The Hairiest Hairy Leg Contest Ever presented by Cremo Shave Cream

They are real.  And, they are spectacular.

While shoes scream for attention, (Italian ones gesture wildly) even the best shaving cream cowers in the corner of the shower with foamy muffled whimpers.  I was reluctant at first.  On the swag-o-meter, a new pair of shoes ranks much higher than shaving cream.  I must admit, I was a little “meh” when Cremo Cream (the astonishingly superior shave cream) asked if they could ship me some free product in exchange for a giveaway with readers.  After all, you’ve been dazzled with Injinji toe socks, GU, Road ID, Ryders Eyewear and Pearl Izumi clothing.  Then again, if there is one thing all cyclists have in common it’s the constant quest to cut costs where possible and spend freely on what matters the most.  Hence people on $10,000 bikes are often found stuffing their pockets full of free GU’s and Snickers on club century rides.  So see below for The Hairiest Hairy Leg Contest EVER.

We all shave, eventually.  Some of you believe shaving makes you faster.  It does not.  9 out of 10 cycling coaches agree.  Riding with slow people makes you faster.  Some believe shaving makes you look better.  It does not.  Riding with ugly people makes you more attractive.  Some believe shaving makes you fit in with the crowd.  It does not.  Shaving makes you the outcast in the one-seater kayak at the summer office canoe picnic.  Some believe shaving makes massage easier.  It does not.  Copious amounts of oil rubbed all over by a big woman with man mitts makes massage easier.  Some believe shaving is a rite of passage.  Hmm….now, you may have something there. 

There is a sweet pair of Zipp 343’s in my man cave.  Every fall they come off my wife’s bike.  Sometime during the spring, they go back on…when the bike fairy rings the magic cowbell and deems her Zippworthy.  The Zipps are a rite of passage, a reward for months of training in foul winter weather turning her into a raging she-beast on a bike.  The same applies to shaving, although Cremo Cream does not cost $2500 a pair.  The first shaving of the meat sticks of the season for many is viewed as a rite of passage, from neandercyclist to racer.  Me ride fast.

Smooth and silky, shaving is like wearing superman’s cape.  It makes you fly.  It’s like the Hulk’s muscles ripping through a plaid shirt to reveal mountains of green muscle.  Raaawwwrr!  It makes you feel like you can tear your riding buddies to shreds.  Shaving makes that delicious bit of quad meat above your knee look like an unclimbable cornice on Mt. Everest.  Shaving makes your massage therapist ask if you’d like the sports massage.  Shaving makes the three girls in the pickup truck whistle and woot as they pass on your ride through Northern Kentucky.  Shaving is also the reason their jealous boyfriends buzz you, call you a “Nancy” and exhaust blast you in a black diesel fog. 

Honey, what are you doing with your phone in the shower?

It’s the end of spring.  If you think you’ve earned the most spectacular leg shave you’ll ever receive outside of hiring your very own soigneur with a straight razor, read on for a chance to win.  I’ve tried Cremo Cream.  It’s great on toast.  It also leaves you a remarkably closer shave than the stuff you had the coupon for.  It’s slick.  Whatever lubricant is in there makes the razor glide easily and the moisturizing seems to linger after the razor passes.  I didn’t see the need to put on lotion afterward.  Since it’s really not a foamy thing, the razor clears hair more easily.  While I didn’t really count, it seemed like I got more trips up my leg before I had to wash the clippings out of the blade.  After I was done my wife ran her hand up my leg and said, “Yummy.” Then she nibbled on my calves.  As it says on the tube, “Try it once to believe it.  Enjoy it for life.  It’s really that good.”  You can pick it up at CVS, Walgreens, Walmart and a number of retailers.  Visit Cremo Cream online for details.

THE HAIRIEST HAIRY LEG CONTEST EVER P/B CREMO CREAM 

If you’re still not convinced to try Cremo Cream yet, let me indulge your frugality.  Share your hair to win a Cremo Cream Gift Set.

1) LikeCremo Cream on Facebook.

2)  Send a picture of your hairy meatsticks here using the subject “Hairy Leg Contest.”  

We’ll draw 3 winners, a virtual podium of sasquatches on bikes, to win a Cremo Cream gift set including: shaving cream, moisturizer and wash.  If you’re lucky, we may even post your photo to Facebook or use it on the blog.  Deadline is at Noon (Eastern Time) on Tuesday, June 4th.  Good luck!  Winners will be drawn randomly.

