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Did I really need a new road bike? Definitely not. But I bought one anyhow, maybe because I turned 40 the other day, maybe because of the fact that with the kid around I have less time to drive the car to suitable mountain bike spots of which there aren’t any here in the floodplains of the mighty river Schelde, or maybe because I never skimp on bikes, since they really are the one thing I spend money on (and a bit of travel as well) – remember, I don’t drink, don’t smoke, always wear a pair of jeans and a hoodie, and sustain myself to a large extent on fruit and vegetables (and M&Ms).
My current bike shop (I always patronize one bike shop only) does Specialized, and so I looked at their gamma first. I fairly quickly settled on the 2012 Tarmac SL3 Expert, as it ticked all my boxes: full-carbon, timeless black color scheme, low weight (7.5kg without pedals), Shimano Ultegra groupset, and importantly, a mid-compact crankset, 52/36, which is a little more benign than 53/39. I consider 53/39 to be passé: you almost have to be a pro to push 53 on the flats or to push 39 in the mountains (for instance in combination with a 25 in the back). As it’s important to keep the Q-factor as low as possible, I wouldn’t consider a triple crank either.
This spring a lot of classics were won (both Omega Pharma-Quikstep and Astana are riding Specialized) on the SL4, the successor to the SL3, and with it only being 90g lighter and 19% stiffer (laterally) than the SL3, I opted for not paying the premium to ride the same steed as the pros. I’m nevertheless riding the same bike as Alberto Contador when he won/didn’t win the 2010 Tour de France.
My new bike is a little over 1kg lighter than my previous one, which is huge. 1kg on the bike equals 10kg on the body! (Mallorca, here I come.)
Saturday the 28th of April I’m off to Mallorca, Europe’s cycling island, for a week of road biking, as a participant to Stephen Roche’s cycling camp. I’ve been two years ago as well when we were a fun bunch of Frenchmen, Americans, Canadians, a lone Swiss, and us Belgians. As always with road biking in group, it’s a race and not a race at the same time. We’ll be grouped according to fitness, go from there, and duke it out on Mallorca’s hills, which are not too steep and thus allow for some playfulness. Even though it is mountain biking that hooked me to ‘the’ lifestyle, I was a road biker first, and have always cherished the physical aspect of the sport. A great ride drops me home tired. In addition, we’re staying in hotel Ponent Mar, because of which I feel like I’m getting two vacations for the price of one: a cycling vacation before noon, a sun/beach/pool vacation after noon.
I did have a chat with the affable Stephen Roche two years ago. I asked him about his 1987 triple crown whereas (his words) most Belgians typically talk to him about his heart-wrenching loss in the 1987 Liège-Bastogne-Liège, when him and Claude Criquielion dithered in the final kilometer only to let the much faster Moreno Argentin come back from behind and win it in the sprint. He sincerely regretted having botched a rare chance at winning this prestigious monument.
Picture of hotel Ponent Mar, taken from the internet. Looking forward, a well-deserved break after a few months of daddy day care.
I left home early this morning and rode a full 4 hours, on my own, 110 kilometers at an average speed of 27.7 kilometer/hour, crossing the mighty river Schelde, the E40 motorway, and the railroad connecting Ghent with Brussels in order to get at the heart of the Flemish Ardennes, where I scaled both the Volkegemberg and the Molenberg – the latter one is part of the much talked about new track for the 2012 Tour of Flanders. On my way back I briefly stopped at the monument in honor of Wouter Weylandt, Frederiek Nolf, and Dimitri De Fauw, all three Flemish professional road cyclists who died too young, in case of Wouter Weylandt even with a baby on the way. (Alizée Weylandt was born the day before Bodhi.)
2012/4
A. P. Tsjechow: Kinderverhalen (235p.)
Kinderverhalen is a collection of short stories by Tsjechow (Chekhov for the English-speaking), and I learn from the internet that this specific grouping of short stories is probably available only in Dutch, and unfortunately not in English (apologies). Kinderverhalen translates as ‘children’s stories’ – in each story, kids play a pivotal role. Some of the stories are just short, some good, none exceptional. Besides short stories, Chekhov mainly wrote plays.
A very thoughtful present by my cousin Piet, triggered by the birth of my son Bodhi.
It’s been 9 weeks now since I relinquished my job to become a full-time stay-at-home dad. I felt euphoric in week 1, but a bit anguished in week 2 and 3, the question that weighed on my mind being whether my leaving wouldn’t come back to me like a boomerang when one day having to re-enter the (tough) labor market. After all, long-term freelance project management positions (which is what I was doing before) are hard to come by. Week 4 to 6 were just great, week 7 the week he had to start going to a nursery, where in the end he only stayed three half days before we pulled him out for good. He suffered through a week of diarrhea in week 8 (last week), the aftermath of his brief stint in the nursery, and I suffered with him, one day even running out of clean clothes.
This week, week 9, we’re completely on track again, solid sleeping, solid eating, all smiles.
Next week is looking good too, a ski trip to Morzine (French Alps) together with my sister (his godmother), my sister’s husband, and her kid (my godchild). Last year there was almost no snow, this year there’s supposed to be plentiful – you don’t even have to bother looking up snow reports.
Ps. The idea was for me to start looking into a few other options as of week 7 (with him in nursury) but all that has been temporarily suspended, or will be second fiddle to the kid.
