On Wednesday, I rolled out to retrieve my bank card from the bank (I left it in the ATM on Monday) and, since it was grey and rainy and about darned time, to hit the shop for some fenders.
After hanging out at Fourth Street with Tony and installing a pair of Planet Bike Speedez (review to come, but in short, my legs are dry, and -- perhaps more importantly -- so is my butt!), I headed to Rite-Aid to buy some cough medicine, then stopped at Dairy Queen for lunch. While I was dining, the sun came out, the clouds rolled away, and I realized that it was turning into the kind of day on which not riding the bike just for fun would be a sin.
So, predictably, I went home, dropped off my cough medicine and my now-unnecessary (and highly wind-catching) rain jacket -- there was a fierce headwind on the homestretch! -- then headed back out for a jaunt around the neighborhood.
Perhaps predictably, my jaunt took me up to Iroquois Park. I didn't turn on iMapMyRide+, and I stopped a bunch of times to take pictures -- so I have no idea what my average speed was or anything like that (I did ride a pretty nice pace up the hill, though, just for fun). Surprisingly, for someone who hasn't done any serious riding in a couple of weeks, I felt really strong.
Perhaps I'm experiencing the post-off season boomerang effect that I've noticed a couple of times before; perhaps it's just that I was having fun and not worrying about statistics at all, since 'cross season is a non-starter for me this year and it isn't really time to seriously train for 2012 road season by a long shot. I pushed a little here and there, and slacked off a little in other spots, and I felt as good on the bike as I've felt in months and months. I also didn't cough much, though I've been coughing my brains out since I got home -- I seem to cough less outside.
Uppill Road is now closed to auto traffic for the season (except for folks dropping off their leaves), so I had a nice quite ride, sharing the road with a few walkers and dog-walkers and two other bikes. The roads in the park past the tennis courts atop Iroquois Hill were strewn with leaves that still smelled crisp and new. I had fun sailing through them, and I rode slower because of them, which made it impossible to skip the step of stopping for pictures (please forgive the grey lines on these guys; they're artifacts of the fact that I interrupted the upload process by mistake -- I'll fix 'em later).
The overlook was actually pretty impressive today:
...and even the airport managed to look idyllic:
This pine, meanwhile, looked serene -- very Japanese-- with its black bark and graceful limbs and the golden leaves of the deciduous trees scattered at its feet:
On the backside of Toppill Road, I felt like I could've been all alone in the middle of nowhere:
...Nothing but me, the grass, the trees, and the wind.
Oh, and the dog poop. Apparently, once they close the Hill for the season, people stop picking up after their dogs. Meh. It's all good. I made a point of not rolling through any of it. Don't want to have to scrape the tires before I bring the bike in and stick it on the trainer!
As I was banging out the last stretch of the climb, I even saw an dashing young white-tailed buck who bounded, leaping, across the road and disappeared on the far side. He had a nice pair of two- or three-point antlers and looked strong and healthy. I never really get over spotting deer in Iroquois Park!
Unfortunately, I am far too slow with the Inspire-Cam to grab pix of deer. Maybe I should get a helmet cam?
There are a million reasons I absolutely love the fall. I hope these pictures make at least some of them clear :)
Showing posts with label rides. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rides. Show all posts
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Mutinous Malfunctions, Astounding Ascents, Daring Descents, Toiling Triathletes, and A Good Time Was Had By All*: the Inaugural LBC 100k Populaire -- a Beauteous Brevet
There's a bit of irony in the fact that it's taken me this long to get around to riding a brevet (and a short one, at that).
Back when I started riding again, my primary goal was to ride a 200k brevet in 2010 (which now seems like roughly six million years ago). I scuttled that goal completely by picking a fight with a lamp post while riding my old green Hybrid, Swift -- and since then have evolved into a rider with racing asirations who spends way more time on the bike while somehow simultaneously being way less disciplined about it. If you call that evolution**.
What that really means is that I lost a bunch of motivation somewhere (I thought I saw it on the way home on Saturday, but it turned out to be someone's lost sunglasses). I wrote a bit about that recently; I neglected to also mention that my relationship with DD -- which is wonderful -- also acted as a bit of a demotivator. Specifically, I wanted to spend more time with him, and also couldn't yet get my head around the fact that it actually wouldn't bother him if I wandered off now and then by myself in order to ride my bike..
At this point, my motivation is returning, and I feel secure enough in my relationship with DD to feel comfortable going off by myself on the bike for, like, an entire day on the weekend (I feel free to wander off and ride during the week, since I’m usually home by myself).
And when I say 'by myself,' what I mean is 'occasionally by myself, but usually with 5 or 50 of my favorite bike people.'
So it was that today, for the second week in a row, I went on a ride while DD stayed home (though he, being the sweet and thoughtful guy that he is, drove me to the ride start, even though it was only 7 miles or so away, because we’d stayed up too late last night kibbitzing with our friend K’s Mom after dinner and drinks at K’s new restaurant, ‘garage’).
Saturday morning, I arrived earlyish at the start point on Morton Ave, where I received a brevet card and a doughnut (breakfast ofchampions randonneurs). Then I hung out for a bit to wait for with Dave, Michael, and Tim (in alphabetical order). Soon they arrived and checked in, and in the twinkling of an eye, we were all off on the inaugural ride in the LBC's new Populaire brevet series -- assuming that it is, in fact, a series, and that I'm not just totally imagining things.
The day's ride began with a cruise down to River Road, which is a pleasant enough ride at 9:00ish on a Saturday morning. We encountered a few brave triathletes already out plying their trade; they were coming the other way, so there was much waving and ding-dinging of bells on our part by way of encouragement. To their credit, many of them waved back -- for the triathletes, it was early in the day. They had not yet realized the demoralizing, life-sapping effect that a dip in the Ohio River must inevitably carry
As we spun merrily along, I noticed a weird sensation in my left pedal, followed by some front-derailleur problems (specifically, I seemed to be stuck in my small ring). Since I was riding Hg, you might think that I would've had the sense to wonder if my left crankarm was working itself loose again: I didn't. Instead, I continued blithely along until suddenly and with no real warning I found my left crankarm dangling from my shoe.
Needless to say, this presented a bit of a problem. Not only could I no longer pedal worth a darn (I was worried that the drive side might fall off as well if I tried), but it was surprisingly hard to figure out how to unclip and stop. I did, however, finally manage to unclip my right foot and glide to a stop in the grass with my left one sticking out at what I'm sure was probably a hilarious angle and thinking, "Crap, I'm done."
Dave happened to notice that I had pulled over, shouted to the group that we had a mechanical, and pulled over to help me out. I had brought the set of hex wrenches with the requisite 8mm wrench just in case, so between the two of us, we managed to get the left crankarm back on -- at which point, Dave torqued the bejeezus out of it (I have little T-rex arms and am not much good for torque or heavy lifting). Our theory was that it would be less likely to come undone again, that way. Upon remounting, I found it a little stiff, but satisfactory; within a couple of minutes, we were back on the road.
In fairly short order, we caught the group, which then proceeded along River Road, then branched left onto Rose Island Road.
There, Tim told us the story of a strange and prominent member of the Socialist party who (perhaps in defiance of his own anti-capitalist ideals) owned a huge chunk of property on said Island at one point, including a small zoo where -- once upon a time -- the public could visit his menagerie of exotic animals. Turns out that the zoo remains, at least in part, now populated by some camelids of some sort, various waterfowl (including Canada Geese, who may or may not be part of the menagerie at all), and some other species I didn't really see well enough to identify. There were white cattle of some sort.
Musings about the nature of the zoo kept us distracted for some time as we rolled down a beautiful stretch of road shaded by tall stands of trees on either side. The road lulled us all into a kind of happy complacency: where were the hills the organizers had warned us of? I thought perhaps they'd been eliminated by a last-minute route change, since indeed just such a last-minute change had been effected.
And then, suddenly, our friendly little road took a sharp turn onto a hill, and we were climbing.
In fact, the first steep climb probably wouldn't have been much more challenging than the Iroquois or Cherokee climbs, and certainly not worse than the most challenging of the climbs we encountered on the RCCS ride I enjoyed back in February -- if it weren't for the fact that we were riding in the climactic equivalent of a steam proofer.
I've learned over the past few significant rides that my climbing ability goes completely to crap in hot, humid weather. Saturday was no exception. I managed my frustrating with this personal flaw the way I normally do: which is to say, badly. Instead of shrugging off my own momentary limitation, I got in a big ol' fight with gravity and my bike and my lungs, and eventually everybody but me won. To make matters worse, as we toiled our way up the hill, a blue pickup badly in need of exhuast-system work rattled past us, belching fumes. After it passed, my lungs officially shut down in protest, and I had to stop, hit the inhaler, and wait for them to sort themselves out.
Fortunately, albuterol is a bit of a miracle drug, and in a minute or so I was back in action. Well off the tail of the group now, I banged my way to the top of the hill in solitude, deciding meanwhile that my training rides, from now on, will consist entirely of murderous hill repeats sprinkled with occasional interval workouts.
I guess it's probably worth observing that, all struggle aside, I have -- in fact -- come a really long way, cardiovascular fitness-wise. Last year, I'm not sure I would have made it to the bottom of the first real climb, given the heat and (especially) the humidity -- and last year, at this time, I was still taking both Advair and Singulair as well as hitting the albuterol before any expected hard effort. I'm trying to keep this in perspective, instead of just being pissed at myself for not being as strong a rider, this time of year, as I think I should be.
Anyway, after a short break, I plodded the rest of the way up that first climb, and in short order my pulse and respiration rates were back to normal.
Even Dave on the recumbent had passed me by that point -- only a tandem and possibly a couple other riders remained behind -- and being as I belong to a subset of proto-randonneurs that live in mortal fear of misreading the cue sheet, I set to work catching up. This meant I probably enjoyed the beautiful rollers that followed as a reward for climbing the Col d'Ile Rose less than I should have. It was, however, impossible to fail to enjoy the descents. I had forgotten how quick and how stable Hg is on the descents, and how keenly he cuts whatever line you sight.
My efforts were soon rewarded: soon I caught sight of Dave and a mysterious mulberry-jerseyed rider up ahead. Across a long flat section plagued by an unrelenting headwind, I labored (though not all that hard, because totally cooking myself at this point in the ride seemed ill-advised) to catch them. When at last I did, it felt really good to be back in contact with the group, especially since Dave had a bike computer and we stood a much better shot, between the two of us, of actually successfully following the cue sheet.
The mysterious rider was one Ann, who would stay with our group for the duration of the ride. After a brief stop for a surprise control at a country store, where Michael and I acquired cold beverages (he water, I PowerAde), we rolled on into Oldham County, past Foxhollow Farm (home of the CSA that DD and I just joined), and through yet more rollers and oncoming triathletes.
By this time, the triathletes in question were looking a little less dapper, though many of them still tried to smile or wave. Perhaps their impending appointment with Old Man Ohio had settled upon them like a fog.
By this time, we were getting hungry. So hungry, in fact, that at one point a few of us pulled over for a brief pow-wow to make sure that we hadn't failed to turn off for the lunch stop. After more rollers and more climbing, we had emerged from the trees to travel the same long, straight stretch of sunbaked road for what seemed like forever: needless to say, we were concerned. Fortunately, it turned out that we were but a few miles from our lunch stop, and feeling at least a tad rejuvenated, we rolled on.
At this point, I was just about out of both water and PowerAde, and rather concerned that I was beginning to sweat less and less (a sign, I feared, of impending dehydration). It was heartening to know that I could probably make it to the lunch stop without keeling over, though, and soon we were in sight of civilization -- the little town center of LaGrange, where we would stop for a bite at the Red Pepper Deli.
Famished, we stacked our bikes outside and packed into a little Victorian storefront, where the friendly folks at the counter signed our brevet cards and took our orders. I had something I think might have been called a 'poncho wrap,' though I'm not entirely certain, some delightfully salty chips, some pickles (which I soon realized are the ideal ride food: water, salt, and potassium all wrapped up in a cool, crispy package!), and a whole lot of caffeine in the form of diet pepsi.
At the height of the cycloswarm, the Red Pepper looked like this:
I, of course, would be sitting in the seat where you see my helmet holding my ridiculous number of accessories, if it weren't for the fact that I had to stand up to get the whole table in the shot.
At the Red Pepper, we were also able to refill our water bottles with ice and water, which we desperately needed. We enjoyed our meals and pleasant conversation as we cooled our heels. Soon, however, the lunch stop was at an end, and we gathered ourselves up and headed back out on the road.
