Ride Report: RCCS Coffee Ride, 2/20/2010

Sunday morning, I rolled out at 7:01 AM en route to a fantastic adventure.

It was a cool morning -- cool enough that I was glad I'd opted for my semi-famous FHPs, a long-sleeved jersey, and a jacket; cool enough that I wished I'd been organized enough to locate the full-fingered gloves that I'd pulled out of my backpack and (as I later discovered) stuffed into the couch beside one of the seat-cushions (Aside: Can anyone explain this madness?  I am not generally in the habit of stuffing things into the couch.  Maybe it was the cat.) -- but it was a lovely morning.  Traffic was light, and I sailed along, stuck in the big ring (still) for just over forty minutes.  With butterflies in my stomach, though once I hit my rhythm, I mostly forgot about them.

The truth is, I am terribly nervous about meeting other cyclists.  Having been 'the weird kid' in every single year of school, I'm mostly good at holding my own against the irrational judgments of others, but somehow I crave the respect of my fellow wheelmen and -women ... at least, those I respect.  Plus, one of my personal heroes was likely to show for this ride (ZOMG!), though I somehow managed to put that from my mind and thus not act like a ridiculous little squirrel.

It turned out, however, that the guys I would be riding with were what one might call 'just folks' -- really nice people with bikes in their blood and bones (maybe 'just spokes' would be a better moniker?).  Ward, the first to arrive after I pulled in, happened to have a tool I'd left behind, which allowed me to tighten my stem so my handlebars wouldn't rotate (which they had done, terrifyingly, on the way over -- a startling moment which would cause me to descend roughly as fast as a lazy snail for the duration of the ride). 

While we waited for our brethren, I fiddled with my front derailleur, finally coaxing it onto the small ring.  I would be glad of this later -- our ride-leader for the day, Tim, sniffed out a pretty hilly route.  Even in the small ring, I was pretty winded at the top of two of the climbs.  In the big ring, I would've been cooked by mile 20 -- well-done, in fact, given that my big ring is a 53 and my cluster ranges 12-23.  (As it was, I thought the 39x12-23 range worked pretty well for this ride.)

Soon our fellows arrived.  It was edifying to see such an array of beautiful bikes, among them Patrick's gorgeous A. Homer Hilsen with its double top tube and Tim's beautiful, brand-spanking new steed from Independent Fabrications (speaking of which: dear relatives, if you happen to have an extra $5,500 lying around and can't think of a way to spend it, a Corvid would make a really awesome wedding present next May ;D).  I would've been happy to have any one of them in my personal stable (though I would, of course, need a smaller Hilsen!).

We headed out right around 8:00, rolling up Breckenridge Lane a bit, then hanging a right.  There was no predetermined route map for this ride; there were no cue sheets.  We were following Tim's nose, and -- as it turns out -- he has a good one.  Our path led through the lovely, curving climbs of such venues as Glenview Hills, Glenview, Riverwood, and Indian Hills.  The wooded roads were quiet; the climbs were delightful, the descents ... well, beautiful and terrifying, but only because I was constantly worried about my bars randomly rotating.  (It would appear that I have become a bit paranoid.) 

At one point, a brace of whitetail does exploded across our path, resulting in jubilant shouts of 'Deer up!' and 'Oh, deer!'  Later, a hawk (probably a redtail, based on its build and flight profile, but I didn't get a great look) sailed over us.  Fortunately, she decided we did not look edible :)

Dave was riding his Bacchetta, and it was thrilling to hear the recumbent which had a few moments before been toodling its way up the climbs come roaring down the other side.  First, you would hear a sound like a train; then you'd glance over your shoulder, and there was Dave descending like a madman, or a falcon, in the drizzly rain, and then...

Swoooooosh!

...He was past you, and then he was past the rest of the guys, who were themselves sailing around a beautiful little switchback in a sort of relaxed paceline, or searing their way down a straight descent in a pack.

Suffice it to say that Sunday was one of those 'why I ride' kind of days.  It was reminiscent, in a way, of the long, rambling rides I used to take with a couple of my friends as a kid -- quiet, hilly roads, no real plan, just riders and bikes.  The major difference?  The bikes were generally nicer, and this ride was faster :)

I don't think I've had quite this much fun on a bike since ... well, possibly, quite possibly, ever.  I mostly ride solo, both at work and at play, and I enjoy it -- but there's nothing quite like a good group ride to keep you rolling.

When you're riding for fun with a good group, it's easy to forget you're climbing, and to stop obsessing about cadence and pedal stroke and intervals and all that fiddly stuff that sometimes makes you want to pull your hair out on a training ride (and people wonder why I always wear a helmet :D).  Talking, I'm convinced keeps the oxygen flowing in and out with aplomb.

