The Actual World Championships

Dean goes to LA tomorrow to prepare for World Track Cycling Championships.

We always joke about the weekly race series down at Portland International Raceway being the “PIR Championships of the World” because beginners and Master level racers on $5,000 bikes take it so seriously, but THIS is the ACTUAL WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS.

He’s had a lot of help, and yet, and also, he’s done it all by himself. Godspeed to him. I hope he has a blast.

Dean's 26th Birthday Dinner.

Squid jerky is surprisingly delicious.

I ask Dean, "how was your servant?"

He looks at me uncomprehendingly.

"Your runner?"

"Oh," he says, realizing he's Talking To Mom. "He was fine. His name was David."

He offers nothing more.

Runners are the riders' drivers, minders, and General Dogsbodies. Think Baldrick. Think Mark Linn-Baker in My Favorite Year. I read this story about a reporter-slash-runner, and it made the job sound much more Upstairs, Downstairs than I had been led to believe by Dean's previous Six-Day appearances. I'll never get to the bottom of this. He's not telling me the whole story. I guess what I really want is my own servant.

We are at Tanuki in Portland. Dean, Jenny and I trade knowing looks about the name of the bar.  Having inhaled every Tom Robbins book in existence, we recognize the Tanuki as a Japanese trickster of legend, looking like a cross between a raccoon and a panda, like the coyote of Native American lore, only with more booze.

Drew agrees to pick up the check for a prix fixe plate evening. The agreeable waitress agrees to keep bringing the goods.

We eat quail eggs. They are small eggs. Adorable, but, you know, eggs. High cuteness factor.

"So did the crowd eventually expect you guys (Dean and Netherlander Yondi Schmidt) to put on a show?" As the video and photo evidence attests, Dean and Yondi often bumped and wrestled, trading helmet paint during the nightly Kierins, usually during the prelude to the sprint while everyone was going a governed speed behind the pace motor.

"The announcer played it up a little bit," he said. "But Yondi played it up more on Twitter, tweeting before the races how he was going to "take it to Dean Tracy tonight."

Dean and Yondi enjoy the old-school contact-sport style of sprinting. Not everyone is into it, or good at it, and the UCI increasingly frowns on it; but it is spectator candy, and at the Six-Days, the refs look the other way. It's mostly for fun and/or show. Note that most of the argy-bargy is done during the slower laps before things turn serious.

Netarts Bay oysters on the half-shell with kim chi shave-ice.  They were gone fast. I think I liked them.

We talk about the multiple-personality music that blasts from the speakers at a Six-Day nonstop for hours-upon-hours each night: oompah music, electronica, disco, hip-hop, more Dutch oompah music, a baffling European hit in which "Barbra Streisand" is the only lyric, and for every win, "Stand UP, Stand UP, for the Champions, for the Champions." It makes for long nights for the riders, as it takes time for the brain to calm itself after hours of pumped-up music and laser lights.  Special after-race riders' bars help to ease the pain.



The whole grilled pike eel is a puzzle to, um, open, but an experienced Dean uses his soup spoon to open the top layer of flesh, so that we can attack it with our chop sticks. Salty and satisfyingly fishy.

We talk about the benefits of having an agent, something that Dean has not had much access to or need of so far, but something, with his slow-building popularity and fast-developing speed, may be the wise next step.

Seaweed wraps with tomatoes and something-or-other (I wasn't paying attention) is delivered. The seaweed is so thin and crispy, and the tomato whatever is good. The sake, sipped from a tiny, adorable cup, is beginning to have an effect.

The bar television is showing Japanese cartoons. A hamster complaining about his owners' (explicitly depicted) sex techniques, and a family of American style mannequins say shockingly explicit things. Now the boy mannequin is on fire. Fascinating. The Japanese will eventually implode in a ball of self indulgence, or they will rule the world.

Kim chi fried rice with shrimp. We dig in. This is good.

"So, when you win, are the people in the winner's photo with the flowers and the Lovely Ladies the people from the company on your jersey?"

"Yes. Companies pay something like $5,000 Euros to have a table in the infield, and like $40,000 Euros to get their name on your jersey. It's usually the president of the company and his wife."

Korean marinated rib-eye with mushrooms. It just keeps getting better, and I keep getting fuller.

"So, do you have to go shmooze with the infield tables?"

"Oh, yeah. That's part of the show. They can pay even more money and have a guided tour of the riders' cabins, then they get to talk with the big stars one on one."

I mentioned that he's probably pretty good at this part with his sales background. He confesses that his sales-smooth schmoozing technique has not gone unnoticed. We dish a little about the very successful love lives of the single sprinters.