Natural Entertainment in Las Vegas

Can you tell I was lost in Mirage Casino

With a BAC of .01%, a cyclist for all practical purposes is drunk.  When a cyclist is drunk, there is no amount of internal compass that will help find your way out of a casino at 2am.  Despite being 2:30am, and despite breaking the beer before booze rule, I turned to Strava.  While it didn’t help me get through the slot canyon maze of slot machines at the Mirage, it showed the direction of the strip in relation to the bathroom I was in and certainly produced the most amusing Strava map of our hiking/mountain biking trip to Las Vegas last week.  Note the knotted mess on the Strava photo at left.  If you’re looking for a similar adventure, get the drink in the tall plastic cup, go clubbing till 2-3 a.m. and enjoy your 5.5 mile Annie-eyed bedazzled hike up the strip.

Watch for Wild Burros in Red Rock Wilderness

Co-workers questioned my choice of vacation prior to my departure to Las Vegas.  I did too.  It would seem like a mountain climber setting his sights on the summit Magic Mountain.  Like you, I’m one of those weird people who like to swim in pools and see life in Death Valley.  In Vegas, I managed to put my inner Tourist-hater aside, played a Pink Diamonds slot machine, danced to Icona Pop at a club and with my white chest and biker tan arms kicked some beach ball ass at the Hardrock Hotel Rehab Pool Party. 

Lake Mead Overlook

Our plan was simple: adventure in the morning, go out at night.  That worked until Thursday, when night blended into morning and I ended up hiking The Strip.  “Why didn’t you take a cab?”  My co-workers asked.  Taxis are for wussies and besides, my rational was nothing prevents the bed spins like an hour and fifteen minute heart rate spiking walk under the buzz of neon and past Urban Campers and suspected pick pockets.

BOOTLEG CANYON

Overlook of Boogleg Canyon IMBA Trail

It wasn’t the highlight of the trip, but I did get in a decent mountain bike ride at the challenging Bootleg Canyon, in Boulder City, a half hour from The Strip near the Hoover Dam.  I rented a Specialized full-boinger 29er from All Mountain Cycles, a nice ride with Sram X-9.  It was $50 for the afternoon.  Bootleg Canyon is sort of a mix between pump track and flow.  On the east side of the trail system you’ll get an overlook of Lake Mead.  Through the canyon on the north side, squint for a view of The Strip. 

Calico Trails in Red Rock Canyon West of Vegas

Once you get the hang of the twisting quick steep ups and downs of the place, you’ll dig it.  Novice and intermediate riders should stick to the trails west of the main entrance like the IMBA trail.  Those trails throw much less curveballs, have longer sighting for obstacles and feature a more smooth flowy ride.   The Lake View and Caldera area trails had me off the bike in a few spots.  You can’t bench cut rock.  They don’t.  So you’ll periodically come around a blind corner and be greeted with a section of off camber jagged rock where the trail should be.  I was jazzed when I cleaned it.  When I bailed rather than risk losing skin, I looked around to make sure no one actually saw me on foot.

WHITE ROCK CANYON

A Whole Family Watches from Above

Despite a trail review mentioning rattlesnakes, the highlight of the trip came on a spur of the moment slot canyon-esque hike out and back in White Rock Canyon in Arizona.  We hiked from the Willow Beach trailhead off the main highway a few miles from Hoover Dam.  It’s surprising how many desert places have wet sounding names.  I found the trail on the AllTrails app which can locate trails in your vicinity no matter where you are should the need to hike strike you, like at grandma's out of town funeral.  

The White Rock Canyon trail is a 7 mile round-trip out-and-back to the Colorado River.  On the way down, the walls closed close enough to run my fingers along on either side in places.  When it opened up, we were surrounded by a cathedral of 2-3000 ft. rocky peaks dotted with wild flowers, scrub bushes and the occasional family of big horned desert sheep.  They payoff was the Colorado River, deep and powerful.  We bouldered up a big rock to a fantastic view of the river’s eddys, only 4 miles downstream from the Hoover Dam.  Hike/climb downstream a few hundred meters from the beach and you can enjoy a dip in a natural hot spring.  All of this natural wonder 40 minutes away from the best artificial entertainment in the world.

Today I Met The Grey Bearded Biker

Cold steel, the bike doesn’t have bar tape.  I’ve lived in Cincinnati’s Columbia Tusculum neighborhood for four years and for four years on my commute in to downtown I’ve seen Grey Beard at least weekly riding in the opposite direction.  All year round, his outfit never seems to change: thick dark hoodie, weathered overalls, leather gloves, no helmet.  Some days I’m in my truck, other days I’m on a bike too.  Unbeknownst to him, occasionally we pass at the Montgomery Inn Boathouse, other days St. Rose Church always on Riverside Drive.  He rolls his drive side pants leg up, exposing a light tan leather boot top.  On colder days his messy crop of grey hair occasionally peeks from under a knit hat.  His unmistakable grey beard always catches the wind.  I met him today, it figures, at Starbucks.