I felt very much refreshed after lunch. In fact, I felt stronger after lunch than I had first thing in the morning, possibly due to the prodigious amounts of food and caffeine I engulfed while sitting in the pleasantly-chilled atmosphere of the Red Pepper.
Perhaps just as importantly, we were well past the halfway point.
By this time, I was certain that we were all going to make it. Nobody was going to have to call his or her personal sag wagon -- we were, in essence, home free.
If you didn't count the twenty-some miles of rollers, climbs, insects, and humidity between us and home, that is.
We rolled out from the Red Pepper by the same route we'd come in. Roads that had seemed endless just before lunch were now behind us in a blink. Lovely farms rolled past us, and we coasted by a soccer field occupied by the minivan set on an outing -- and then disaster struck.
Or, well, at least, mild irritation.
While shifting into my big ring, I neglected to remember that Hg's front shifter is built for a triple and is therefore exceedingly finicky. As such, I shifted my chain right onto my crankarm, where it proceeded to get caught between the big ring and the front derailleur for all it was worth.
Argh.
I shouted, "Guys, I'm stopping, I've got a mechanical!" Ann dropped back to make sure I was okay; I told her I'd get it ironed out and be back with the group in a minute.
In fact, it took roughly the minute in question to iron out the chain (which behaved itself admirably thenceforward); by then, the group had hit a nice long descent and gotten a pretty good head start. I decided, then, to actually do some work -- and rather amazed myself by catching up with them as we approached a fork in the road.
Together again, our group proceeded through some beautiful farmland:
...Where we proceeded to take pictures of each-other taking pictures of each-other:
Soon, we were back in the woods, descending like madpersons, then climbing like ... um ... well, to be honest, turtles, for the most part. At least, I was climbing like a turtle, though at least like a faster turtle than before lunch.
Some part of me was comforted, however, by the fact that I managed to climb faster than Dave on his 'bent, if only because 'bents don't climb very fast. I'm sure if he'd been on an upright bike, he would've left me in the dust.
A lot more rollers and a couple more real climbs later, we came to a long, long, loooooong flattish stretch out of which suddenly loomed the specter of what I came to call 'Disney Norton Commons' -- a planned community that's trying really hard to be a New Urbanist live-work kind of place, but failing because its location and buy-in-price tag make it necessary for most of its residents to work somewhere else, and for the people who run the small businesses there to live somewhere else. There, we stopped at 'Gelato Gilberto,' a purveyor of gelato that I would rate as decent, but not quite up to the standard of the place my Dad used to take my sister and me in Hartford's little Italy when we were kids. I found the chocolate-hazelnut flavor too sweet, and ate only a little of it.
Regardless, the girl at the counter was friendly and courteous and seemed happy to sign our brevet cards and refill our water bottles, so they get full points for great service.
For a few minutes, about half the total sum of the ride sat around, enjoying gelato and kibbitzing -- but we were all, undoubtedly, 'smelling the barn' by then, and ready to head back out.
The next leg of our journey took us through Wolf Pen Branch, home of hills. Our heading, however, meant a few could-be significant climbs were descents for us. It was on the last of these that we finally encountered the toiling triathletes yet again -- by this time, fully demoralized, and laboring their way up what was to them a long climb on foot (to us, it was a pleasant descent on wheels). Had I been among their number, I think I would've chosen to lie down by the side of the road for a nap.
At the bottom of the hill, we turned left, and suddenly we were back on River Road. By this time, Dave and I were riding in a little groupetto of two, though occasionally we leapfrogged with the same titanium tandem we'd been trading spots with all day.
A unique excitement entered my veins: we were almost home! I was going to actually finish something, for once in my life! I was going to manage to get all the stamps on my brevet card and everything! And so was Dave!
Never mind that I actually kind of hate riding on River Road. Never mind the irritation of near-constant traffic and drivers who seemed unwilling to wait for a safe spot to pass. Never mind the heat, the humidity, the bugs: we were almost done!
And I didn't even feel cooked yet!
...Though I had noted (hours ago, by this time) that Hg needs a shorter stem and maybe deeper drops, and more recently that choosing the shorts with the fuzzy terry-cloth-like chamois for a 100k ride in super-hot weather had been a horrible, horrible idea (next time, I'm wearing my ironic Trek kit -- the one that says 'Trek, SRAM, Speedplay, and Bontrager,' when my components consist of 'Fuji, Shimano, Shimano, and Chen Sheng Tire' at the moment -- or my team kit).
The oncoming triathletes, meanwhile, were looking perkier, if only because we were now waving to a group that had yet to realize the staggering scale of the climb they would face up Wolf Pen Branch.
River Road always seems endless to me, and after an endless period of River Road, we came to the turn-off at Frankfort Ave, only to discover that the remainder of our group was gathered there, changing a tire. Dave and I waited with them, and soon we were all back en route -- just a few more miles tobeer! the end of the ride!
We rolled up the tiny little climb to Story Ave, turned right, took a Main-Wenzel-Market loop to get going the right way, then rolled up Baxter Ave (which no longer seemed like a hill at all) and around the corner on Morton to the garden seating at Flanagan's, where waiting riders shouted that we had just made it and cheered us on as we settled our bikes and sprinted for the last control stamp.
And then, it was over: we had all made it! Dave, Michael, Tim, Ann, and I were all signed, sealed, and delivered randonneurs ... at least, sort of. Through a combination of wit, hydration, and slowness, we had survived our first populaire, rolling in just under the wire.
It was a merry time at Flanagan's, then. I opted not to partake in the beer, having learned that lesson after the previous week's gravel ride (a single beer after a long ride makes me very, very, very tipsy). Instead, I opted for a diet Coke and a water, both of which I inhaled as Dave, Michael, Tim and I sat basking in the glow of our mutual triumph.
Over the course of the day, our speeds had ranged from 5 to 45 MPH (topping out, of course, on some truly-blissful descents), and our spirits from flagging to delirious with joy. We had all made it back together -- and, perhaps most importantly, we all had a good time out on the roads.
It was a party atmosphere at Flanagan's as our intrepid collective cooled off and reminisced. I think, though, our table may have been the happiest: happy that Dave was able to come, happy that we all made it through the ride, happy that we managed to squeak in under the wire even though we apparently lingered rather too long at the controls. I think any one of us could have put in another ten or twenty miles without complaining (though I may have complained about my shorts if I'd had to ride any further).
After a while, Michael and Tim headed out, and Dave and I moved over to the table occupied by the tandem-riding couple, with whom we traded stories until DD came to hang out for a while and then collect me. The last thing Dave said to him was, "You'll have to come ride with us some time."
I suspect that he will, and probably sooner rather than later.
Lessons learned on this ride:
Notes
*Except Maybe the Triathletes.
**Consult your Pokemon Guide for a more formal definition.
Back when I started riding again, my primary goal was to ride a 200k brevet in 2010 (which now seems like roughly six million years ago). I scuttled that goal completely by picking a fight with a lamp post while riding my old green Hybrid, Swift -- and since then have evolved into a rider with racing asirations who spends way more time on the bike while somehow simultaneously being way less disciplined about it. If you call that evolution**.
What that really means is that I lost a bunch of motivation somewhere (I thought I saw it on the way home on Saturday, but it turned out to be someone's lost sunglasses). I wrote a bit about that recently; I neglected to also mention that my relationship with DD -- which is wonderful -- also acted as a bit of a demotivator. Specifically, I wanted to spend more time with him, and also couldn't yet get my head around the fact that it actually wouldn't bother him if I wandered off now and then by myself in order to ride my bike..
At this point, my motivation is returning, and I feel secure enough in my relationship with DD to feel comfortable going off by myself on the bike for, like, an entire day on the weekend (I feel free to wander off and ride during the week, since I’m usually home by myself).
And when I say 'by myself,' what I mean is 'occasionally by myself, but usually with 5 or 50 of my favorite bike people.'
So it was that today, for the second week in a row, I went on a ride while DD stayed home (though he, being the sweet and thoughtful guy that he is, drove me to the ride start, even though it was only 7 miles or so away, because we’d stayed up too late last night kibbitzing with our friend K’s Mom after dinner and drinks at K’s new restaurant, ‘garage’).
Saturday morning, I arrived earlyish at the start point on Morton Ave, where I received a brevet card and a doughnut (breakfast of
The day's ride began with a cruise down to River Road, which is a pleasant enough ride at 9:00ish on a Saturday morning. We encountered a few brave triathletes already out plying their trade; they were coming the other way, so there was much waving and ding-dinging of bells on our part by way of encouragement. To their credit, many of them waved back -- for the triathletes, it was early in the day. They had not yet realized the demoralizing, life-sapping effect that a dip in the Ohio River must inevitably carry
As we spun merrily along, I noticed a weird sensation in my left pedal, followed by some front-derailleur problems (specifically, I seemed to be stuck in my small ring). Since I was riding Hg, you might think that I would've had the sense to wonder if my left crankarm was working itself loose again: I didn't. Instead, I continued blithely along until suddenly and with no real warning I found my left crankarm dangling from my shoe.
Needless to say, this presented a bit of a problem. Not only could I no longer pedal worth a darn (I was worried that the drive side might fall off as well if I tried), but it was surprisingly hard to figure out how to unclip and stop. I did, however, finally manage to unclip my right foot and glide to a stop in the grass with my left one sticking out at what I'm sure was probably a hilarious angle and thinking, "Crap, I'm done."
Dave happened to notice that I had pulled over, shouted to the group that we had a mechanical, and pulled over to help me out. I had brought the set of hex wrenches with the requisite 8mm wrench just in case, so between the two of us, we managed to get the left crankarm back on -- at which point, Dave torqued the bejeezus out of it (I have little T-rex arms and am not much good for torque or heavy lifting). Our theory was that it would be less likely to come undone again, that way. Upon remounting, I found it a little stiff, but satisfactory; within a couple of minutes, we were back on the road.
In fairly short order, we caught the group, which then proceeded along River Road, then branched left onto Rose Island Road.
There, Tim told us the story of a strange and prominent member of the Socialist party who (perhaps in defiance of his own anti-capitalist ideals) owned a huge chunk of property on said Island at one point, including a small zoo where -- once upon a time -- the public could visit his menagerie of exotic animals. Turns out that the zoo remains, at least in part, now populated by some camelids of some sort, various waterfowl (including Canada Geese, who may or may not be part of the menagerie at all), and some other species I didn't really see well enough to identify. There were white cattle of some sort.
Musings about the nature of the zoo kept us distracted for some time as we rolled down a beautiful stretch of road shaded by tall stands of trees on either side. The road lulled us all into a kind of happy complacency: where were the hills the organizers had warned us of? I thought perhaps they'd been eliminated by a last-minute route change, since indeed just such a last-minute change had been effected.
And then, suddenly, our friendly little road took a sharp turn onto a hill, and we were climbing.
In fact, the first steep climb probably wouldn't have been much more challenging than the Iroquois or Cherokee climbs, and certainly not worse than the most challenging of the climbs we encountered on the RCCS ride I enjoyed back in February -- if it weren't for the fact that we were riding in the climactic equivalent of a steam proofer.
I've learned over the past few significant rides that my climbing ability goes completely to crap in hot, humid weather. Saturday was no exception. I managed my frustrating with this personal flaw the way I normally do: which is to say, badly. Instead of shrugging off my own momentary limitation, I got in a big ol' fight with gravity and my bike and my lungs, and eventually everybody but me won. To make matters worse, as we toiled our way up the hill, a blue pickup badly in need of exhuast-system work rattled past us, belching fumes. After it passed, my lungs officially shut down in protest, and I had to stop, hit the inhaler, and wait for them to sort themselves out.
Fortunately, albuterol is a bit of a miracle drug, and in a minute or so I was back in action. Well off the tail of the group now, I banged my way to the top of the hill in solitude, deciding meanwhile that my training rides, from now on, will consist entirely of murderous hill repeats sprinkled with occasional interval workouts.
I guess it's probably worth observing that, all struggle aside, I have -- in fact -- come a really long way, cardiovascular fitness-wise. Last year, I'm not sure I would have made it to the bottom of the first real climb, given the heat and (especially) the humidity -- and last year, at this time, I was still taking both Advair and Singulair as well as hitting the albuterol before any expected hard effort. I'm trying to keep this in perspective, instead of just being pissed at myself for not being as strong a rider, this time of year, as I think I should be.