A final miso soup with fresh tofu.  A little salty, but we are so full that we don't complain.

Dean gives me one of his sponsor jerseys. It smells like sweat. I love it.

In Which I Wish I Were There

Dean is in LA, competing at the USA Cycling Elite Track National Championships.

Every year, Dean goes down, freaks mostly out, pulls out a win in the team sprint on the last day, and everyone moves on to training for next year.

Every year that I travel down to watch, I freak totally out, try to tamp down my Gordian-knotted stomach with whatever Valium or Xanax I can scrounge, feel worse for it, and vow to stay home next year for the sake of us all.

The last two years, I have taken my own advice and have stayed away. It helps me cope and it allows Dean to relax and concentrate on his job.

Somehow, my stomach did not get the memo and is acting up regardless of the 962 miles between it and LA.

Despite my stomach's whining, I am still missing seeing Dean with his inscrutable game face wheel his bike onto the track, get in position, give a last minute tug to his toe clips, and then play some genetically modified hybrid of pro wrestling and drag racing.

Tonight, he has escaped disaster again by making it into the match sprint finals, but he was matched with one of the fastest in the business for the next round.

Damn. Wish I were there. I'm sure my stomach wouldn't sustain permanent damage.

Next year for sure. Maybe.

Whose Son Is This? And How Is His Driving Record?

Dean's in town. It's a great way to clear the fridge and pantry of leftovers. It's usually also a great way to make Drew fume over missing and misplaced parts and tools in the garage. Bike maintenance takes a lot of tools and parts, and two bike maintainers using the same space with different concepts of orderliness means that high jinks shall surely ensue.

But so far, at least in the house, he has shown us a new, you know, responsible form of Dean. He cleans up after himself in the kitchen, the bathroom is clean, and I can see most of the spare room floor. 

And he seems to be taking his training more seriously too. When I have called him in Colorado Springs lately, he talks of going to "work," both when he has to work at the bike shop AND when he has a training session. AND he has put beer drinking on hold. THAT's when you know he's serious.

And he looks like an oak tree with two trunks. 

I'm writing all this because he borrowed my car tonight and I'm hoping all this responsibility has made its way down to his accelerator foot.

Update:  car's back in the garage in one piece.

Back at Work

I can tell Dean is back at work.  Criterium Bicycles' website is suffused with the smell of burritos.

Dean Words to Watch

Words recently used by Dean:

• zazzy
• rad-tacular
• trinketry
  
• Pain-Scapade
• It’s like heckling fish in a barrel

Just so you know.

2008 Track Nationals Show & Tell

Here is an abbreviated story of our week in Carson, California, the Land of the Home Depot Center, Gateway to Compton, and home of the most expensive hotel breakfast in the worst part of town ever.

When Dean walks around like this, we know we are in for a disappointing day. His posture tells us everything we need to know. This was Dean on Wednesday: jet-lagged, tired, over-sangria'ed, and juiceless.


Since Dean was out of the competition for Friday, we took the day to drive north up the Pacific Coast Highway to watch this bird work the surf for his dinner.


At the Malibu pier, we encountered a group of ruffians guarding this armoire, who someone had taken great pains to carry out to the end of the pier and conceal the front with a table cloth of some kind. What was in it? Drugs? A dead body? Snacks? I wasn't going to ask.


Yes, I am quite serious when I tell you that this was the view from our eighth-floor luxury room at the Doubletree Hotel in Carson, California, home to the $14.95 weekday breakfast buffet, the Thursday night jazz stylings of Saddam Hussein's Phillipino cousin, and $8 glasses of cheap wine:


By Sunday, Dean's posture had improved, and his legs had that snap that we are used to seeing. He almost did not get to compete in the team sprint because of poor performance early in the week, but because Michael Blatchford was forced to bow out due to back spasms, Dean was given a chance to redeem himself and join the team. He did that, with the fastest anchor leg of the competition, helping his team to win gold.

We had so much fun hanging out with Dean for a week, even with the jet lag and mood swings (his jet lag, my mood swings). And we learned things, like how to enter a bank in a high crime area, and where to eat breakfast in Manhattan Beach (Eat at Joe's). But mostly, we learned not to stay at the Doubletree Hotel in Carson, California.

More later, as I think of stuff.

Crappy Day, Crappy Day, Crappy Day, Crappy Day, Gold Medal

After four days of jet lag, bad attitude, bad luck, and general ugliness, Dean got his massive legs back under control and ended the week of National Championships in Carson, CA with a gold medal in team sprint with his teammates, Kelyn Akuna and (this year's Cinderella Story) Jimmy Watkins.
More later as Blackberry and Blogspot don't seem to be playing well together.