Who is this guy who rides away from downtown on a beater at 8:15am?

Cincinnati’s East End and Columbia Tusculum neighborhoods along the riverfront are mixed.  3- 700 thousand dollar houses share the road with modest apartments and dilapidated structures eligible for the “We Buy Ugly Houses” people.  A barge/rail terminal sits adjacent to this month’s latest fire victim and next month’s new condo.  In this mix of wealth and poverty, industry and small business, luxury and staples, on any given Saturday morning a guy carrying a 12-pack under his arm while one-handing a beater mountain bike gets passed by a jogger with $150 shoes and an iPhone strapped to her upper arm.  I’d be stereotyping if both the guy with the 12-pack and the jogger weren’t my neighbors.  To each their own.  Question is where does Grey Beard fit in?

From the fleeting seconds I’ve seen Grey Beard from my truck at 35mph, the 25 year old relic of a bike looks like it was picked from the recycling pile behind the bike shop.  It’s a dirty purple, maybe maroon, with down tube shifters and platform pedals, sort of like the one pictured without the racks.  The seat post is low, but fits his legs.  The bars are turned down and he’s stretched out.  His hands engulf the small hoods, brake lever and all.  All-that aside, he rides with remarkable speed, confidence and form: knees in, back low, beard in the breeze.  What intrigues me the most about this oddity is the lock and chain knotted around the bars and quill stem.  He obviously cares about the bike. 

It's no surprise.  He said he got the bike from a friend’s shed for nothing.  I met him today for the first time at Starbucks, of all places.  I held the door for him as he walked in behind me and struck up a conversation.  “Hey.  I see you nearly every week on my way to work.”  Well spoken, he says he’s almost home.  He works overnights downtown.  He’s on his way home when I’m on my way to work.  He is a neighbor and the bike is an old Miyata.  He invested $250 into it to keep it alive.  Up close, aside from being weathered, the bike sports newer tires.  The cables, saddle, and wheels seem to be in decent shape.  It’s solid vintage steel.  He says he knows his bike isn’t pretty, but it gets the job done, 12 miles a day. 

He asked if I ride and what kind of bike I have.  “I ride a Kuota" clarifying, "an Italian bike.”  I kick myself thinking I was too pretentious with the Italian comment, but he asks if it’s one of those “really light ones.”  "Yep.  It’s carbon fiber.”  Half expecting a roll of the eyes, he says something like, “Man, I just love the brakes on those newer bikes.”  I mention how well they modulate speed.  He understands.  He’s genuinely interested talking bikes.  We're clicking, but the barista was too quick.  My coffee is ready.  Sadly, I didn't have time for a picture.  “Have a good day,” I say.

As I pull my big dumb SUV out of the lot on Earth Day, the Starbucks door swings open.   With coffee in hand, he walks toward his Miyata, now appearing much cooler than the first time I had seen it.  My roof rack catches his eye and he waves.  Affirming, I wave back.  We’re two bike guys, one punching in, the other punching out.

Your #Strava Ride Titles Need Serious Attention

Just A Bit Disappointed

Some of you need a Strava kick in the pants.  I follow 96 of you on Strava, and I have to say in a high pitched and tiny John Stewart voice, “I’m a little disappointed.”  No.  No.  No.  Don’t get me wrong.  You’re riding long and strong.  I occasionally show my mom your PR’s and KOM because I’m so proud of you.  I use your ride maps as wallpaper on my PC.  However, if your Strava was a report card, you’d be getting an NA.  I’m talking to you Mr. April 7^th 2013 and 11 other friends with the same lame-o sad trombone date as your activity title.  Your ride titles lack artistic value. 

April 7th Is Jackie's Birthday

If this were figure skating I’d give you a 2.3 out of a possible 10.  A dozen rides (out of 47) in my feed yesterday were titled with the intriguing prose of, “04/07/2013.”  Maybe April 7^th was a date of monumental importance.  It was Jackie Chan’s Birthday!  Regardless of how much you like Kung Fu, we need to do something about this bout of lameness you’re passing off as a social media experience.  No kudos for you.  Either that or I need to understand why so many people titled their workout activity from Sunday as, “04/07/2013.”  Certainly you all didn’t do the same ride.  Certainly something of note had to happen.  Certainly you saw, heard, felt or smelled something interesting.