Anyway, after a short break, I plodded the rest of the way up that first climb, and in short order my pulse and respiration rates were back to normal.
Even Dave on the recumbent had passed me by that point -- only a tandem and possibly a couple other riders remained behind -- and being as I belong to a subset of proto-randonneurs that live in mortal fear of misreading the cue sheet, I set to work catching up. This meant I probably enjoyed the beautiful rollers that followed as a reward for climbing the Col d'Ile Rose less than I should have. It was, however, impossible to fail to enjoy the descents. I had forgotten how quick and how stable Hg is on the descents, and how keenly he cuts whatever line you sight.
My efforts were soon rewarded: soon I caught sight of Dave and a mysterious mulberry-jerseyed rider up ahead. Across a long flat section plagued by an unrelenting headwind, I labored (though not all that hard, because totally cooking myself at this point in the ride seemed ill-advised) to catch them. When at last I did, it felt really good to be back in contact with the group, especially since Dave had a bike computer and we stood a much better shot, between the two of us, of actually successfully following the cue sheet.
The mysterious rider was one Ann, who would stay with our group for the duration of the ride. After a brief stop for a surprise control at a country store, where Michael and I acquired cold beverages (he water, I PowerAde), we rolled on into Oldham County, past Foxhollow Farm (home of the CSA that DD and I just joined), and through yet more rollers and oncoming triathletes.
By this time, the triathletes in question were looking a little less dapper, though many of them still tried to smile or wave. Perhaps their impending appointment with Old Man Ohio had settled upon them like a fog.
By this time, we were getting hungry. So hungry, in fact, that at one point a few of us pulled over for a brief pow-wow to make sure that we hadn't failed to turn off for the lunch stop. After more rollers and more climbing, we had emerged from the trees to travel the same long, straight stretch of sunbaked road for what seemed like forever: needless to say, we were concerned. Fortunately, it turned out that we were but a few miles from our lunch stop, and feeling at least a tad rejuvenated, we rolled on.
At this point, I was just about out of both water and PowerAde, and rather concerned that I was beginning to sweat less and less (a sign, I feared, of impending dehydration). It was heartening to know that I could probably make it to the lunch stop without keeling over, though, and soon we were in sight of civilization -- the little town center of LaGrange, where we would stop for a bite at the Red Pepper Deli.
Famished, we stacked our bikes outside and packed into a little Victorian storefront, where the friendly folks at the counter signed our brevet cards and took our orders. I had something I think might have been called a 'poncho wrap,' though I'm not entirely certain, some delightfully salty chips, some pickles (which I soon realized are the ideal ride food: water, salt, and potassium all wrapped up in a cool, crispy package!), and a whole lot of caffeine in the form of diet pepsi.
At the height of the cycloswarm, the Red Pepper looked like this:
...on both sides of the aisle.
My table, however, looked like this:
clockwise from bottom:
Ann, Dave, Tim, and Michael, waiting for food
I, of course, would be sitting in the seat where you see my helmet holding my ridiculous number of accessories, if it weren't for the fact that I had to stand up to get the whole table in the shot.
At the Red Pepper, we were also able to refill our water bottles with ice and water, which we desperately needed. We enjoyed our meals and pleasant conversation as we cooled our heels. Soon, however, the lunch stop was at an end, and we gathered ourselves up and headed back out on the road.
I felt very much refreshed after lunch. In fact, I felt stronger after lunch than I had first thing in the morning, possibly due to the prodigious amounts of food and caffeine I engulfed while sitting in the pleasantly-chilled atmosphere of the Red Pepper.
Perhaps just as importantly, we were well past the halfway point.
By this time, I was certain that we were all going to make it. Nobody was going to have to call his or her personal sag wagon -- we were, in essence, home free.
If you didn't count the twenty-some miles of rollers, climbs, insects, and humidity between us and home, that is.
We rolled out from the Red Pepper by the same route we'd come in. Roads that had seemed endless just before lunch were now behind us in a blink. Lovely farms rolled past us, and we coasted by a soccer field occupied by the minivan set on an outing -- and then disaster struck.
Or, well, at least, mild irritation.
While shifting into my big ring, I neglected to remember that Hg's front shifter is built for a triple and is therefore exceedingly finicky. As such, I shifted my chain right onto my crankarm, where it proceeded to get caught between the big ring and the front derailleur for all it was worth.
Argh.
I shouted, "Guys, I'm stopping, I've got a mechanical!" Ann dropped back to make sure I was okay; I told her I'd get it ironed out and be back with the group in a minute.
In fact, it took roughly the minute in question to iron out the chain (which behaved itself admirably thenceforward); by then, the group had hit a nice long descent and gotten a pretty good head start. I decided, then, to actually do some work -- and rather amazed myself by catching up with them as we approached a fork in the road.
Together again, our group proceeded through some beautiful farmland:
...Where we proceeded to take pictures of each-other taking pictures of each-other:
Soon, we were back in the woods, descending like madpersons, then climbing like ... um ... well, to be honest, turtles, for the most part. At least, I was climbing like a turtle, though at least like a faster turtle than before lunch.
Some part of me was comforted, however, by the fact that I managed to climb faster than Dave on his 'bent, if only because 'bents don't climb very fast. I'm sure if he'd been on an upright bike, he would've left me in the dust.
A lot more rollers and a couple more real climbs later, we came to a long, long, loooooong flattish stretch out of which suddenly loomed the specter of what I came to call 'Disney Norton Commons' -- a planned community that's trying really hard to be a New Urbanist live-work kind of place, but failing because its location and buy-in-price tag make it necessary for most of its residents to work somewhere else, and for the people who run the small businesses there to live somewhere else. There, we stopped at 'Gelato Gilberto,' a purveyor of gelato that I would rate as decent, but not quite up to the standard of the place my Dad used to take my sister and me in Hartford's little Italy when we were kids. I found the chocolate-hazelnut flavor too sweet, and ate only a little of it.
Regardless, the girl at the counter was friendly and courteous and seemed happy to sign our brevet cards and refill our water bottles, so they get full points for great service.
For a few minutes, about half the total sum of the ride sat around, enjoying gelato and kibbitzing -- but we were all, undoubtedly, 'smelling the barn' by then, and ready to head back out.
The next leg of our journey took us through Wolf Pen Branch, home of hills. Our heading, however, meant a few could-be significant climbs were descents for us. It was on the last of these that we finally encountered the toiling triathletes yet again -- by this time, fully demoralized, and laboring their way up what was to them a long climb on foot (to us, it was a pleasant descent on wheels). Had I been among their number, I think I would've chosen to lie down by the side of the road for a nap.
At the bottom of the hill, we turned left, and suddenly we were back on River Road. By this time, Dave and I were riding in a little groupetto of two, though occasionally we leapfrogged with the same titanium tandem we'd been trading spots with all day.
A unique excitement entered my veins: we were almost home! I was going to actually finish something, for once in my life! I was going to manage to get all the stamps on my brevet card and everything! And so was Dave!
Never mind that I actually kind of hate riding on River Road. Never mind the irritation of near-constant traffic and drivers who seemed unwilling to wait for a safe spot to pass. Never mind the heat, the humidity, the bugs: we were almost done!
And I didn't even feel cooked yet!
...Though I had noted (hours ago, by this time) that Hg needs a shorter stem and maybe deeper drops, and more recently that choosing the shorts with the fuzzy terry-cloth-like chamois for a 100k ride in super-hot weather had been a horrible, horrible idea (next time, I'm wearing my ironic Trek kit -- the one that says 'Trek, SRAM, Speedplay, and Bontrager,' when my components consist of 'Fuji, Shimano, Shimano, and Chen Sheng Tire' at the moment -- or my team kit).
The oncoming triathletes, meanwhile, were looking perkier, if only because we were now waving to a group that had yet to realize the staggering scale of the climb they would face up Wolf Pen Branch.
River Road always seems endless to me, and after an endless period of River Road, we came to the turn-off at Frankfort Ave, only to discover that the remainder of our group was gathered there, changing a tire. Dave and I waited with them, and soon we were all back en route -- just a few more miles to
We rolled up the tiny little climb to Story Ave, turned right, took a Main-Wenzel-Market loop to get going the right way, then rolled up Baxter Ave (which no longer seemed like a hill at all) and around the corner on Morton to the garden seating at Flanagan's, where waiting riders shouted that we had just made it and cheered us on as we settled our bikes and sprinted for the last control stamp.
And then, it was over: we had all made it! Dave, Michael, Tim, Ann, and I were all signed, sealed, and delivered randonneurs ... at least, sort of. Through a combination of wit, hydration, and slowness, we had survived our first populaire, rolling in just under the wire.
post-brevet libations at Flanagan's
It was a merry time at Flanagan's, then. I opted not to partake in the beer, having learned that lesson after the previous week's gravel ride (a single beer after a long ride makes me very, very, very tipsy). Instead, I opted for a diet Coke and a water, both of which I inhaled as Dave, Michael, Tim and I sat basking in the glow of our mutual triumph.
Over the course of the day, our speeds had ranged from 5 to 45 MPH (topping out, of course, on some truly-blissful descents), and our spirits from flagging to delirious with joy. We had all made it back together -- and, perhaps most importantly, we all had a good time out on the roads.
It was a party atmosphere at Flanagan's as our intrepid collective cooled off and reminisced. I think, though, our table may have been the happiest: happy that Dave was able to come, happy that we all made it through the ride, happy that we managed to squeak in under the wire even though we apparently lingered rather too long at the controls. I think any one of us could have put in another ten or twenty miles without complaining (though I may have complained about my shorts if I'd had to ride any further).
After a while, Michael and Tim headed out, and Dave and I moved over to the table occupied by the tandem-riding couple, with whom we traded stories until DD came to hang out for a while and then collect me. The last thing Dave said to him was, "You'll have to come ride with us some time."
I suspect that he will, and probably sooner rather than later.
Lessons learned on this ride:
- Double-check the crankarm bolts ;)
- Don't linger so long at the controls.
- You can't bring too much water.
- Pickles are the perfect ride food.
- Triathletes are crazy, but dedicated, and therefore I kind of like them.
Notes
*Except Maybe the Triathletes.
**Consult your Pokemon Guide for a more formal definition.
Monday, July 04, 2011
Gravel, Goals, and Really Good Food
Note: Bill, Michael, and Tim have all penned really awesome ride reports (much better than mine!), complete with pictures. Check them out!
On Thursday (or was it Friday?), Apertome sent out an invite for a 50-miler he was planning for this weekend. Though Rogue Racing had a road ride to nearby Jefferson Forest, I couldn't resist this one. The company and the route were far too tempting :D Besides, Hg is still awaiting his BB and QS is only semi-functional (no big ring).
Tim was driving up to Bloomington for the ride, and had an open slot in his car's awesome bike carrier, so I set my alarm for 5:00, then gathered all my stuff. That was well done, since I apparently hit snooze twice and swam up from the midst of a dream-state at roughly 5:15. Then it was a mad dash to get dressed, brush my teeth, and find my headlight (which I failed to do -- it later turned out to be in the front pocket of my Camelbak pack, which I only checked like eight times ._.). Around 5:40, I dashed off into the darkness to meet Tim at the third street Thornton's, an easy ride of less than 10 minutes from home (and spooky-quiet before 6:00 AM on a Sunday!).
At around 6:00 on Sunday morning, we were headed up to the home of 'IU Prime' (for the record, Tim manages to combine the rare qualities of both driving well and being an excellent conversationalist, which makes him an ideal drive companion).
When we arrived after a lovely drive through the Indiana countryside (Paoli is a really cute little town), we discovered that Mrs. Apertome had laid out a hearty repast -- home-made oatmeal, muffins, sausages, grapes, strawberries, blueberries, watermelon chunks, scrambled eggs, coffee ... it was a delicious all-you-can-eat bike fuel buffet -- not to mention a harbinger of an excellent ride to come.
Though I had already eaten two apples, a 'Nut-rition' bar, and roughly one-quarter of the package of 'Beef Chunks' I intended for ride snacks, I tucked into the repast with gusto. I could only hope that my legs would be as strong a my appetite!
Meanwhile, we chatted with some of fellow riders: a pair of gentlemen from Denver, en route to Pennsylvania, to drop off a bike, a truck, and a motorcycle, and another more local fellow, from (I think) the Fort Wayne area, who arrived a bit later. We learned that one more rider would join us en route, rounding out the total to an auspicious seven (assuming you're a little superstitious).
