Book Report
I still like paper books. I like the way they feel, especially hardcover books. I still haven't given eBooks a chance, but I figure it's only a matter of time before the expense and storage liabilities of physical books drive me to convert.
Saturday I took my family to the local Barnes & Noble and let them run wild in the aisles. I narrowed my focus to the new John Grisham (which I bought in hardcover) and the cycling shelf of the sports aisle. From that section I came away with two books. My youngest opted for a stuffed t-rex that I didn't realize made noise until after the sale. Bad miscalculation on my part. My daughter picked up a couple of bookmarks, and the rest of the family opted out of engaging their minds with the written word. They were more interested in getting back to their iPads, videogames, and binge-watching Netflix. I'm not sure I can relate.
Once home, I immediately dove into the first book, Thomas Dekker's autobiography, Descent: My Epic Fall from Cycling Superstardom to Doping Dead End. I had never liked Dekker as a rider, because it was obvious he was juiced even in the drug-fueled Armstrong era. He was also a complete douche, although he didn't wield the same power that Armstrong did. I'm sure if he could have, he would have. This book was well-reviewed, so I figured maybe there was more to him than being an asshole doper. It was certainly readable, thanks to the efforts of his co-writer and the translator, so I finished all 224 pages in one night. When I was finished, my opinion of him had not shifted at all. Asshole doper. At least in this story he didn't get his triumphant return before retirement, but he still walked away with far more than he deserved. I doubt I'll read it again.
The second book, Phil Gaimon's Draft Animals: Living the Pro Cycling Dream (Once in a While) is taking me a bit longer to read. Not because it isn't readable or interesting, but because I started it right around the same time as my legs turned into twin pistons of fiery agony. Sleep and healing were more important to me than finding out which dopers Phil thinks are actually pretty nice guys, once you get to know them. While from my lofty perch as pack fodder in North America's least competitive races I may take issue with his hammering some dopers more than others and then flouting his clean tattoo, I also have to admit that this book is all from his perspective and the perceptions of the guys in his subsection of the peloton. He was closer to the action than I ever will be, so maybe there's some merit there after all. I'll never know for sure. He does his own writing, and he does a decent job of portraying himself as a person I'd probably get along with (unlike Dekker). When I'm finished with the book, I may even read it again in the future. I can't say the same about Dekker's book, because I have enough exposure to assholes in my day-to-day life to require any further examples. Gaimon's book was also significantly cheaper, so it has that going for it as well. It's no The Rider, but then again, nothing is.
Eventually I'll finish Draft Animals, and if I still have the reading itch I'll plow through the Grisham. I usually read compulsively for short spurts, devouring a stack of books in a relatively short amount of time, then not read another book for weeks or even months. When I get the itch, I scratch the itch. When it goes away, books go unread. I still haven't really touched my beautiful hardcover biographies of LeMond and Cancellara, because the arrived when I wasn't itching and are buried somewhere next to the bed. Sooner or later I'll dig them out and read them, before I add them to the creaking bookcase that holds all of my other cycling books.
Paper books about Lycra-clad adults are probably not the most sound investment these days, but nobody's ever called me a financial genius.
Saturday I took my family to the local Barnes & Noble and let them run wild in the aisles. I narrowed my focus to the new John Grisham (which I bought in hardcover) and the cycling shelf of the sports aisle. From that section I came away with two books. My youngest opted for a stuffed t-rex that I didn't realize made noise until after the sale. Bad miscalculation on my part. My daughter picked up a couple of bookmarks, and the rest of the family opted out of engaging their minds with the written word. They were more interested in getting back to their iPads, videogames, and binge-watching Netflix. I'm not sure I can relate.
Once home, I immediately dove into the first book, Thomas Dekker's autobiography, Descent: My Epic Fall from Cycling Superstardom to Doping Dead End. I had never liked Dekker as a rider, because it was obvious he was juiced even in the drug-fueled Armstrong era. He was also a complete douche, although he didn't wield the same power that Armstrong did. I'm sure if he could have, he would have. This book was well-reviewed, so I figured maybe there was more to him than being an asshole doper. It was certainly readable, thanks to the efforts of his co-writer and the translator, so I finished all 224 pages in one night. When I was finished, my opinion of him had not shifted at all. Asshole doper. At least in this story he didn't get his triumphant return before retirement, but he still walked away with far more than he deserved. I doubt I'll read it again.
The second book, Phil Gaimon's Draft Animals: Living the Pro Cycling Dream (Once in a While) is taking me a bit longer to read. Not because it isn't readable or interesting, but because I started it right around the same time as my legs turned into twin pistons of fiery agony. Sleep and healing were more important to me than finding out which dopers Phil thinks are actually pretty nice guys, once you get to know them. While from my lofty perch as pack fodder in North America's least competitive races I may take issue with his hammering some dopers more than others and then flouting his clean tattoo, I also have to admit that this book is all from his perspective and the perceptions of the guys in his subsection of the peloton. He was closer to the action than I ever will be, so maybe there's some merit there after all. I'll never know for sure. He does his own writing, and he does a decent job of portraying himself as a person I'd probably get along with (unlike Dekker). When I'm finished with the book, I may even read it again in the future. I can't say the same about Dekker's book, because I have enough exposure to assholes in my day-to-day life to require any further examples. Gaimon's book was also significantly cheaper, so it has that going for it as well. It's no The Rider, but then again, nothing is.
Eventually I'll finish Draft Animals, and if I still have the reading itch I'll plow through the Grisham. I usually read compulsively for short spurts, devouring a stack of books in a relatively short amount of time, then not read another book for weeks or even months. When I get the itch, I scratch the itch. When it goes away, books go unread. I still haven't really touched my beautiful hardcover biographies of LeMond and Cancellara, because the arrived when I wasn't itching and are buried somewhere next to the bed. Sooner or later I'll dig them out and read them, before I add them to the creaking bookcase that holds all of my other cycling books.
Paper books about Lycra-clad adults are probably not the most sound investment these days, but nobody's ever called me a financial genius.
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