Well, it's been a long time and I apologize for that. Stuff has been happening! I'm now on Strava, I wrestled and killed a bear, I started a business, and I'm down in Georgia for Speedweek. Contrary to popular belief Speedweek is not actually a a trip to Georgia where I do lots of drugs. I'm down here to (surprise) race my bike.
Speedweek is an annual tradition where bike racers converge on the fine, sunny states of Georgia and South Carolina to participate in nightly National Criterium Calendar 'twighlight crits.' I will be racing in the dark, in really fast circles around a small city block, with hopefully very intoxicated people cheering me on, who will also hopefully not throw full cans of beer at me. Another great hope of mine, (could one possibly call it a longing?) is to come back with all of my skin.
Purchasing my plane tickets this past weekend was a tad horrifying. I decided to fly down to Georgia as opposed to driving for several reasons. One, that I don't think my poor car could take it, two I don't think my legs could take that, especially after their stellar performance in the USGP cross race after 16 hours of driving to Kentucky, (way to go, legs) this past fall, and three because I simply don't think my brain could take it. I had planned to arrive in Georgia fully sane, not foaming at the mouth with a pile of roadkill that I have collected brimming out of the trunk of my car. So I flew, and I successfully employed the Jeremy Powers trademark Airport Ninja tactics.
Airport Ninja-ing is a delicate art, one that takes guts, bravado, and cunning. It goes something like this:
Approach the ticket counter lugging a giant bag with your bicycle packed inside of it, the bag possibly says 'VELO' or 'I'M A BIG BICYCLE' on the side of it.
"Hello there, such a fine day, beautiful weather inside this terminal. I would like to check this bag."
"Is that a bike?"
"A bicycle? A Velocipede? Perish the thought! Never would I lug around such an unwieldily article, nor would I ever participate in such raucousness as bicycle racing."
"Ok, so what is it?"
"It is a large carbon display for my work, a display that displays every aspect of the work that I clearly do."
"Is that a helmet hanging off of your bag?"
"Safety first."
"Fine, that will be the normal price of if this where a piece of luggage and not the exorbitant price that I would charge you if this where a bicycle in the same size bag for the same weight."
"Excellent. This transaction went exactly as I hoped it would."
Yeah, the fees for flying with a bicycle are outrageous and I do not feel bad at all for fudging the truth just a tad. Not that I'm recommending that of course. Kids, never lie; unless it is to save yourself hundreds of dollars at an airport when you're getting blatantly ripped off because of your choice of sport.
If it were a weight thing, or a size thing, I would be a bit more understanding, but no, it's literally when they hear that word, BICYCLE. If they don't know it's a bike, it is possibly HUNDREDS of dollars less.
While my luggage transaction did not quite go as scripted above, I did manage to airport ninja the crap out of my bike. Trade show displays for the win.
Alternatively, I could also just tell them it's filled with 50 pounds of cat vomit, and that I am a researcher, studying cat vomit.
'Must I do it again?'
Jerks.
Anyway. So I flew to Georgia with all of my bicycle accouterment, my bicycle, and 50 pounds of cat vomit. Because I decided to purchase my ticket through CheapOAir.com I was able to get a screaming deal on a plane ticket, which was great except for the fact that half of my flight was on a train.
A train? Oops.
I was a little worried about where I would put my giant bag of bicycle on this train, but I looked it up and the internet assured me that I would be able to fit it onboard. I probably should have called and spoken to an actual human about this, but humans are terrifying, and like many of my generation I have a healthy horror instilled in me about the act of speaking on the phone to people I don't know. The internet never lies, right?
So I get onboard this train, and oh look, THERE IS NO WHERE TO PUT A HUGE BICYCLE BAG.
The train is moving and I am standing in the middle of the aisle, wide-eyed with horror, with the whole damn car staring at me like I'm some museum spectacle on display. I awkwardly pushed the bike bag to the end of the car in the hopes that there would be some magical compartment, smashing into peoples feet and arms along the way. At one point I tried to lift the whole thing into an overhead compartment only to realize that once I'd gotten it halfway there I couldn't lift it over my head by myself and I was about to drop the whole thing on some ladies head.
Great.
I managed to shuffle it to the front of the car again and then I stood there with this look of, OH GOD WHY ARE YOU ALL WITNESSING THIS HORROR, plastered onto my face. Then out of nowhere a nice man showed up and together we muscled and crammed my poor bike into some weird little compartment next to the bathroom. I then sat down and proceeded to act like this was all totally fine. Meanwhile I was recovering from the fact that I had just sweat through my jacket and reached my target heart rate and adrenaline levels for the day purely on public embarrassment.
Oh god don't look at me.
I then proceeded to ride the train to New Jersey, where I ripped my bike out of it's tiny prison and ran off the train car as fast as humanely possible. And by ran I mean lugged all my shit off the car at a slow pace with people grumbling and walking slowly behind me. I then had to carry my bike bag and all my luggage up four flights of stairs because the troll-escalator was going the wrong way. Damn you, escalator.
This is all before I had to do the airport ninja of course, so I was quietly preparing myself for them to open my bag in front of everyone and call me a dirty liar and charge me one million dollars to fly my bike.
Public shame knows no bounds when you're traveling.
But that didn't happen. When it came time to check my bike and get my ticket, I very stealthily did the self check in and then handed over my large, but within acceptable parameters, bag of bicycle with only one question of, 'what is this?'
I smoothly replied that it was equipment for a trade show and my bike was ready to be loaded onto the plane. Phew.
Seriously though I think that whole debacle gave me heart palpitations.
So here I am in Georgia. Everything is a highway, there seems to be only fast food and lots of fried chicken and Waffle Houses. I did the Athens Terrapin Twilight Crit last night, but that will be a story for my next blog. Spoiler: I do still have all my skin.
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