We wound our way up Clifton Ave (a road I was once afraid to even try to climb!), sailed along part of one of my favorite weekend rides from my William Street days, and turned onto Bardstown Road.  Soon, we were sailing in to a stop at Quills Coffee.  It was a little after 10:00, and we were ready for some refreshment.  Coffee, savory scones, a cookie, and an espresso drink almost too beautiful to touch were consumed with relish amidst a conversation that rarely veered far from the thing that had brought us all together: bikes, and riding bikes.

Soon, we were headed back out into the drizzly morning. 

Dave was gracious enough to let me try his Bacchetta (shh!  Don't tell my co-workers!), which I rode for a few blocks and enjoyed immensely (note to self: disc brakes are, in fact, pretty awesome -- much better at stopping in the rain than QS's road calipers -- I fear I may find myself riding a 'cross brake with discs, some time soon).  We turned onto Cherokee and found our way into the park, where we sailed down the sweeping descent-side of Baringer Hill.  I then got so engrossed in talking to Dave about 'bents that I pretty much failed to notice the next climb 'til he peeled off with an, "I'm dropping back..."  We'd reached the steepish little bit at the top, and the Bacchetta had lost its momentum, so I muscled up to the fountain alone and found -- to my surprise -- that I wasn't even winded.  This is what happens when you forget about yourself and get out of your own way!

In a moment we were descending again, then winding through the little valley along Beargrass Creek -- and then, much too soon, it was time for me to peel off and head for church.  My route took me up Millvale Road, then onto Woodbourne Ave, where Saint Andrew's Episcopal makes its home.  The rest of the guys headed onward to, as Tim puts it in his ride report on the RCCS blog, 'Saint Matthew's and beyond.'

My first RCCS ride is definitely among my top-ten cycling experiences so far.  Dave, Patrick, Tim, and Ward make great ride partners.

I'll be keeping an eye on the RCCS blog in hopes of another go some time soon ... and maybe next time it'll occur to me to take more than one picture!



P.S. — I am happy to report that the fix for the bar-rotation problem seems to have done the trick.  That being said, I plan to devote the next week to re-learning how to trust my bike!

P.P.S — I forgot to mention: as far as I know, at no point did a race break out on this ride.

P.P.P.S — while I was out riding Quicksilver, Hg grew a set of bars. Also a shiny purple-anodized rear brake caliper. Woot!

Oh, Right.

One more thing 'Fall' means:

FENDERS.

Yes, it's time again for 'filth prophylactics,' mudguards, fred blades, whatever you want to call them. The humid but rainless summer is over at last, and the Season of the Rooster Tail is upon us (Alleluia!).

Fortunately, I already have fenders for Swift. Quicksilver could probably wear a set of SKS Raceblades but, even with a potential shop discount (I'm not sure we carry them, so it's hard to say), the cost of the Raceblades would still be prohibitive right now, because I am borked (which is also why I'm probably not racing any more this year, unless a miracle occurs).

So it looks like Swift will be doing the honors, which is fine, because Swift will also be doing the (God help us) Winter Bike honors this year, unless I can convince my Mom that an aluminum 'cross frame would be the perfect early Christmas present. The only problem is that after several months pretty much riding Quicksilver all the time, riding Swift feels ... um ... weird.

Like, 'epic stem' weird, actually. I have grown rather unused to sitting up straight while riding a bike. It doesn't mean Swift handles badly or anything — just that I feel really strange.

So much so, in fact, that I'm partway inclined to cannibalize some poor old road bike from the garage and steal its stem, bars, and other such bits.

Of course, then I'll have to get one of those fancy dooflitchets that let you use road levers with v-brakes (sidebar: does anyone know why they're called v-brakes? ...because mine are distinctly square, not v-shaped at all, when seen from the front never mind; I have apparently lost my mind; I was thinking of the brakes on my black Schwinn, not Swift's brakes, which do definitely resemble Vs). Dooflitchets cost money, however, and money is the one thing I don't have right now, so I may just have to suck it up and get used to riding 'upright' again.

Basically, I had no idea how enormous Swift's stem was. The thing is like half a foot tall (Quicksilver's has that whole 'negative rise' thing going on). Not that this is a big problem, but some part of me feels really weird all dolled up in my 'I'm a Real Cyclist' togs while rolling around on a bike with a stem that makes me sit up like a Puritan on Sunday morning (or afternoon ... or evening).

Speaking of which, a couple of weeks ago, I was chatting outside a CVS with a fellow who rides a nice Schwinn Traveler, and he referred to me as a 'real cyclist' (apparently, putting in a lot of miles on an old Allez is a good way to convince others that you're one of those).

That both made me smile and struck me as funny — it wasn't so long ago that I thought of 'those people' with the lycra and the road bikes and the hair (okay, some of them are bald) as 'Real Cyclists (TM),' and myself as just some kind of half-ASPed dweeb on a bike.

Not to say I think I'm all that with extra 'All That' sauce now — but I no longer think of the roadies and 'cross racers and people-who-actually-ride-mountain-bikes-off-road of the world as 'Them' (as in the 'Us and Them' dichotomy).