After breakfast, plenty of coffee, and the judicious application of sunscreen, we headed out on the road. The route began with a series of beautiful rollers -- apparently, rollers are my thing -- that led through part of Bloomington before we rolled into the woods, where we enjoyed a span of nice, flowy singletrack with the occasional log for variety, most of which the group addressed them cyclocross-stylie (albeit, not at a dead run). We rolled over the last one, which was smaller and sitting directly on the ground.
Soon, we met up with our seventh rider. A few more rolling hills brought us to the gravel (upon which I was, at first, profoundly nervous), then to the first monster climb of the day: a long uphill stretch of Bloomington's Strada Bianca!
At this point, I encountered the first in a series of frustrating drive-train issues. It took me most of the duration of the ride to figure out how to get started again on steep hills when the Cannondale's rear hub issues caused chain slippage and resulting momentum loss. On the monster gravel climb, this meant I walked -- that is, after falling over sideways while attempting to get started (which resulted in cursing, followed by a mental vision of what I must have looked like, followed by profound amusement), I walked.
By the way: if you're wondering: when you have to get started on an enormous climb, position the bike diagonally across the road but slightly uphill, swing a leg over, clip in, set your clipped-in leg to a reasonable angle (about 2:00 worked for me -- I probably should've clipped in on my uphill leg, though, come to think of it). I'm not sure this would work on loose gravel.
I also learned that I am a complete chicken about descending on gravel. It took me nearly the whole of one very long gravel descent to realize that if I let go of the brakes, I probably wouldn't die.
Probably.
We continued through some beautiful park land, stopping occasionally to enjoy a lakeside view and regroup. It's difficult to describe the beauty of the landscape -- I didn't take any pictures, but those taken by the guys with the cameras will, I'm sure, do better justice to the Bloomington surrounds than my words might. Simply imagine sun-dappled woods carpeted with wild vinca, rolling hills, and serene lakes that give way suddenly to sunlit meadows waving with deep-green grasses ... Strips of blue-grey highway surrender themselves to oceans of dusty white gravel ... Occasional passing drivers seem to understand that you have just as much right to the road and wave as they go by.
In other words, short of the presence of a nearby ocean, this is just about my vision of what Heaven should be like. Even the various mechanical issues -- my skippy chain, a stubborn rear tire leak, SuperTim's chain snapped by the enormous torque of his legs -- encountered by the group failed to dampen the mood. Every rider seemed able to laugh at his (and his bike's) difficulties. Mostly, anyway. I was secretly rather embarrassed by my own climbing performance, so I whined about my mechanical issues rather more than is usual for me.
During one of our intermittent pauses-to-regroup, hungry but frustrated with Planter's tasty-but-unsatisfying Nut-rition bars and attempting to conserve some beef chunks, I remembered suddenly that I'd packed pizza rolls (imagine something like a calzone, only long and skinny, and you've about got it: I made them on Saturday night). I wolfed one down, felt a million times better, and rolled on fat and happy (just like my tires).
The final two gravel stretches were the most difficult, though both were flat. The gravel in question was of a scale that simply didn't play nicely with bikes -- it was loose and tended to roll, creating very unstable footing for the bikes. The second-to-last segment, in particular, was enough even to cause me to whine about my backside, which is the one part of me I almost never find occasion to whine about (I also whined about my knees on this ride, mostly because I found it surprising that they hurt as much as they did on the climbs -- I think I might need to adjust the C'dale's fit). The last wasn't nearly as bad -- that, or else I had gone numb -- especially since it involved a metal bridge crossing which I declared to be a 'massage feature,' though it was still quite rough.
Soon we were in the home stretch. After a last quick break to regroup, we parted ways with the rider who'd joined us en route, then headed for the barn. Tim and one of the fellows from Denver set up a good pace; I chased them over the rollers, sometimes bridging up, sometimes lagging behind (particularly when a solid effort resulted in a skipping chain and lost momentum -- man, mountain bikes can lose momentum fast rolling uphill!). One of the other riders was experiencing leg cramps, so Apertome and our sixth man stayed back to keep him company.
After one last good climb (nothing compared to the monster climbs mid-ride, of course), we were treated to a long descent that led us into Apertome's neighborhood. One of the fellows who had been behind me -- the semi-local guy on the Specialized Tricross -- caught up with me, and we rolled it in together. He wished me luck this coming 'cross season. I'll need it!
Mrs. Apertome brought out a selection of beers, along with the makings of a great lunch. I quite enjoyed the Dragonfly IPA, though I learned that I am even more of a lightweight when I've just returned from a good fifty miler. I chased it with a bunch of water, delicious pasta salad, salty potato chips (hooray for salt!), and a turkey sandwich, but still felt tipsy as Tim and I loaded the bikes and prepared to head out (technically, Tim loaded the bikes; I think his bike rack is nifty, but figured he is more familiar with it than I am ^-^).
On the way home, I also ate the rest of my beef chunks. I am going to have to remember them for long rides from now on -- they're not quite as dry and salty as jerky, so they're easier to eat, but they're still salty enough to satisfy the inevitable salt-craving. After Tim dropped me back at the third street Thornton's, I spun home leisurely (thought about a Rite-Aid stop, but decided against it). As Tim said, it was nice to finish a ride with a good ten more miles at least left in the old legs, as opposed to finishing ten miles after the legs were done :)
At home, I hosed off the day's sweat and grit -- and came to the realization that there's nothing wrong with planning my racing schedule around spring and fall, the seasons during which my asthma is most manageable. Then I killed off my pizza rolls for dinner without even bothering to reheat them (they're just fine cold, or lukewarm after a day in the ol' Camelbak pocket). I also ate some of the sausage-and-onions that DD had fried up. Then I curled up on the couch with DD and watched movies for a bit.
At that point, I crawled into bed, read until I couldn't even have even propped my eyes open, and fell into a blissful slumber around 10:30. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I dreamed about bikes (also tornadoes in a different dream entirely, but mostly bikes).
In summary: Sunday could only have been better if there had been an ocean involved and if DD had been up to coming on the ride (he's not there yet, but if he keeps riding, he'll get there). As it was, it was still a phenomenal day. I know I say this every time I go on one, but this was the best ride I've had all year ... which, come to think of it, is really saying something, since I was riding a mountain bike that I don't even own instead of one of my beloved road bikes!
To some extent, I am still getting to know the C'dale, so I rode rather more cautiously than I might otherwise have done. HeadShocks are actually pretty cool, but definitely impact handling in an interesting way. I also didn't learn until I was riding home from the gas-station that I could lock out its front shock simply by turning a little dial at the top (it's one of those old-fashioned 'HeadShock' models). That intel would've been useful on the long paved climbs, since I realized en route home, after discovering the dial, that the action of the shock absorbs a surprising amount of the rider's effort and locking it out makes all the difference in the world (skinnier tires running at slightly higher pressure would've helped, too).
Serious training for 'cross begins this week, and next Saturday I'm hoping to roll out with LBC's 100k populaire. Barring the emergence of plans-I've-forgotten-about (DD is our household social director), it will be my first brevet, so I'm hoping to make it.
During the past few weeks, when I haven't been posting much, I've been thinking a lot about where I want to go with my bike habit. Those thoughts have now gelled into a set of goals:
I think I will also get in the habit of riding hill repeats in Cherokee Park, though neither Cherokee nor Iroquois involves a long enough climb to be too much of a challenge.
As for that last goal: I've discovered that I really enjoy riding flowy singletrack, and that gravel is fun in its own unique way. Heretofore, I've done a fair bit of grass riding, a bit of singletrack, and a lot of riding on cobbles (I like to find routes that take me through Louisville's cobbled alleys and backroads), but I've mostly avoided gravel because I'm a bit afraid of it. Well, the best way to overcome a fear is to face it, right? So I'm going to hunt for some gravel and ride the bejeezus out of it.
I've decided that I can get a bit more 'serious,' if you will, about training for racing without losing my grip on the fact that I ride bikes for fun. My racing goals will remain as they stand -- in cross, finish better; in MTB racing, finish at all (LOL); in road racing, start (in the spring).
Meanwhile, here's how this week's riding plans look:
MONDAY
Rest day. Maybe no riding, maybe just a little road ride.
TUESDAY
9:45 Rocky's Bust Your Gut Ride
1:30 LAB class (some riding involved?)
WEDNESDAY
Hill repeats (Iroquois?).
THURSDAY
Road LSD* (50 miles), possibly LBC Louisville Loop 50
FRIDAY
Intervals, assuming Hg is ready to go.
SATURDAY
Road LSD -- LBC Poplaire (100k). This shouldn't be a particularly high-effort ride.
SUNDAY
Rest day.
Next week I hope to have a more formal training plan on my hands! Meanwhile, all baking activities will be shifted to the early morning hours, before the day gets really hot, so the house has time to cool off before DD gets home from work.
Notes
*That's Long Steady Distance. That, or else Lovely, Salty Doritos. You make the call!
On Thursday (or was it Friday?), Apertome sent out an invite for a 50-miler he was planning for this weekend. Though Rogue Racing had a road ride to nearby Jefferson Forest, I couldn't resist this one. The company and the route were far too tempting :D Besides, Hg is still awaiting his BB and QS is only semi-functional (no big ring).
Tim was driving up to Bloomington for the ride, and had an open slot in his car's awesome bike carrier, so I set my alarm for 5:00, then gathered all my stuff. That was well done, since I apparently hit snooze twice and swam up from the midst of a dream-state at roughly 5:15. Then it was a mad dash to get dressed, brush my teeth, and find my headlight (which I failed to do -- it later turned out to be in the front pocket of my Camelbak pack, which I only checked like eight times ._.). Around 5:40, I dashed off into the darkness to meet Tim at the third street Thornton's, an easy ride of less than 10 minutes from home (and spooky-quiet before 6:00 AM on a Sunday!).
At around 6:00 on Sunday morning, we were headed up to the home of 'IU Prime' (for the record, Tim manages to combine the rare qualities of both driving well and being an excellent conversationalist, which makes him an ideal drive companion).
When we arrived after a lovely drive through the Indiana countryside (Paoli is a really cute little town), we discovered that Mrs. Apertome had laid out a hearty repast -- home-made oatmeal, muffins, sausages, grapes, strawberries, blueberries, watermelon chunks, scrambled eggs, coffee ... it was a delicious all-you-can-eat bike fuel buffet -- not to mention a harbinger of an excellent ride to come.
Though I had already eaten two apples, a 'Nut-rition' bar, and roughly one-quarter of the package of 'Beef Chunks' I intended for ride snacks, I tucked into the repast with gusto. I could only hope that my legs would be as strong a my appetite!
Meanwhile, we chatted with some of fellow riders: a pair of gentlemen from Denver, en route to Pennsylvania, to drop off a bike, a truck, and a motorcycle, and another more local fellow, from (I think) the Fort Wayne area, who arrived a bit later. We learned that one more rider would join us en route, rounding out the total to an auspicious seven (assuming you're a little superstitious).
After breakfast, plenty of coffee, and the judicious application of sunscreen, we headed out on the road. The route began with a series of beautiful rollers -- apparently, rollers are my thing -- that led through part of Bloomington before we rolled into the woods, where we enjoyed a span of nice, flowy singletrack with the occasional log for variety, most of which the group addressed them cyclocross-stylie (albeit, not at a dead run). We rolled over the last one, which was smaller and sitting directly on the ground.
Soon, we met up with our seventh rider. A few more rolling hills brought us to the gravel (upon which I was, at first, profoundly nervous), then to the first monster climb of the day: a long uphill stretch of Bloomington's Strada Bianca!
At this point, I encountered the first in a series of frustrating drive-train issues. It took me most of the duration of the ride to figure out how to get started again on steep hills when the Cannondale's rear hub issues caused chain slippage and resulting momentum loss. On the monster gravel climb, this meant I walked -- that is, after falling over sideways while attempting to get started (which resulted in cursing, followed by a mental vision of what I must have looked like, followed by profound amusement), I walked.
By the way: if you're wondering: when you have to get started on an enormous climb, position the bike diagonally across the road but slightly uphill, swing a leg over, clip in, set your clipped-in leg to a reasonable angle (about 2:00 worked for me -- I probably should've clipped in on my uphill leg, though, come to think of it). I'm not sure this would work on loose gravel.
I also learned that I am a complete chicken about descending on gravel. It took me nearly the whole of one very long gravel descent to realize that if I let go of the brakes, I probably wouldn't die.