Dean Is In Barcelona

...kicking ass worldwide.

10th in sprints
6th in keirin (he won the 6th through 10th round)
3rd in team sprint!

Read about it and live vicariously.

Dean Is In Barcelona

Wish I were there.

Anything For Baby

You know that thing that parents always say, "it's better that our [insert son, daughter] have this experience than we. It is what we have striven for our whole lives."

[Insert picture of grey-haired woman wearing a pilly cardigan sweater and mended stone-washed denims purchased in 1989, who has to look up and squint to see your face, what with the bad posture resulting from all those nights working that janitor's job at the abattoir, and the huge glasses last in style when disco was cool.]

I spent last week clearing out old papers that were taking up space in the garage. I shredded so many checks. For coaching, bikes, wheels, more wheels to replace the wheels, airline tickets, medical bills. I told Drew it was like we had sent Dean to college twice - once for his Fire Fighting degree and once for his Cycling degree.

My son is going to Barcelona next month with the US Cycling team.


No, I've never been to Barcelona. But the month after, I'm taking a week off from my abattoir position to see him race - in South Central LA. I may even buy myself a new cardigan for the trip.

Oh, you know I'm full of crap. Congratulations, Dean! I couldn't be prouder.

Pictures from the AVC - Clearance Priced

Ooh, pretty shadows.

The legendary 43 degree banking of Alpenrose Velodrome.

The legendary coach Des Dickie setting Dean on the right trajectory.

Keeping an eye on the competition's thigh size.

Hugging the whole world.

Notes from the Velodrome

Alpenrose Velodrome Challenge 2008

Saturday

I have learned not to approach the keirin unmedicated. Case In Point.

The above link is to a crash in the heat directly before Dean's heat.

Thus properly diazepated, I was able to endure the qualifying rounds, which Dean easily controlled, and even the crushing irony of the final in which he cruised to victory except for that bastard Steven Beardsley taking advantage of his final let-up in the home stretch to sneak around for the win.

Dean leading Keyln Akuna to the final lap of the Olympic Sprint.

Later in the day, Dean and his Colorado Springs posse joined forces for a sloppy but effective enough win in the Olympic Sprint (a sort of relay on wheels).

I'm sure Aaron Kacala understands by now that being on the podium with Dean often means being used as his ride down off the steps.

Sunday

Sunday is sprint day. I committed to facing the day without pharmacological assistance, which lasted until the third round when I accepted a tall glass of banned sauvingon blanc with shaky hands.

As I write this, it is lunch break. After lunch, Dean competes in the final heats of the sprints. The least he can do now is fourth, which he would accept as a crushing defeat.

On Sunday after two days of announcing tongue twisting names from half a dozen countries and trying to keep the dullest 100-lap slog sounding entertaining, odd things can come out of the announcers' booth, like, "that's a big ask..." and, "something like thighs burning..."

The last event before the break was a ten-mile race, in which the bastard Steven Beardsley came in second. We happened to be sitting right behind the bastard Steven Beardsley's mom, who was so happy. Just goes to show. Even Steven Beardsley has a mom. (Actually Steven is a lovely young fellow, about the same age as Dean, with apple cheeks and tousled hair, not cut in a Serbo-hawk like some, less emotionally mature, twenty-three year-olds.)

Later Sunday

Another ugly, crunching crash in the semi-final sprint heat directly before Dean's heat. Unfortunately, the victim of said crash was unable to continue due to the fact that the crash had aggravated a newly repaired hip that had been broken in a keirin some time ago. A pity, since he was the one Dean wanted to race the most - a highly decorated bit of legend in track circles.

I have a moment of panic, but I compose myself for the final sprint, which Dean seems to win without having to pull out any wacky voodoo moves.

Dean staying ahead of Giovanni Rey in the final sprint.

The announcers are ecstatic to see Dean finally step on the top step of the sprint podium after so many years of being the pipsqueak upstart, eclipsed from his perch on the lower step by the winner's massive man-thighs.

Dean and his thighs atop the sprinter's podium at last, alongside Giovanni Rey and training partner (and winner of Most Awesome Uniform Design) Keyln Akuna

I am happy for him, and consider him the most excellent individual person yet assembled with earthly DNA.

In Which I Consign Myself to Hell

A texting conversation between Dean and me last week after the exile from the Olympic Training Center (due to a group of misguided protesters) was lifted:

Dean: Got back to the gym today and did personal bests in every lift! 790 lb leg press! Woo!