So as a creative person this leaves me no option to make assumptions about Lou’s 1.7 mile run titled “April 7^th, 2013.”  Since the map is cut off near Hyde Park Square and the minutes per mile are on the slow side, I wonder if he really ran his Strava app on a walk to get Graeter’s Ice Cream and tried to pass it off as a run.  Who runs 1.7 miles?  Someone hungry for Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip, that’s who!  As a journalist it makes me inquire a bit further to get the real dirt. 

Who Does That?

So I clicked on the map of Mike’s 33.7 mile ride also titled “April 7^th, 2013” and saw that he went up two dead end roads.  Wha huh?!  The gig is up Mikey!  Maybe I’ll have to check out Bluecut and Deeprun Lanes off of Pipewell Lane which is a turn off of Given Road in Cincinnati’s hoidy toidy Indian Hill neighborhood.  What are you trying to hide?  Do you have a secret segment you’re saving for yourself?  Do you deliver produce to the wealthy on your bike?  Are you a Russian spy?

My buddy Scott rode 21.4 miles on his ride, also titled “April 7^th, 2013.”  He’s in Jacksonville, Florida.  Upon further inspection he rode on Race Track Road which is just east of what appears to be a pretty little water inlet.  I wonder if he saw a crocodile, got scared and rode home accounting for the short ride, and a third best time on the Flora Branch segment.

You’re not getting any Kudos from me until you step up your name game.  You wouldn’t post the date as your Facebook status.  I know cyclists are non-chest-thumping anti-social introverts by nature, but you need to do better.  Chris got Kudos from me for piquing my interest.  He named his ride “Clockwork Orange (x4)."  Was he comparing the ride to a disturbing tale of England in the totalitarian future?  Turns out it’s a clever way to say he rode the Orange loop at Harbin Park four times clockwise.  Bravo!

Courtesy of Chris on Ride to Bagdad, PA

“Sunday’s Are For Bailing,” was a favorite title from April 7^th, 2013.  Looks like Jamie got to the top of the Marshall climb and called it a day.  I can relate.  It’s a long lonely hour ride back home from there if you’re spent.  “Zanesfield RR-Rode Like Schleck,” said all I needed to know from Jason.  “Bagdad!”  That title came from my cross coach Chris.  After seeing a photo of one of the washed out roads he encountered somewhere around Pittsburg I thought I knew what he was talking about.  It looked like a war zone.  Turns out he discovered the town of Bagdad, PA.  “Walking For A Cupcake,” made me smile.  That came from my wife.  Someone gave me vegan cupcakes at work and she knew I’d be bringing them home.

I’m not looking for a ride description as a follower of yours on Strava.  I can see you rode 50 miles.  I know it was windy.  I’m looking for you to share a slice of your life.  Take your eyes off your Garmin.  Check if that Kentucky farm dog has all four legs.  Was that really a pair of panties on the side of the road?  Open up those ears to the songs of the birds.  Take a big whiff of that Kentucky tobacco farm.  Tell me about it.  Take a few tips from me.  Here are my last few ride titles: “70. Solo. Shaboberle. Spent.  Stinky.,” My Stuffed Pockets Were Swinging Like Double D’s in a Tank Top So I Stopped At BioWheels To Buy A Saddlebag,” and, “Ludlow KY Smells Like Fried Chicken.”  If you need help, click here and follow The Best Bike Blog Ever on Strava.

We’re riding bikes people.   It’s fun and exciting.  There’s always something worth noting beyond the obvious.  Show it.  Share it.  I’ll give you Kudos.  Promise.

Easter Miracle: Nearly Killed by Frank Costanza

He should feel lucky.  Lucky that it wasn’t someone who didn’t grow up with the high score on Frogger, someone new to cycling out for their first sunny sixty degree ride after months of dreadful Cincinnati weather, someone without years of experience deftly picking their way through packs of drunken Chicagoans at Milwaukee’s Summerfest, someone who hasn’t been racing and riding long enough to count a Breezer Thunder among the bikes in the man cave, someone who didn’t just get back from a week of mountain descending in Georgia, someone who doesn’t burn a Sven Nys Prayer Candle.  It would’ve been different then, bloody limbless Walking Dead different I’m sure. 

There would’ve been Easter leftovers all over the car and shrieks and screams and a ceremonial reading of the RoadID and sirens and backboards and stuffed animals knocked off the rear window shelf and endless calls to the geniuses in medical billing departments and physical therapy and lawsuits and insurance premiums that would make a wee-wee pig choke on a gecko.  Instead, up in the air was the back of my Italian hand and a shout, “What are you trying to F-ing kill me!?” 