Probably.
We continued through some beautiful park land, stopping occasionally to enjoy a lakeside view and regroup. It's difficult to describe the beauty of the landscape -- I didn't take any pictures, but those taken by the guys with the cameras will, I'm sure, do better justice to the Bloomington surrounds than my words might. Simply imagine sun-dappled woods carpeted with wild vinca, rolling hills, and serene lakes that give way suddenly to sunlit meadows waving with deep-green grasses ... Strips of blue-grey highway surrender themselves to oceans of dusty white gravel ... Occasional passing drivers seem to understand that you have just as much right to the road and wave as they go by.
In other words, short of the presence of a nearby ocean, this is just about my vision of what Heaven should be like. Even the various mechanical issues -- my skippy chain, a stubborn rear tire leak, SuperTim's chain snapped by the enormous torque of his legs -- encountered by the group failed to dampen the mood. Every rider seemed able to laugh at his (and his bike's) difficulties. Mostly, anyway. I was secretly rather embarrassed by my own climbing performance, so I whined about my mechanical issues rather more than is usual for me.
During one of our intermittent pauses-to-regroup, hungry but frustrated with Planter's tasty-but-unsatisfying Nut-rition bars and attempting to conserve some beef chunks, I remembered suddenly that I'd packed pizza rolls (imagine something like a calzone, only long and skinny, and you've about got it: I made them on Saturday night). I wolfed one down, felt a million times better, and rolled on fat and happy (just like my tires).
The final two gravel stretches were the most difficult, though both were flat. The gravel in question was of a scale that simply didn't play nicely with bikes -- it was loose and tended to roll, creating very unstable footing for the bikes. The second-to-last segment, in particular, was enough even to cause me to whine about my backside, which is the one part of me I almost never find occasion to whine about (I also whined about my knees on this ride, mostly because I found it surprising that they hurt as much as they did on the climbs -- I think I might need to adjust the C'dale's fit). The last wasn't nearly as bad -- that, or else I had gone numb -- especially since it involved a metal bridge crossing which I declared to be a 'massage feature,' though it was still quite rough.
Soon we were in the home stretch. After a last quick break to regroup, we parted ways with the rider who'd joined us en route, then headed for the barn. Tim and one of the fellows from Denver set up a good pace; I chased them over the rollers, sometimes bridging up, sometimes lagging behind (particularly when a solid effort resulted in a skipping chain and lost momentum -- man, mountain bikes can lose momentum fast rolling uphill!). One of the other riders was experiencing leg cramps, so Apertome and our sixth man stayed back to keep him company.
After one last good climb (nothing compared to the monster climbs mid-ride, of course), we were treated to a long descent that led us into Apertome's neighborhood. One of the fellows who had been behind me -- the semi-local guy on the Specialized Tricross -- caught up with me, and we rolled it in together. He wished me luck this coming 'cross season. I'll need it!
Mrs. Apertome brought out a selection of beers, along with the makings of a great lunch. I quite enjoyed the Dragonfly IPA, though I learned that I am even more of a lightweight when I've just returned from a good fifty miler. I chased it with a bunch of water, delicious pasta salad, salty potato chips (hooray for salt!), and a turkey sandwich, but still felt tipsy as Tim and I loaded the bikes and prepared to head out (technically, Tim loaded the bikes; I think his bike rack is nifty, but figured he is more familiar with it than I am ^-^).
On the way home, I also ate the rest of my beef chunks. I am going to have to remember them for long rides from now on -- they're not quite as dry and salty as jerky, so they're easier to eat, but they're still salty enough to satisfy the inevitable salt-craving. After Tim dropped me back at the third street Thornton's, I spun home leisurely (thought about a Rite-Aid stop, but decided against it). As Tim said, it was nice to finish a ride with a good ten more miles at least left in the old legs, as opposed to finishing ten miles after the legs were done :)
At home, I hosed off the day's sweat and grit -- and came to the realization that there's nothing wrong with planning my racing schedule around spring and fall, the seasons during which my asthma is most manageable. Then I killed off my pizza rolls for dinner without even bothering to reheat them (they're just fine cold, or lukewarm after a day in the ol' Camelbak pocket). I also ate some of the sausage-and-onions that DD had fried up. Then I curled up on the couch with DD and watched movies for a bit.
At that point, I crawled into bed, read until I couldn't even have even propped my eyes open, and fell into a blissful slumber around 10:30. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I dreamed about bikes (also tornadoes in a different dream entirely, but mostly bikes).
In summary: Sunday could only have been better if there had been an ocean involved and if DD had been up to coming on the ride (he's not there yet, but if he keeps riding, he'll get there). As it was, it was still a phenomenal day. I know I say this every time I go on one, but this was the best ride I've had all year ... which, come to think of it, is really saying something, since I was riding a mountain bike that I don't even own instead of one of my beloved road bikes!
To some extent, I am still getting to know the C'dale, so I rode rather more cautiously than I might otherwise have done. HeadShocks are actually pretty cool, but definitely impact handling in an interesting way. I also didn't learn until I was riding home from the gas-station that I could lock out its front shock simply by turning a little dial at the top (it's one of those old-fashioned 'HeadShock' models). That intel would've been useful on the long paved climbs, since I realized en route home, after discovering the dial, that the action of the shock absorbs a surprising amount of the rider's effort and locking it out makes all the difference in the world (skinnier tires running at slightly higher pressure would've helped, too).
Serious training for 'cross begins this week, and next Saturday I'm hoping to roll out with LBC's 100k populaire. Barring the emergence of plans-I've-forgotten-about (DD is our household social director), it will be my first brevet, so I'm hoping to make it.
During the past few weeks, when I haven't been posting much, I've been thinking a lot about where I want to go with my bike habit. Those thoughts have now gelled into a set of goals:
- Get out on more sociable group rides!
- Orient race training towards 'cross in the Fall and road in the spring, and let summer just be summer.
- Climb bigger hills more often.
- Ride off road (and on gravel roads) more often.
I think I will also get in the habit of riding hill repeats in Cherokee Park, though neither Cherokee nor Iroquois involves a long enough climb to be too much of a challenge.
As for that last goal: I've discovered that I really enjoy riding flowy singletrack, and that gravel is fun in its own unique way. Heretofore, I've done a fair bit of grass riding, a bit of singletrack, and a lot of riding on cobbles (I like to find routes that take me through Louisville's cobbled alleys and backroads), but I've mostly avoided gravel because I'm a bit afraid of it. Well, the best way to overcome a fear is to face it, right? So I'm going to hunt for some gravel and ride the bejeezus out of it.
I've decided that I can get a bit more 'serious,' if you will, about training for racing without losing my grip on the fact that I ride bikes for fun. My racing goals will remain as they stand -- in cross, finish better; in MTB racing, finish at all (LOL); in road racing, start (in the spring).
Meanwhile, here's how this week's riding plans look:
MONDAY
Rest day. Maybe no riding, maybe just a little road ride.
TUESDAY
9:45 Rocky's Bust Your Gut Ride
1:30 LAB class (some riding involved?)
WEDNESDAY
Hill repeats (Iroquois?).
THURSDAY
Road LSD* (50 miles), possibly LBC Louisville Loop 50
FRIDAY
Intervals, assuming Hg is ready to go.
SATURDAY
Road LSD -- LBC Poplaire (100k). This shouldn't be a particularly high-effort ride.
SUNDAY
Rest day.
Next week I hope to have a more formal training plan on my hands! Meanwhile, all baking activities will be shifted to the early morning hours, before the day gets really hot, so the house has time to cool off before DD gets home from work.
Notes
*That's Long Steady Distance. That, or else Lovely, Salty Doritos. You make the call!
Saturday, May 07, 2011
May/June Ride Plans
As you can see, I've updated my 'Cycling Events' calendar to reflect two LBC rides, one of which is running through the month of May and the other of which continues at least through the end of June.
These are my target rides for the month, though I may not get to do both of them right away. I'll probably do the Bearno's ride on Tuesday this week, then jump in on the 50-miler in June, when E gets back from her trip (I'll be covering her courier route while she's away).
The Bearno's ride sounds way too fun ... bikes and pizza -- my idea of a good time, for certain.
Anyway, that's it for now. I'm definitely experiencing an uptick in both mental and physical well-being, so I'm going to go make hay while the sun shines :)
These are my target rides for the month, though I may not get to do both of them right away. I'll probably do the Bearno's ride on Tuesday this week, then jump in on the 50-miler in June, when E gets back from her trip (I'll be covering her courier route while she's away).
The Bearno's ride sounds way too fun ... bikes and pizza -- my idea of a good time, for certain.
Anyway, that's it for now. I'm definitely experiencing an uptick in both mental and physical well-being, so I'm going to go make hay while the sun shines :)
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
100 Miles of Nowhere Update
So I'm still crazy enough to want to do Fatty's 100 Miles of Nowhere ... but I've decided to change the venue. Admittedly, this decision is, in part, driven by the fact that my planned venue -- that is, my basement -- is presently a disaster area, and I don't foresee being able to sort it out by the fourth of June.
Unless the weather is absolutely abominable, I'm thinking that the Rundill Road loop of Iroquois Park would make an ideal setting. It's 3.29 miles, and a lot of it is in the shade. Moreover, it's in a park, so there are water fountains, restrooms, and even a splash pad to cool off on. In fact, you could probably even do a '100 Miles of Rundill Triathlon' -- ride the bike, run to the splash pad, 'swim' in the splash pad, walk back to the bike, ride the bike, run to the ... you see where I'm going with this. Myself, I plan to skip the running bit.
The idea is to ride the loop 33 times without going insane. I hope to badger DD into setting up one of those little shelter-tent thingies that one encounters at 'cross races and such things with snacks and drinks and tools (just in case). Oh, and a cheering section. As you may remember from last year's 'A Good First Century,' he is the world's best boyfriend/team car driver/physical therapist/soigneur ever, and I have a feeling he will be happy tolaugh at my madness for hours on end help. Perhaps moreso if I can promise him some kind of entertainment other than a gaggle of increasingly slow-and-tired cyclists appearing every so often.
If I'm feeling both organized enough and financially together enough, I might even (GASP!) make some '100 MILES OF RUNDILL' t-shirts. (I will at least make a design for iron-on tranfers!) Admittedly, they won't be as awesome as the '100 Miles of Nowhere' t-shirt that you get anyway if you sign up, but I'm actually a halfway-decent graphic designer.
If riding around Rundill Road 33 times sounds like your cup of tea, let me know (and let Fatty know between the 11th and 19th of this month -- April). His entry fee this year is $85, which goes to support the fight against cancer, which is extremely relevant to the state of Kentucky, which has some of the highest cancer rates anywhere.
If you are also crazy and you think 33 laps in Iroquois Park sounds like a good time and you want to join me, just give me a shout-out at taylosab [at] umail [dot] iu [dot] edu.
Unless the weather is absolutely abominable, I'm thinking that the Rundill Road loop of Iroquois Park would make an ideal setting. It's 3.29 miles, and a lot of it is in the shade. Moreover, it's in a park, so there are water fountains, restrooms, and even a splash pad to cool off on. In fact, you could probably even do a '100 Miles of Rundill Triathlon' -- ride the bike, run to the splash pad, 'swim' in the splash pad, walk back to the bike, ride the bike, run to the ... you see where I'm going with this. Myself, I plan to skip the running bit.
The idea is to ride the loop 33 times without going insane. I hope to badger DD into setting up one of those little shelter-tent thingies that one encounters at 'cross races and such things with snacks and drinks and tools (just in case). Oh, and a cheering section. As you may remember from last year's 'A Good First Century,' he is the world's best boyfriend/team car driver/physical therapist/soigneur ever, and I have a feeling he will be happy to
If I'm feeling both organized enough and financially together enough, I might even (GASP!) make some '100 MILES OF RUNDILL' t-shirts. (I will at least make a design for iron-on tranfers!) Admittedly, they won't be as awesome as the '100 Miles of Nowhere' t-shirt that you get anyway if you sign up, but I'm actually a halfway-decent graphic designer.
If riding around Rundill Road 33 times sounds like your cup of tea, let me know (and let Fatty know between the 11th and 19th of this month -- April). His entry fee this year is $85, which goes to support the fight against cancer, which is extremely relevant to the state of Kentucky, which has some of the highest cancer rates anywhere.