The lady gave him his first bottle this morning (7ish) before whisking off to work, which in turn allowed me to ease into the day as in lockstep with the first bottle comes another nap, the last certain nap of the day, and the perfect time to get a few things done already, a grocery list perhaps, the perfect time for anticipation as well, which as all experienced parents know is the key to good parenting. Failing to prepare is preparing to fail. Coach Wooden would have approved of me.
A beautiful spring day it was, full bloom daffodils in the lawn in front of the village church like so many stars in a milky way, and when Bodhi woke, I took him for a short walk, merely for fun – let it be clear I walked him many a times because I had to. We walked, getting ready for his daily mash, cauliflower, potato, a dollop of olive oil, which went down well, a sigh of relief, a mash gone down well usually means smooth sailing for the rest of the day.
I met up again with the lady at noon, the three of us, hidden somewhere at the back of a small mom and pop restaurant close to where she works, I won’t divulge the address here. Rarely do I savor the warmth of a small close-knit family unit more than when we sneak off for lunch, at least once a week, and sidestep society’s business for a wasted hour, splendid isolation, le plus beau temps c’est le temps perdu.
He slept long when my boy and me got home, and woke up ablaze with anger, the unexpected tantrum, which I only succeeded in dispelling by manning up for yet another walk and delaying his next bottle with half an hour. In the meantime word had come from the post office, confirming the arrival of his (second-hand) first ski suit (we’re off to Morzine in February), which I subsequently collected and brought home unopened, as I happily defer this small pleasure to someone who cherishes it more than I do.
I then showered, shaved, cut a pineapple, watched some television (all while keeping him cool), eagerly listening for a sound, the sound of a car driving up our lot, the sound of a key turning, the sound that signifies changing of the guards for me, treats for the cats, the arrival of primary care giver-1 for Bodhi (and another bottle), the sound of the lady getting home. All is well.
2011/27
Scott Young: Neil and Me (379p.)
Scott Young’s Neil and Me is a rare case of a biography written by the dad on the son, the dad being Canadian sports journalist Scott Young, the son being Neil Young, rock ‘n roll’s creative genius who over 50 years has built himself a career in rock only equaled by Bob Dylan, and this without compromising himself once. With his falsetto voice and acoustic guitar, Neil Young might come across as outdated to the younger generations, but I have listened to his music on tape, vinyl, CD, and MP3, and I would through streaming too were it not that accessing Spotify requires a Facebook account. His Live Rust album really got things going for me back then, a quarter of a century ago – I’m getting old.
Neil Young has three children, two boys and a girl, and while there is no genetic component to cerebral palsy, both his boys suffer from it, Zeke mildly, Ben strongly. Amber, his girl, has epilepsy. There are a lot of nice passages in Neil and Me about what it means or can mean to be a father, but otherwise, I’d say Neil and Me is for the fans really, which I am. The front cover says ‘A gem in the library of rock’ – I’m still hoping to discover that gem one day.
Get his Live at Massey Hall album (1971).
(Rumor has it that Neil Young is in the process of writing his autobiography. Panic among the Young fans as it might detract him from working on his Archives series – the definitive, comprehensive, chronological survey of his entire body of work.)
NY holding Zeke at a 1974 San Francisco Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young gig.
9kg for the carrier (the mean Charriot Cougar, which can be used for strolling, hiking, running, cycling, and cross-country skiing), and 6kg for Bodhi equals 15kg in total, and a good work-out along the banks of the mighty river Schelde, especially when not having slept much. Please ignore my very 90s Saeco cycling tights.
Maybe the birth of my boy wasn’t so much the best day of my life (or it is only becoming so in hindsight) but the most intense day, between skipping a night of sleep, the hours-long near-crisis that was Bo’s delivery, and the sheer existentialism of his long-awaited arrival, the bluish and bloated skin of a – thank the Lord – healthy kid.
At its peak too, life is a lesson in humility, in gratefulness rather than pride, especially in the face of those parents not only having to deal with the emotional turmoil of a delivery, but with a kid with health issues to boot, born at 1.2kg at 26 months, and locked away for 130 days in the neonatal unit.
When I walked out of the hospital on my way to bringing Bodhi home, I made up my mind to start giving back, in short bursts to begin with, while in parallel pondering ways to engage in charity in a more structured manner.
Through my company (a sheet of paper, a pen, a VAT-number, and me) I have in the meantime donated sizable amounts of money to both Animal Trust, a local cats and dogs shelter, and to Kinderkankerfonds, the paediatric cancer fund associated with Ghent’s University Hospital. For 2012, I’m eyeing World Bicycle Relief, a great program co-chaired by the affable Johan Bruyneel.
I fed him bottles at 6pm, 10pm, and 2am yesterday/this morning, hoping to somewhat alleviate the load which has been resting more on the lady’s shoulders than mine, as I also have been working full-time the last few weeks – luckily work is not too busy for the moment. He’s a great little feller and when you take the time, it’s really rewarding to feed him and to clean him. The tiredness can be a bit of a dark cloud, but dark clouds always drift off, and the time will come when he sleeps through the night, which is what 80% of the babies do at 3 months/5.5kg. With every bottle fed my feelings for the baby grow – I guess you could say we’re developing a love affair.
