Noris the Clydsdale

I’m sitting here with Mr. Tony Guisto, AKA Fatty McFaterson.  While the Israeli riders have been munching on green beens, potatoes, and dry pasta, Tony and I have been eating eggs (with the yolk), peanut butter, Nutella, and pasta with olive oil.  Needless to say… I won’t say it.  No just kidding: needless to say, the Israelis have become quite jealous and condescending of our diet.  They have been calling Tony fat, although he is anything but.  And they are constantly licking their lips as we eat our “heathen food.”


Today Tony and I went on a pre-race/hard interval ride.  It was the same workout as the last pre-race ride: cadance drills followed by “all out” for one minute, five times.  Then six sprints after a short rest.  Tony managed to beat me on one of the sprints.  I blame the bad potholes that were on my side of the road.


We got a compliment on one of the 1-minute intervals from a sports car.  We had just passed through the busy tourist village of Dubuy, a cobble stone lovers paradise, when we began our fourth interval.  Humidity reaching 100% and the glow of the hot sun piercing down through the overcast sky couldn’t hold us back from breaking a new land speed record today.  We started the interval with a medium level sprint (coming out of a minute of 120 cadance and a minute of 75 cadance).  I sat down; I could here Tony pedaling like a fool behind in my draft.  The pain commenced.  My quads began to tear themselves inside out as I pushed harder after looking down and not being content with the 600 watts I was producing.  I was already in my biggest gear, 53-12, and we were on level ground.  With 20 seconds to go, I gave Tony the signal to try to come around me.  I grimaced as I stood up and threw my bike into a knackered sprint, leaning wildly form one side of the bike to the other, willing myself forward with one thought: “Be the horse, Kennett.  Be the horse!”  Tony’s powertap is broken, and mine doesn’t read speed anymore, so I don’t know how fast we were going.  But I’m guessing that it was over 40mph.  30 seconds after we hung our heads down in exhaustion, the sports car passed us and gave us a honk and a thumbs up.  A lot of Belgians love cyclists and give you thumbs ups and encouraging honks, but there are others (just like in the US) that are complete idiots, passing on blind corners and awarding you only inches of space between you and their bumpers. 


After the workout part of the workout, we stopped for a Coke and water in Dubuy.  The price was six euros, which is about $10.  We were shocked.  Our waitress did throw in crackers for free, but still—that’s quite a bit for a can of coke and tap water.  And she didn’t seem to mind too much when I showed her that I only had five euros.   


And then I pet a giant Clydsdale pulling a carriage.  His name was Noris (maybe) and his lips were bigger than my head.  That horse was amazing.


Race tomorrow, race on Monday, and race on Wednesday.  oh yeah.  Hammer time.

One thought on “Noris the Clydsdale

  1. hello

    i have much problems:

    the train company that contrals almost all trains to belgiul from paris requires bikes be in boxes

    bike boxes cannot be found in paris

    i am getting angry at paris, its too crowded\everbody smokes

    i might be in comblain sometimeson monday between 4-7

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