If you are also crazy and you think 33 laps in Iroquois Park sounds like a good time and you want to join me, just give me a shout-out at taylosab [at] umail [dot] iu [dot] edu.
Sunday, April 03, 2011
Observed: Being Good At Riding in Groups != Being Good at Group Rides
I decided to give the Sunday 2:00 LBC ride from Heine Brother's at Breckenridge and Shelbyville a go. It was a beautiful afternoon, I made awesome time getting to the ride start from Dairy Kastle (where DD and I had lunch prior to the ride), and I was feeling good -- good about my bike, pretty good about myself, and good about the prospect of riding with a bunch of other crazy bike people (which always sounds good).
A good number of riders showed for the ride, and we all rolled out together around 2:20. I found myself a comfy spot in the middle of the pack -- just behind the fast group that broke away at a stoplight a few miles into the right (I didn't gun it quite hard enough to make the light; in retrospect, that was probably a good idea).
After the light, I led off a little break of maybe four riders, and we took turns swapping the lead in an informal paceline until I realized I had absolutely no idea what the route was supposed to look like -- so I turned into a wheelsucker for a while, swapping spots with another rider from time. Two members of the group dropped off due to a mechanical issue, leaving just the guy who was giving me directions and me until a third rider caught us at the turn onto River Road. I tried to be a good group member and take directions and my turns in the (considerable) wind.
Apparently, I didn't take directions quite well enough. My guide said, "We ride out River Road for what seems like forever, then turn into Glenview." I said, "Oh, okay, cool." At some point, though, I dropped off the pace a bit while fumbling with my front derailleur (I'm still making friends with it; it's a little finicky), then got hung up at a traffic light and lost my guide. No biggie, I thought -- I'll just ride an easy pace until another group catches up with me, and I'll hang out with them.
As I rolled rather casually down River Road, still quite a way from the Glenview turnoff, another group eventually found me. I jumped into their paceline -- and so began my extremely-enjoyable misadventure.
You see, I had made a classic group-ride mistake: I thought, "Oh, I know that jersey; I saw that person at the ride start." The problem is, on any lovely weekend day in Louisville, there's a very good likelihood that any interesting jersey will be worn by three or five completely disparate individuals -- who may, for all that, be involved in three or five different rides.
So I fell in behind a 'Ride to Conquer Cancer' jersey, and was soon enjoying the benefits of a good group ride -- camaraderie, companionship, the chance to get out of the wind.
I should've known something was wrong when we didn't turn off at Glenview. It's not like I don't know where Glenview is. I've ridden through it before. But instead of thinking , "Oh, hey, I think this is my corner, and maybe I'm with some other ride now; I'll wait here until someone from my ride comes along," I thought, "Huh, we must be going to Glenview by some other route." Another rider caught up with me and asked if I was on the LBC ride; I said, "Yes!" -- thus leading her astray, as well. (I know, I am a horrible person, leading my fellow cyclists astray.)
And off we went, not into Glenview at all, but past Juniper Beach and Guthrie Beach and on into Prospect. For a while, I found myself riding more or less alone, in front of the tail group (of whose existence I was not yet aware) but a ways back from the lead group, having once again fumbled my way off the pace. Nonetheless, I enjoyed myself, even in spite of the punishing wind and the bockety road (thank God for good wheels). Soon, I caught up with the group at our turnaround at the Java Brewing Company at the intersection of River Road and US 42.
While we paused, I chatted with my fellow riders (mostly about IUS -- two of us were IUS students and two were IUS grads!), thinking, "Hm, it's funny that we're such a small group. Maybe some others will show up." There were only about five or six of us, at that particular moment. I failed to see any significance, there. Likewise, part of me was a little surprised that so many people brought snacks for such a short ride; I failed to make any connection between the level of preparation and the fact that I was no longer on my little twenty-five-miler. Worst of all, I failed to think it odd that we also seemed to have our own ride coordinator (a fellow IUS student! Yay! Unfortunately, he won't be on my maybe-someday cycling team, since he's transferring to Spalding). I simply figured that he'd assumed RC duty for the group, so we didn't go astray.
Oops.
Eventually, another group of riders appeared and joined us. The rest of us chatted and took a brief break, sipping our water or slurping our gels (note to self: bring gels next time, really, even if you think you're only going out on a 25-mile ride). I commented at one point about how I hadn't bothered to install a second bottle cage on HG for this ride because, "Meh, it's just twenty-five miles." I got a strange look from a fellow rider. Perhaps this, too, should've been a clue*.
But I have never been known for my aptitude in picking up on subtle clues -- no, rather, in that department, I am quite as dense as dark matter. I don't do 'clues.' I am much more amenable to the hammer-over-the-head method than the whisper-in-the-ear method.
Our recently-arrived brethren took their brief break, and off we went again, rolling along in a nice little paceline. I contemplated what a joy it is to ride in a good paceline, and enjoyed the view of the river, if not the occasional gusts of wind coming off of it.
For a little while, we had the wind at our backs, which felt nice after the upwind slog of the past few miles. We were back at Zorn Ave -- our next turn-off -- in no time. While we waited for the last of our group, I stepped into a 'quickie mart' and bought some additional water, all the while considering how strange it was that I'd used up almost all my water on such a short ride. Then I checked the time and considered how strange it was that we'd been out for two hours, since we were riding a pretty good pace. Still, I was not visited by such a thing as a clue.
:::facepalm:::
We were still waiting for one of our number (and another who went back to fetch him) when we decided to switch out our return routes -- we would head back down River Road a bit, then up Mocking Bird Valley. That way, if we ran into our missing man, we could simply pick him up along the way. The ride along Mocking Bird Valley Road was delightful -- shady, cool, and quiet -- until I did something my FD didn't like right as we were approaching the bottom of a longish climb and Hg dropped his chain (this, btw, was entirely rider error: I know my FD is finicky on account of being a double crankset harnessed to a triple brifter; I still hose it up sometimes anyway). I didn't have to get off the bike to fix it -- I just played with my shift lever until it picked the chain back up -- but I'd already lost all my momentum, and I climbed the hill at a crawl. There were still two riders behind me, and when one of them caught me, we took turns in the wind -- and still, somehow, I failed to grasp that I was now on the wrong ride entirely. Le sigh.
Soon we were heading through Saint Matthew's. I was hungry, even though I'd had a hotdog and a milkshake right before I rode to the ride. I thought, "Oh, good, we're almost there. I'll grab some coffee before I head home." But then we crossed Breckenridge and kept going on towards the Highlands.
Did I, at this point, begin to suspect that I was on the wrong ride?
Ummm.
No.
Did you expect anything else?
Instead of drawing the probably-obvious conclusion, I thought, "Oh, we must be short a few miles." Yes, I realize that this assessment was patently ridiculous. No, that did not keep it from making sense at a the time. Patiently, I rolled along, enjoying the company of my peers. I even stopped and waited for a slower rider, and we pulled each-other up a little hill.
Coming into Cherokee Park (for the second time today), I found our RC again. I asked him, "How does the route go from here?" He said something about returning to Hogan's Fountain.
And then, quite suddenly, reality dawned.
"Oh ... which ride am I on?"
"We're the Bike to Beat Cancer ride from Hogan's Fountain. Were you on the LBC ride?"
Sheepishly, I replied, "Um, yes."
"So was the lady in the light blue. Do you know how to get back to where you started?"
"Yeah. Sorry I jumped in on your ride."
"That's okay. You should come ride with us again."
We chatted for a few minutes longer, and I learned that this group goes out on Sunday afternoons (sometimes Saturday mornings) from Hogan's Fountain -- much more convenient to church than the ride I started with.
We laughed about my mix-up, and then parted ways at the lane that leads out of the park to Lexington Road. There, in the process of missing my turn and almost causing a bike crash, I promptly pulled a muscle in my right thigh and decided to call it a day. I called DD, who came and picked me up, and as we headed home I called the ride coordinator for the original ride and let him know what had happened and that I was fine, so whoever was out riding sweep was not stuck looking for me for hours.
The moral of the story?
You can have all the group-riding skills in the world and still be terrible at group rides, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. I met a few more really nice cyclists and had a fantastic time. I think I will take the RC up on his offer and join them again some time, maybe even next weekend -- and I think I may even do the 'Bike to Beat Cancer' ride. It sounds like it could be fun (and it requires a lot less fund-raising than its previous 'Ride to Conquer Cancer' iterations reqiured).
So basically the moral of the story is really that sometimes taking a wrong turn -- or following the wrong jersey -- can lead to the start of something good.
Not to mention boosting your mileage for the week!
*Turns out that the ride with which I 'hooked up' was Bike to Beat Cancer's 40-mile training ride for this weekend!
**This also stands as Hg's mid-distance road test. I must say, except for operator error involving the finicky FD, Hg passed with flying colors.
A good number of riders showed for the ride, and we all rolled out together around 2:20. I found myself a comfy spot in the middle of the pack -- just behind the fast group that broke away at a stoplight a few miles into the right (I didn't gun it quite hard enough to make the light; in retrospect, that was probably a good idea).
After the light, I led off a little break of maybe four riders, and we took turns swapping the lead in an informal paceline until I realized I had absolutely no idea what the route was supposed to look like -- so I turned into a wheelsucker for a while, swapping spots with another rider from time. Two members of the group dropped off due to a mechanical issue, leaving just the guy who was giving me directions and me until a third rider caught us at the turn onto River Road. I tried to be a good group member and take directions and my turns in the (considerable) wind.
Apparently, I didn't take directions quite well enough. My guide said, "We ride out River Road for what seems like forever, then turn into Glenview." I said, "Oh, okay, cool." At some point, though, I dropped off the pace a bit while fumbling with my front derailleur (I'm still making friends with it; it's a little finicky), then got hung up at a traffic light and lost my guide. No biggie, I thought -- I'll just ride an easy pace until another group catches up with me, and I'll hang out with them.
As I rolled rather casually down River Road, still quite a way from the Glenview turnoff, another group eventually found me. I jumped into their paceline -- and so began my extremely-enjoyable misadventure.
You see, I had made a classic group-ride mistake: I thought, "Oh, I know that jersey; I saw that person at the ride start." The problem is, on any lovely weekend day in Louisville, there's a very good likelihood that any interesting jersey will be worn by three or five completely disparate individuals -- who may, for all that, be involved in three or five different rides.
So I fell in behind a 'Ride to Conquer Cancer' jersey, and was soon enjoying the benefits of a good group ride -- camaraderie, companionship, the chance to get out of the wind.
I should've known something was wrong when we didn't turn off at Glenview. It's not like I don't know where Glenview is. I've ridden through it before. But instead of thinking , "Oh, hey, I think this is my corner, and maybe I'm with some other ride now; I'll wait here until someone from my ride comes along," I thought, "Huh, we must be going to Glenview by some other route." Another rider caught up with me and asked if I was on the LBC ride; I said, "Yes!" -- thus leading her astray, as well. (I know, I am a horrible person, leading my fellow cyclists astray.)
And off we went, not into Glenview at all, but past Juniper Beach and Guthrie Beach and on into Prospect. For a while, I found myself riding more or less alone, in front of the tail group (of whose existence I was not yet aware) but a ways back from the lead group, having once again fumbled my way off the pace. Nonetheless, I enjoyed myself, even in spite of the punishing wind and the bockety road (thank God for good wheels). Soon, I caught up with the group at our turnaround at the Java Brewing Company at the intersection of River Road and US 42.
While we paused, I chatted with my fellow riders (mostly about IUS -- two of us were IUS students and two were IUS grads!), thinking, "Hm, it's funny that we're such a small group. Maybe some others will show up." There were only about five or six of us, at that particular moment. I failed to see any significance, there. Likewise, part of me was a little surprised that so many people brought snacks for such a short ride; I failed to make any connection between the level of preparation and the fact that I was no longer on my little twenty-five-miler. Worst of all, I failed to think it odd that we also seemed to have our own ride coordinator (a fellow IUS student! Yay! Unfortunately, he won't be on my maybe-someday cycling team, since he's transferring to Spalding). I simply figured that he'd assumed RC duty for the group, so we didn't go astray.
Oops.
Eventually, another group of riders appeared and joined us. The rest of us chatted and took a brief break, sipping our water or slurping our gels (note to self: bring gels next time, really, even if you think you're only going out on a 25-mile ride). I commented at one point about how I hadn't bothered to install a second bottle cage on HG for this ride because, "Meh, it's just twenty-five miles." I got a strange look from a fellow rider. Perhaps this, too, should've been a clue*.