Piglet: Wha? Release pent up energy much?

Dean: Maybe a day off was in order. Strength coach wants to see 1000 by September.

Dean: Did it 4 times in front of a packed tour too.

Piglet: Nice. I hear Pat Robertson has an energy drink that you might want to look into for that 1000 goal.

Dean: Ha, forgot about that. Fueled by Jesus!

Piglet: Maybe it has actual bits of Jesus in it...wait that sounds too much like Catholic communion...have I gone too far with this?

Dean: Its got bits of real panther in it... so you know its good.

In Which Dean Wins More At Racing While Drinking Than He Ever Has While Sober

My son lives in an alternate universe. It's more fun there, but you have to be younger.

In Which Drew Faces New Competition for his Title of Captain America

Here's an article from The Advocate ("Covering West & Northwest Tasmania since 1890"), featuring our hero, Dean, on the far left, and his superhero friends, Kelyn Akuna and Eugene Chacherine, with their US Cycling Team coach, Des Dickie. Their "lack of experience" involves a favorite type of race at the Tasmanian Christmas Carnivals, the handicap race, where beginners can go up against pros and everyone in between by racing from a staggered start. It's not raced much here, and certainly not in the same way. They got to learn by doing. You should be able to read the article by clicking on it.

Drew's nickname at the Fire Department has been Captain America, practically from the day he made Captain, stemming from his clean-cut, laced-up, by-the-book, helping-little-old-ladies-cross-the-street, return-the-penny-to-the-cashier style of captainage.

But now Dean shows up with an actual Captain America suit. That's gonna be hard to beat.


Here's an article from the Launceston, Tasmania Sunday Examiner ("serving Launceston since three weeks ago today, unless you count last Sunday when we slept in and decided to give the whole thing a pass"). This is a newspaper that knows how to hook you with the headline. Dean was not involved in this particular carnage-inducing event.

Family Dynamics Illustrated

I'm not sure what you can measure in this photograph by measuring the acreage taken up by the personal space of one particular tousle-haired trouble maker. Everyone on the right side of the photograph seems to be scrunched together, in part out of affection, but also out of necessity to fit into a frame filled mostly with Dean (with his arm around wife Jenny) and those on the left trying not to violate his sphere of domination. If you cut this photo in half, you would have a picture of seven people on one half and a picture of four people on the other (three, as this is a community property state).

It almost looks like he was leaning against the wall with Jenny, and everyone sort of gathered around him for a picture as if he were one of those theme park cutouts. (Have your picture taken with the hipster! He looks so lifelike!)

Hope you had a nice, stress-free Thanksgiving.

The Agony of Defeat Really, Really Sucks

Dean's nationals trip really took a dive today when he couldn't get up any speed in a simple 200 meter qualifier.

It's a simple speed trial, one he's done many times, and much faster. He doesn't know why his legs turned to grape jelly today. He could be coming down with something. He could have just had a bad day after a series of sleepless nights.

But after so much work, it's a painful trip-up that will cost him.

What will he do next? Can he pick himself up after this? Is there anything left for him at nationals this year? And what about after nationals? Does he go back to twice-a-day workouts? Or just go home and leave the pain for some other schmuck?

Stay tuned for answers. Next week on Deancat Manor.

It's October. That Means It's Time to go ALL IN

I get freaked out by having to drive somewhere new to take my dog on a light rail system I've never been on, to walk around in an airport. Scary, right?

Or is scary driving to LA with a small contingent from your tiny, under-funded, Portland-based amateur bike racing team and going to the line with bike racers half again your size with more professional-level training under their belt this year alone then you've received in your lifetime, with the goal of beating them fair and square, using only your sinewy muscles, ninja skill, Celtic hocus-pocus and pirate-like voodoo?

That's what I thought.

It's Nationals time again and Dean is on his way to LA to the Staples Center Velodrome. No big thing. Just the make-up of the Beijing Olympics team is on the line. If you remember, Drew and I accompanied the team down to LA last year in the team van. Dean did great. I thought I was going to die of terror.

This is one of those national championships right before an Olympic year. Everybody is on edge. Even if we had money to follow him, it would be a bad idea. I would come back with either a stroke-induced limp or a hemorrhaging ulcer.

I've seen him crash. I've seen him get hurt. I've seen him lose races he should have won. I don't know which one is more painful to watch. They all tear my heart out. But fear of those outcomes can only hurt you.

Fear is the thing that I fight with the most. Because it's useless. Especially when you have a son who has courage. Remember the lesson from before? Courage is doing scary stuff even if you're scared. And Dean is the King of the Forest with that stuff.