I almost got hit by a car yesterday.  Of course he wasn’t trying to kill me.  Of course I couldn’t think of anything more clever to say like, “didn’t they teach you to love thy neighbor in church this morning?”  However, he should feel lucky it wasn’t someone else.  It would’ve been much more than a close call and a blog full of theatrical language and long sentences strung together with the word “and.”

Please don’t take this as being cocky.  If you know me, I’m not one to brag and I don’t make wiener jokes.  I still have a lot to learn on a bike, like being able to farmer blow my nose.  I simply had control.  My hands, fingers wrapped around the bars, gripped the drops.  Hips slightly back, my thighs held the saddle.  Sorry if that sounded too 50 Shades of Grey for you.  Erie Avenue in Cincinnati is a very popular thoroughfare for cyclists, a main road taking riders east from the city to the rolling hills and scenic Little Miami River Valley.  The bike-lane header photo on the main page of this blog is from Erie Avenue.  It’s about a 1.5 mile hill.  I was headed down.  The light was green.    

There was a woman with light reddish-brown curly hair in the passenger seat.  With thinning unkempt hair, he was driving a green older model boxy Dodge sedan.  So yeah, a slightly younger version of Mr. and Mrs. Costanza were about to run me down sit-com style in a car very similar to one on Seinfeld.  Or, at least that’s what it appeared to me in the span of less than 3 seconds and an ish-timated speed of 28-ish mph. 

Across from the bar and bistro, I was about to pass the dry cleaner on the right.  It could’ve been the sunshine or my sunglasses, but the Costanza car windows seemed tinted yellow.   I’m guessing he didn’t see me or misjudged my speed.  Either way, his speed never changed as he turned left in front of me.  Recalling pretty much everything aside from whether or not there was a hula girl on the dash, I don’t remember seeing a blinker.

Very Similar to Kramer's Ford LTD

It’s amazing how fast the brain and body work together, like they’re connected with nerves or something.  Immediately, at the speed Mr. Costanza started his turn, I knew I wasn’t going to eek past on my current line.  I like to read the foll-oh-ing in a slow-mo-shun-voice and use robot hand gestures.  I threw my weight back and squeezed the brake levers, slowing as fast as possible.  I remember focusing quickly, then looking away from, his shiny green chrome trimmed wheel well and passenger side quarter panel, the point of impact I later judged.  Still too fast to cut a quick hard right turn, I eased to the right, aiming roughly for the far corner of the intersection, a wheel chair curb ramp, between him and a car on the cross street stopped at the light. 

It still didn’t look good, like Elaine dancing.  I threw the bike harder right and grabbed more brake.  The rear end kicked left toward his car, slightly skidding.  Looking back, the change of direction maybe bought me a fraction of a second and/or caught his attention.  Mr. Costanza slammed on the brakes.   I corrected and, with a few feet to spare on either side, skated through the gap untouched and on the main road.  I didn’t need to exit via the wheel chair ramp.  It was real and spectacular.

I was calm and collected until I was safe.  That’s when I looked back, the hand came up and the colorful Easter language came out.  With his window down, I know he saw and heard it, (so did the people in the black car stopped at the light) then they were gone out of sight up the side street.  I continued down the hill. 

I remember thinking I should be freaked out, but not a single goosebumb popped up.  The Garmin confirmed my heart rate wasn’t jacked.  In recollection, the incident seemed oddly calculated and clinical, like when soldiers train through a mock urban ambush on TV.  Shoot the pop-up bad guys, don’t shoot the kid.  With squirrels, trees, rocks, holes, other bikes, dogs, deer, and cars, I’ve been in situations like this dozens, if not a hundred times before.  I’ve been riding bikes long enough to have the confidence that I’ll save it, or at least do everything I can to save it, until I don’t.  For me, it wasn’t luck at all.

He’s lucky it wasn’t a less experienced rider, someone who freaks out in crowded elevator, a rider that may have panicked and slammed on the brakes and straight skidded into the car or tried to turn too abruptly and comically top-sided with too much speed.   He’s lucky I maintain my bike and brush it’s hair.  It has new cables and tires.  It’s routinely cleaned and lubed, including checking the brakes, tire pressure and scrubbing the rims of grit.  He’s lucky I treat parked cars and intersections with more respect than a skier slicing up gates on a Super-G downhill and had the sense to keep my speed in check on a busy descent where a rider could easily top 35mph.  He’s lucky I ride with my eyes up, take descents in the drops, always keep my fingers wrapped about the bars and saw his car long enough to describe his passenger’s uncanny resemblance to Mrs. Costanza before he saw me.  Oh Georgie!  As I write, I hope Frank’s sharing my thoughts, it’s a miracle he didn’t hit someone with his car on Easter Sunday.