But I have never been known for my aptitude in picking up on subtle clues -- no, rather, in that department, I am quite as dense as dark matter. I don't do 'clues.' I am much more amenable to the hammer-over-the-head method than the whisper-in-the-ear method.
Our recently-arrived brethren took their brief break, and off we went again, rolling along in a nice little paceline. I contemplated what a joy it is to ride in a good paceline, and enjoyed the view of the river, if not the occasional gusts of wind coming off of it.
For a little while, we had the wind at our backs, which felt nice after the upwind slog of the past few miles. We were back at Zorn Ave -- our next turn-off -- in no time. While we waited for the last of our group, I stepped into a 'quickie mart' and bought some additional water, all the while considering how strange it was that I'd used up almost all my water on such a short ride. Then I checked the time and considered how strange it was that we'd been out for two hours, since we were riding a pretty good pace. Still, I was not visited by such a thing as a clue.
:::facepalm:::
We were still waiting for one of our number (and another who went back to fetch him) when we decided to switch out our return routes -- we would head back down River Road a bit, then up Mocking Bird Valley. That way, if we ran into our missing man, we could simply pick him up along the way. The ride along Mocking Bird Valley Road was delightful -- shady, cool, and quiet -- until I did something my FD didn't like right as we were approaching the bottom of a longish climb and Hg dropped his chain (this, btw, was entirely rider error: I know my FD is finicky on account of being a double crankset harnessed to a triple brifter; I still hose it up sometimes anyway). I didn't have to get off the bike to fix it -- I just played with my shift lever until it picked the chain back up -- but I'd already lost all my momentum, and I climbed the hill at a crawl. There were still two riders behind me, and when one of them caught me, we took turns in the wind -- and still, somehow, I failed to grasp that I was now on the wrong ride entirely. Le sigh.
Soon we were heading through Saint Matthew's. I was hungry, even though I'd had a hotdog and a milkshake right before I rode to the ride. I thought, "Oh, good, we're almost there. I'll grab some coffee before I head home." But then we crossed Breckenridge and kept going on towards the Highlands.
Did I, at this point, begin to suspect that I was on the wrong ride?
Ummm.
No.
Did you expect anything else?
Instead of drawing the probably-obvious conclusion, I thought, "Oh, we must be short a few miles." Yes, I realize that this assessment was patently ridiculous. No, that did not keep it from making sense at a the time. Patiently, I rolled along, enjoying the company of my peers. I even stopped and waited for a slower rider, and we pulled each-other up a little hill.
Coming into Cherokee Park (for the second time today), I found our RC again. I asked him, "How does the route go from here?" He said something about returning to Hogan's Fountain.
And then, quite suddenly, reality dawned.
"Oh ... which ride am I on?"
"We're the Bike to Beat Cancer ride from Hogan's Fountain. Were you on the LBC ride?"
Sheepishly, I replied, "Um, yes."
"So was the lady in the light blue. Do you know how to get back to where you started?"
"Yeah. Sorry I jumped in on your ride."
"That's okay. You should come ride with us again."
We chatted for a few minutes longer, and I learned that this group goes out on Sunday afternoons (sometimes Saturday mornings) from Hogan's Fountain -- much more convenient to church than the ride I started with.
We laughed about my mix-up, and then parted ways at the lane that leads out of the park to Lexington Road. There, in the process of missing my turn and almost causing a bike crash, I promptly pulled a muscle in my right thigh and decided to call it a day. I called DD, who came and picked me up, and as we headed home I called the ride coordinator for the original ride and let him know what had happened and that I was fine, so whoever was out riding sweep was not stuck looking for me for hours.
The moral of the story?
You can have all the group-riding skills in the world and still be terrible at group rides, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. I met a few more really nice cyclists and had a fantastic time. I think I will take the RC up on his offer and join them again some time, maybe even next weekend -- and I think I may even do the 'Bike to Beat Cancer' ride. It sounds like it could be fun (and it requires a lot less fund-raising than its previous 'Ride to Conquer Cancer' iterations reqiured).
So basically the moral of the story is really that sometimes taking a wrong turn -- or following the wrong jersey -- can lead to the start of something good.
Not to mention boosting your mileage for the week!
*Turns out that the ride with which I 'hooked up' was Bike to Beat Cancer's 40-mile training ride for this weekend!
**This also stands as Hg's mid-distance road test. I must say, except for operator error involving the finicky FD, Hg passed with flying colors.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
A Few Thoughts About Perception
I think I mentioned that I somehow managed to wind up +1 pound in February -- which makes either an inauspicious start to my 'lose 30 more pounds' campaign, or sets the bar a little higher and makes the challenge a little more exciting, depending on how you look at it. Depending, that is, on how you perceive it.
It also makes me feel, well, fat. Which is silly, because one pound of difference is really no big deal, and for all I know simply represents water retention or some similar phenomenon*.
On Sunday, DD wasn't feeling well at all, so I kitted up and rode over to church. Before I left, I glanced at myself in the mirror and decided that I looked generally tubby and embarrassing, and maybe like I was trying too hard. I briefly considered whether or not one can ride in a muumuu, and if so, where one can find a muumuu at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning (preferably en route to church).
Perhaps as a result of my 'meh-tastic' attitude, the ride wasn't one of my best. I failed to inflate my tires before heading out, so ran about thirty PSI low (jeez ._.). Then, instead of feeling grateful for the extra challenge of the head- and cross-head winds, I spent a great deal of time privately whinging about them. There were more cars out than I had hoped for (one does hope to ride with less traffic from time to time), and for most of the ride I didn't see even one other bike (after church, I saw a few, and even got a friendly wave from a serious-looking roadie on a really nice bike).
Things did eventually pick up, of course -- it's hard to remain grouchy while riding a bike. Riding gets the blood pumping, something I am convinced that we super-athletic (ha!) cyclists with our ultra-low heart rates need to get adequate blood to the brain ;) I relished my newfound confidence on Eastern Parkway's climb into the Highlands, which used to be one of the few local climbs that I didn't like (I think, honestly, I used to gun it too hard at the bottom in an effort to maintain my usual riding-in-traffic speed).
That being said, I still felt like a walrus in a body-stocking when I walked into church.
At church, though, one of my fellow handbell ringers said I looked like a pro. The ringer in question is one of the fittest, leanest people I know, so it was pretty confidence-boosting to hear that from her. At the time, I choked back a reflexive, 'Nah, I'm too fat to look like a pro' and just kind of basked in the moment and let it percolate (while tooling around on bikes and eating pizza with my friend Robert).
This morning, things of settled into place.
I realized that it all boils down to perception.
Take, for example, hills. I say that I'm a pretty good climber, but historically that statement represented something more like a magical incantation ('If I say it as if I believe it's true, it will be true') than any real self-confidence.
There were a few climbs in this, my fair city, that vexed me. Eastern Parkway was one of them. Though I didn't understand why, I often found myself winded after riding them. I was particularly annoyed by my performance on these climbs because I understood that they shouldn't be hard for me: there was no logical reason that I should find them challenging at all. There were a number of other climbs -- longer and/or steeper -- that I routinely rode without blowing up. It simply didn't make sense.
Then I went out for a hilly ride with RCCS. I realized afterwards that I felt great on the climbs (even the two longish ones with steep, punchy finishes) -- and that I felt great on the climbs because I wasn't thinking about climbing. I was just riding, talking bikes, and generally having a good time.
Moreover, none of the climbs I routinely ride are much, if any, steeper or longer than the best ones we tackled. I decided that if I didn't find myself winded on the climbs I rode with RCCS, there was no reason to reach the top of any of my regular climbs spent and out of breath, and that if I did, I must be doing something wrong -- possibly something mental, possibly something physical, but probably both.
I decided the familiar hills were no big deal, and I resolved to remain loose and calm even on the climbs that frustrate me. I rolled the dice on a little mental admonishment ('Calm down, it's no big deal.') when needed -- and it worked, and it worked well. Surprisingly well.
On Sunday, at the bottom of the Eastern Parkway climb, instead of feeling that knot of worrisome anticipation in the pit of my stomach and steely tension gathering in my arms and legs, I stayed calm and loose: and then, suddenly, I was at the top, then over. I sailed up the two small climbs that follow at a very nice clip, with a blithe and easy heart. Experientially, it was similar to the courier runs I did this winter from downtown to the highlands -- because my mind wasn't on the hill, the hill was behind me before I noticed it.
This surprised me, though perhaps it shouldn't have.
I believe in the power of words, even though I am almost entirely a non-verbal thinker. In fact, my belief in the power of words may be so potent because I'm almost entirely a non-verbal thinker: to put my thoughts into words requires translation; it's an act of conscious will. Since I believe deeply in the power of will (at least when it's coupled to faith), when I want something to be true of myself, I simply make a declaration: "I am x."**
When I decided, initially and with a totally insufficient body of evidence (excepting one 60-ish mile solo ride which logged some 3,000+ feet of climb, which didn't really seem like that big a deal until much, much later), that I had the makings of a decent climber, I simply declared myself to be one: "I see by my outfit*** that I am a climber."
However, that RCCS ride made me realize that it works better when coupled with experience.
That's where perception comes in.
In psychology, we differentiate between sensation and perception. Sensation is the process by which we receive input about the world around us from our sensory organs; perception is the process by which our brains interpolate that information and make sense of it.
Thus, perception -- already a much more nebulous thing than sensation -- is subject to the slings and arrows of neurology, mood, memory, and mental state. It is shaped by experience -- so much that if we have no experience with a thing, we may not even perceive it (imagine hearing a foreign language for the first time: it sounds like a meaningless stream of syllables; often, we can't even perceive individual words in the stream of sound). In matters of perception, one's frame of reference -- the sum of one's experiences -- is everything.
I live a life pretty much immersed in the world of cycling, where I personally fall more or less in the 'roadie' category. Thus, when I look at myself as a cyclist, my frame of reference tells me that I'm still pretty hefty; that I could stand to put in more miles; that I'm not really trying that hard. Even in my winter kit, which is now basically all slimming black and charcoal except for my neon-green long-sleeved jersey and my rain jackets (one orange, one yellow and blue), I think I look tubby and totally not pro and like I should buy a pair of shoes that don't have laces (the shoelace-induced crash has become my new obsessive worry).
Meanwhile, a friend at church who rides a bit but isn't what one would call 'into bikes' sees me decked out in my winter kit and says, "You look like a pro."
In other words, when I look at myself, and compare myself to the vast universe of cyclists who are stronger and faster than I am, I think I look like a schmuck. But when she looks at me, instead of seeing my shortcomings, she sees a dedicated (if slightly insane) rider in a pulled-together kit. Interesting.
Likewise, prior to the RCCS Hills-n-Coffee ride, I had a fair sense that I was okay at climbing, but the experience of the ride in question gave me a better set of data. It showed me what happens when the perceptions you might have had are replaced by good company and conversation. Suddenly, you can simply brush by your the limitations you have perceived yourself to have, when perhaps your senses were trying to tell you something else (like, 'Relax, it's just a little hill.').
I think this is one of the reasons that group rides are invaluable for any rider who wants to race or ride long distances. Riding alone, you may focus on overcoming the burning of your thighs or the fact that you feel like your lungs are going to explode as you fight to slay your personal best time on a given ascent or that after sixty-odd miles you really kind of want to take a nap -- but riding with a group, you don't focus on the burning thighs or the exploding lungs at all, so you don't feel them nearly as intensely.
Riding alone, you may create difficulties where there are none, as I kept doing on Eastern Parkway. Riding with a group of friends, you don't tense up at the bottom of a climb that normally worries you, because you're probably not even paying attention to the climb in question. You relax and roll with your peeps.
There is safety, but also strength, in numbers. The social reality of the group means your focus turns outward, away from yourself -- where, in my opinion, it belongs (...he said, writing in this, the most navel-gazing of blogs). Like the practice of meditation, like saying the rosary, riding in a group quiets the monkey-mind and fixes the mind's eye on the present moment, which is -- as Thich Nhat Hanh observes -- the only moment, and a wonderful moment. Breathing in, I am one with this flock of colorful birds.
Even if you're fighting with every fiber of your being to keep up, you've turned your mind's eye away from your own human weakness and towards a worthier goal.