These days, I think of cyclists in general as 'Us,' excepting perhaps those who insist on operating bicycles in the roadways at 2.3 MPH against the flow of traffic. Those chucklebunnies, I think of as 'bike salmon,' as BikesnobNYC has so aptly defined them.

This transition seems to have happened slowly and gently enough that I never even really noticed it was happening. At some point, without realizing it, I started thinking of myself as a 'Real Cyclist.' Not that I think I know everything — heck, there are days I'm pretty sure I know absolutely nothing — and not that I think I'm hot stuff (okay, sometimes I do), because I can think of at least a hundred people in the city of Louisville alone who could drop me like a bad habit under just about any conditions, and most of them are like twice my age or more.

Sure, I do have my cocky moments (more than I care to admit) and occasionally even stupid moments (I AM SPRINTING THIS YELLOW LIGHT IF IT KILLS ME — HOLY CARP IT TURNED RED AND I DON'T HAVE TIME TO STOP! — I GUESS I'M SPRINTING THIS RED LIGHT IF IT KILLS ME...), though I try to keep those to a bare minimum.

Speaking of cocky, stupid moments, since I don't have to bring *anything* to class tonight except for myself, I think I'm going to be both cocky and stupid and ride the whole distance from here to school. It has been a couple of weeks since I rode more than eleven miles in one stretch, so it's about time. Now that I'm finally on top of the housework again (I let it slide while I was looking after DD following his surgery), I think I'm going to try to start getting out and doing long rides on class days, since I do nothing but housework and school on those days. As such, I plan to take Quicksilver (the roads should be dry, or at least, dry enough) and head out around two-thirty or three o'clock, ride north-west to the MUP, then ride the MUP to the bridge, where I'll invade Indiana.

Oh, right. Assuming my clothes are dry by three.

See what I mean? Stupid and cocky, heh.

How to Prevent a Rainstorm

A friend of DD's had an extra Mountain Hard Wear rainjacket lying around and gave it to me when we were in Chicago. As someone who has regularly found himself cursing the inventor of that lightweight plastic rain cape which goes by the name 'emergency poncho', I was extremely grateful, since nice rainjackets are a bit pricey and this way I can have a rain jacket and cyclocross tires.

Since that time, I've been meaning to try out my jacket -- but the weather has not precisely been cooperating. For the past few weeks, it's been sunny and dry, with the occasional rain shower after I'm already in bed.

Yesterday, however, I learned that rain was expected for today — so this morning I gleefully zipped up my awesome orange jacket before heading out the door.

There's a lot to love about this jacket. First of all, it's a sort of 'harvesty' orange, and I look good in harvesty orange.

Second, it's light and fits pretty closely which means I don't add an extraneous wind resistance component to my morning 'workout' (if you can call a 4.5-mile ride, mostly downhill, a 'workout').

Third, and perhaps most importantly, it has those amazing magical ventilation devices known as 'pit zips.' Yes, you heard me — zippers under the arms! At last, my armpits can breathe free, even when it's raining.

Also, did I mention that I look good in harvesty orange? I really must get a picture of this thing.

Anyway.

So I zipped up my snappy new rain jacket and headed out into the ...

um.

Not rain.

There were clouds in the sky. The scent of rain was on the wind. Surely, I thought, surely the sky will open up at any moment and allow me to write an eloquent post in praise of my jacket's finer qualities test my jacket's seaworthiness.

Surely.

I rolled out into the road: up Willow (where I saw, and inadvertently chased, an actual bunny!bunny!bunny!). Down Patterson. Through the little alley that I use to avoid several stoplights at the occasional cost of getting stuck at the Grinstead Road crossing.

Still no rain.

On Baxter Ave, I zipped along at a decent pace, unhindered by my new jacket, which seemed to slice through the air well enough — yet still no rain fell.

On Jefferson, I caught a couple of stoplights. I hoped that perhaps the Heavens would open up as I obediently waited for the green ... but no such luck. The Heavens remained stubbornly closed. Apparently, like the sandwich shop at which one inevitably arrives a few minutes early, they open when they open.

As I sailed around the 7th Street turn, I realized my hopes had been dashed. There would be no Product Testing today — just a reasonably-fast ride in a reasonably-comfortable jacket (to whit: I would have been quite chilly this morning, without the jacket, so it did work nicely as a windbreak).

Dejected, all my hopes for the morning shattered like a faulty R-Sys carbon wheel in the middle of a race, I dismounted as I pulled up to the rack, locked my bike, and unzipped my jacket.

And then I felt it: the first drop of rain hitting my suitably-waterproof sleeve.

The moral of the story?

It is impossible to road-test rain gear, because such demiurges as control the weather will only laugh at you.

I understand, however, that an automated carwash just might do the job.

My advice?

Wear goggles.