Tour De Marin

•July 27, 2011 • 4 Comments

Twenty years ago Barry London devised the legendary hundred singletrack miler known as “DeLa”–short for Tour De La Marin.
I believe there have been races called the Tour de Marin in the 90’s, maybe earlier.
Sunday last, the MCBC inaugurated a mellow 35-40 mile ride from San Rafael to Nicasio and back…the objective: raise lobby-money for the neccessary tunnel (already extant, just needs restoration, modernization) , called the Alto Tunnel, between Corte Madera and Mill Valley. Marin has eleven tunnel bores. All of them should be open to pedestrians and bicyclers.

Geoff Halaburt and I opted to do a loop rather than the correct route, in order to actually see Nicasio Reservoir–for me, this is the point of going to Nicasio. There was some fine cheese on offer–Nicasio Creamery now gives the Red & Black cheese factory something to compete with. I liked the washed-rind semisoft tommes created in the Swiss-Italian manner (think talleggio).

A lost loner had strayed from the pack of 300, and we dragged him along for the remainder of our loop….George Chang of Vancouver B.C., most likely the furthest travelled. He was visiting his son’s new baby, and scored a rare insider’s tour of the obscure bike path called the Cross-Marin trail.

Posted in "knobby nobility", food, heinous name dropping
Tags: Tour de Marin

Rockhopper Revisited!

•July 6, 2011 • 6 Comments

God knows what this has to do with bicycling

Invited to race. Something very special about getting invited (it implies being welcome). Four times this year I’ve been so blessed. Some day let me tell you about the times I was forbidden to race.
Alas, I couldn’t take up every generous promoter’s offer , due to distance. I’m sure it’s for the best, since I don’t train except by racing, and once-a-year singlespeeding doesn’t do it. I missed:

1. The weeklong “Trans Sylvania Epic” or

2.) “Wrath of the Boneyard” in New York, or

even 3) “24 hours of The Enchanted Forest” (a benefit for chronic fatigue sufferers).

But Santa Rosa’s Annadel park is right up the road, so when Bike Monkey magazine editor Yuri Hauswald extended an invitation to race the “legend” category, I lept. And told all the Retrovians (people who used to get my ‘glob’–the reverse of a blog; it comes to their email doorstep rather than they coming to me) in case we could get a real reunion going.

And of course, I gave some thought to my attire.

Back in fat tire prehistory,Lynn Woznicki named, promoted, and produced the bumpy stampede through Annadel State Park . It was a fund raiser for the American Lung Association. Everyone was balled up in a single pack: Eric Heiden, Joe Murray, Tom Ritchey, and my future husband….out of 500 others, I was sure no one would be able to tell the gender of the pigtailed rider finishing with the best, so Colleen Hillis helped me paint my back with “Cunningham” and I finished wearing my birthday jersey.

Now that off-road bicycling’s mainstream, I wouldn’t do that (family audience!) But I could do wild: jaguar-print “Rumpstomper tights” sewn by Jan Shaw (she and hubby Bob were huge movers and shakers then; the bench in Buick Meadow is named for him). Up top, I thought…BikeMonkey…monkeywrench, yeah, I’ll wear a rare jersey from Nate Woodman of Lincoln, Nebraska. It’s got a minimum of verbiage and a maximum of design elegance. The problem is that June 26th promised to be a scorching day, and the monkeywrench cycles jersey is short of sleeve.

I added white cashmere armor, er, arm-warmers. Thick. Keeps the sun out, and the sweat in. Somehow I have convinced myself that I can endure wearing wool in high summer.
Andy Bolig and me were precisely on time for the crazed 19 mph “neutral” start, parading 3 miles through Santa Rosa.

I started slow, and tapered (usual tactic). But when the trails thinned out, I found my pace and managed to overtake a few guys when they bobbled., My specialty is trail reading, making me hard to pass on extremely twisty, rocky terrain. I like to have a clear view in front of me, so I can set up my line. Woe to the stronger rider stuck behind me.
Hey, we’re contesting 312th place–do I need to slow down? Racing means never having to say your sorry…Yeah, I was a jerk. TJ from Mikes bikes? I owe ya at least a beer: you kept me sharply focused when I might have relaxed on the lyrical Lawndale descent.

I saw a father son duo (Mike and Calvin Hersey) riding seamlessly through the trees, dodged an ‘enthusiasm biff” (crashing for joy), and and I got to finally meet a racer I’d unwittingly been the measuring stick for since the early days: Chris Barrett of Tahoe… we compared notes, and he for the first time ever, beat me (until a day later when he figured out that he’d taken the medium-length, 24 miler, where I’d done (I think!) the 27 miler.
Ecstatic, and pretty much bonking as I crossed the finish line (American meaning, not Brit), I staggered around cutting into lines for beer and burritos, swapping cups of water for permission to flagrantly cut.
Next year, if I have the ability to organize it, I’ll get a twelve-year old to tow a few water jugs and paper cups around–to hydrate the very patient, and equally ecstatic racers.

I know of only one broken bone, and even he waited to go home to deal with it….

Posted in Uncategorized
Tags: Andy Bolig, Annadel, Chris Barrett, invited to ride, rockhopper revival

Dee-mo in town

•June 15, 2011 • 1 Comment

Just as I turned off the light to head for bed last night, I heard the “boink” of a message.
Susan DeMattei writes: “wanna go for a ride at 6 am tomorrow?
She lives in Gunnison, Colorado, and only makes it to Marin annually.

I called her dad’s house.

“Damn, I’m already riding with three friends at 9:30… I guess not, boo hoo hoo.

Hopped in bed and let the full moon give me ideas.

First was “gee, the larder’s low, maybe I should scrounge…”.

Then: why not hop on bike at FIVE and arrive in Mill Valley at six, surprise Susan…then pedal back to be on time for my girl-gang.

IT WORKED.
I was on the bike at 5:15, nobody on the road except a lone bike commuter that thought he’d blow past me (sorry, dude, I’m an accomplished wheelsucker) and instead was stuck in a polemical discussion of our country’s sad health care situation.

He just wanted to blaze to work in the city; I just wanted a reason to fly at 2mph faster than my usual dawdle.

It worked, Sue’s dad answered the door with a surprised smile, and declined to let me jump up and down on Susan’s bed.

We pedaled back to the Fax, she saw the garden and Charlie, and headed out to finish her ride while I basked in the afterglow of a proper visit with my bicycle little sis with the heart of gold.

Posted in "knobby nobility", heinous name dropping, insomnia, Jacquie Phelan

Let’s review about Aluminum

•June 14, 2011 • 3 Comments

I found him studying this 1937 text I’d given him. It was retrieved from the dump, and had all kinds of cool historical stuff in it–like how Napoleon funded (and bankrupted himself) trying to accelerate the refining of the hyperpricey aluminum fabrication process. In his day, only royalty could afford aluminum, so they got to have cool aluminum cutlery while their friends just made do with gold and silverware!
Impressive.