Though you may not realize it, as you go, you're coming closer to that goal and perceiving the experience. After, you might remember the ways in which you surprised yourself -- especially if, after a group ride you didn't perceive as particularly challenging or hilly, you learn that the course involved 1,229 feet of climbing over a short 27 miles -- not a staggering percentage, but healthy enough that a good many riders would call it 'challenging.' You may realize that you rode stronger than you thought you did, simply because you weren't focusing so very hard on your own effort.
Later, having banked those experiences, you can generalize them, and sometimes this makes your life radically easier. It is one thing to guess that you might possess a given strength; it is another thing entirely to experience that strength without even realizing it.
We are at our best when life lifts us up and out of our narrow frames of reference; out of the close little canyons of our own perception and up onto the high and lovely ridges of experience, from which we can really see. Each time this happens, we gain an opportunity to widen and raise the canyons of our perception, until at last perhaps we might lift ourselves high enough to live lives of continuous experience, in which our own imagined limitations are burned away like fog by the bright morning sun.
Notes
*To self: NEVER STEP ON A SCALE AFTER TWO DAYS OFF THE BIKE. EVER.
** This, by the way, works much better than "I will become x," for me. My guess is that the "I will become..." formula is too vague; you can put it off indefinitely as long as you're making just a little progress.
*** With apologies to Peter S. Beagle for borrowing the title of his life-changing book, I See By My Outfit.
It also makes me feel, well, fat. Which is silly, because one pound of difference is really no big deal, and for all I know simply represents water retention or some similar phenomenon*.
On Sunday, DD wasn't feeling well at all, so I kitted up and rode over to church. Before I left, I glanced at myself in the mirror and decided that I looked generally tubby and embarrassing, and maybe like I was trying too hard. I briefly considered whether or not one can ride in a muumuu, and if so, where one can find a muumuu at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning (preferably en route to church).
Perhaps as a result of my 'meh-tastic' attitude, the ride wasn't one of my best. I failed to inflate my tires before heading out, so ran about thirty PSI low (jeez ._.). Then, instead of feeling grateful for the extra challenge of the head- and cross-head winds, I spent a great deal of time privately whinging about them. There were more cars out than I had hoped for (one does hope to ride with less traffic from time to time), and for most of the ride I didn't see even one other bike (after church, I saw a few, and even got a friendly wave from a serious-looking roadie on a really nice bike).
Things did eventually pick up, of course -- it's hard to remain grouchy while riding a bike. Riding gets the blood pumping, something I am convinced that we super-athletic (ha!) cyclists with our ultra-low heart rates need to get adequate blood to the brain ;) I relished my newfound confidence on Eastern Parkway's climb into the Highlands, which used to be one of the few local climbs that I didn't like (I think, honestly, I used to gun it too hard at the bottom in an effort to maintain my usual riding-in-traffic speed).
That being said, I still felt like a walrus in a body-stocking when I walked into church.
At church, though, one of my fellow handbell ringers said I looked like a pro. The ringer in question is one of the fittest, leanest people I know, so it was pretty confidence-boosting to hear that from her. At the time, I choked back a reflexive, 'Nah, I'm too fat to look like a pro' and just kind of basked in the moment and let it percolate (while tooling around on bikes and eating pizza with my friend Robert).
This morning, things of settled into place.
I realized that it all boils down to perception.
Take, for example, hills. I say that I'm a pretty good climber, but historically that statement represented something more like a magical incantation ('If I say it as if I believe it's true, it will be true') than any real self-confidence.
There were a few climbs in this, my fair city, that vexed me. Eastern Parkway was one of them. Though I didn't understand why, I often found myself winded after riding them. I was particularly annoyed by my performance on these climbs because I understood that they shouldn't be hard for me: there was no logical reason that I should find them challenging at all. There were a number of other climbs -- longer and/or steeper -- that I routinely rode without blowing up. It simply didn't make sense.
Then I went out for a hilly ride with RCCS. I realized afterwards that I felt great on the climbs (even the two longish ones with steep, punchy finishes) -- and that I felt great on the climbs because I wasn't thinking about climbing. I was just riding, talking bikes, and generally having a good time.
Moreover, none of the climbs I routinely ride are much, if any, steeper or longer than the best ones we tackled. I decided that if I didn't find myself winded on the climbs I rode with RCCS, there was no reason to reach the top of any of my regular climbs spent and out of breath, and that if I did, I must be doing something wrong -- possibly something mental, possibly something physical, but probably both.
I decided the familiar hills were no big deal, and I resolved to remain loose and calm even on the climbs that frustrate me. I rolled the dice on a little mental admonishment ('Calm down, it's no big deal.') when needed -- and it worked, and it worked well. Surprisingly well.
On Sunday, at the bottom of the Eastern Parkway climb, instead of feeling that knot of worrisome anticipation in the pit of my stomach and steely tension gathering in my arms and legs, I stayed calm and loose: and then, suddenly, I was at the top, then over. I sailed up the two small climbs that follow at a very nice clip, with a blithe and easy heart. Experientially, it was similar to the courier runs I did this winter from downtown to the highlands -- because my mind wasn't on the hill, the hill was behind me before I noticed it.
This surprised me, though perhaps it shouldn't have.
I believe in the power of words, even though I am almost entirely a non-verbal thinker. In fact, my belief in the power of words may be so potent because I'm almost entirely a non-verbal thinker: to put my thoughts into words requires translation; it's an act of conscious will. Since I believe deeply in the power of will (at least when it's coupled to faith), when I want something to be true of myself, I simply make a declaration: "I am x."**
When I decided, initially and with a totally insufficient body of evidence (excepting one 60-ish mile solo ride which logged some 3,000+ feet of climb, which didn't really seem like that big a deal until much, much later), that I had the makings of a decent climber, I simply declared myself to be one: "I see by my outfit*** that I am a climber."
However, that RCCS ride made me realize that it works better when coupled with experience.
That's where perception comes in.
In psychology, we differentiate between sensation and perception. Sensation is the process by which we receive input about the world around us from our sensory organs; perception is the process by which our brains interpolate that information and make sense of it.
Thus, perception -- already a much more nebulous thing than sensation -- is subject to the slings and arrows of neurology, mood, memory, and mental state. It is shaped by experience -- so much that if we have no experience with a thing, we may not even perceive it (imagine hearing a foreign language for the first time: it sounds like a meaningless stream of syllables; often, we can't even perceive individual words in the stream of sound). In matters of perception, one's frame of reference -- the sum of one's experiences -- is everything.
I live a life pretty much immersed in the world of cycling, where I personally fall more or less in the 'roadie' category. Thus, when I look at myself as a cyclist, my frame of reference tells me that I'm still pretty hefty; that I could stand to put in more miles; that I'm not really trying that hard. Even in my winter kit, which is now basically all slimming black and charcoal except for my neon-green long-sleeved jersey and my rain jackets (one orange, one yellow and blue), I think I look tubby and totally not pro and like I should buy a pair of shoes that don't have laces (the shoelace-induced crash has become my new obsessive worry).
Meanwhile, a friend at church who rides a bit but isn't what one would call 'into bikes' sees me decked out in my winter kit and says, "You look like a pro."
In other words, when I look at myself, and compare myself to the vast universe of cyclists who are stronger and faster than I am, I think I look like a schmuck. But when she looks at me, instead of seeing my shortcomings, she sees a dedicated (if slightly insane) rider in a pulled-together kit. Interesting.
Likewise, prior to the RCCS Hills-n-Coffee ride, I had a fair sense that I was okay at climbing, but the experience of the ride in question gave me a better set of data. It showed me what happens when the perceptions you might have had are replaced by good company and conversation. Suddenly, you can simply brush by your the limitations you have perceived yourself to have, when perhaps your senses were trying to tell you something else (like, 'Relax, it's just a little hill.').
I think this is one of the reasons that group rides are invaluable for any rider who wants to race or ride long distances. Riding alone, you may focus on overcoming the burning of your thighs or the fact that you feel like your lungs are going to explode as you fight to slay your personal best time on a given ascent or that after sixty-odd miles you really kind of want to take a nap -- but riding with a group, you don't focus on the burning thighs or the exploding lungs at all, so you don't feel them nearly as intensely.
Riding alone, you may create difficulties where there are none, as I kept doing on Eastern Parkway. Riding with a group of friends, you don't tense up at the bottom of a climb that normally worries you, because you're probably not even paying attention to the climb in question. You relax and roll with your peeps.
There is safety, but also strength, in numbers. The social reality of the group means your focus turns outward, away from yourself -- where, in my opinion, it belongs (...he said, writing in this, the most navel-gazing of blogs). Like the practice of meditation, like saying the rosary, riding in a group quiets the monkey-mind and fixes the mind's eye on the present moment, which is -- as Thich Nhat Hanh observes -- the only moment, and a wonderful moment. Breathing in, I am one with this flock of colorful birds.
Even if you're fighting with every fiber of your being to keep up, you've turned your mind's eye away from your own human weakness and towards a worthier goal.
Though you may not realize it, as you go, you're coming closer to that goal and perceiving the experience. After, you might remember the ways in which you surprised yourself -- especially if, after a group ride you didn't perceive as particularly challenging or hilly, you learn that the course involved 1,229 feet of climbing over a short 27 miles -- not a staggering percentage, but healthy enough that a good many riders would call it 'challenging.' You may realize that you rode stronger than you thought you did, simply because you weren't focusing so very hard on your own effort.
Later, having banked those experiences, you can generalize them, and sometimes this makes your life radically easier. It is one thing to guess that you might possess a given strength; it is another thing entirely to experience that strength without even realizing it.
We are at our best when life lifts us up and out of our narrow frames of reference; out of the close little canyons of our own perception and up onto the high and lovely ridges of experience, from which we can really see. Each time this happens, we gain an opportunity to widen and raise the canyons of our perception, until at last perhaps we might lift ourselves high enough to live lives of continuous experience, in which our own imagined limitations are burned away like fog by the bright morning sun.
 |
| Iroquois Park on Tuesday: the climb is worth the descent. So is the view! |
Notes
*To self: NEVER STEP ON A SCALE AFTER TWO DAYS OFF THE BIKE. EVER.
** This, by the way, works much better than "I will become x," for me. My guess is that the "I will become..." formula is too vague; you can put it off indefinitely as long as you're making just a little progress.
*** With apologies to Peter S. Beagle for borrowing the title of his life-changing book, I See By My Outfit.
Monday, February 21, 2011
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!
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!
Monday, October 25, 2010
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.
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:
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.
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Cycling Tips!
Note: The faint of stomach and insect-phobic might want to skip this one. Fair warning!
Many authoritative books, blogs, and websites explain the important set of skills that one should master in order to become a competent group cyclist. However, I have noticed that many of them — maybe most — neglect a few key points.
As such, freshly back from a big group ride (in fact, the biggest group ride I have ever seen in person!!!), I believe I am in a good position to comment, if not-so-authoritatively, on them. Note that I'm just commenting here — not so much advising as just observing.
The first skill I'd like to address is an essential one — an unpleasant-but-important one that any cyclist who rides often enough will eventually have to employ, particularly during allergy season. It's the skill that allows us to clear our throats as well as our thoughts; to remove obstacles (from our tracheas); and to roll on even after aspirating the occasional mayfly. It's a skill that is also near and dear to the hearts of old-timey saloon patrons, runners, and thugs — yes, I'm talking about spitting.
This is rarely a major issue for a cyclist — when riding solo, we may generally spit with abandon, and in a small group we can simply fall back or pull out of line just a bit.
In a large group, however, such as the main pack of a race, a charity ride, or a big municipal ride*, spitting without mishap requires a certain degree of grace and finesse.
This is especially true, I think, on non-competitive rides, wherein the riders come to have fun, not to suffer, possibly make it to within 43 spots of the podium, and earn another war story**. I suspect that I would be more willing to forgive the occasional ill-timed or ill-aimed goober in a race, assuming I even noticed it***. I tend to ride in a bit of a trance, anyway.
Among the first things I noticed (shortly after, Hey! I can actually keep up with these guys! Whaddaya know! and Crap, it's definitely time for a tuneup!) on my giant group ride yesterday morning is that I am the spittingest cyclist east of the Ohio River. West of the Ohio River, on the other hand, or east of the Eastern Continental divide, my allergies and asthma are much less bad, and thus I am less ... um ... productive.
But Louisville, she is a harsh mistress — and so I suffer through all the prime cycling months — you know, March through October — afloat on a sea of my own respiratory excreta. Or something like that.
This is especially true when one of my first orders of business during a ride is the aspiration of some kind of large insect (possibly a Mayfly?) during a climb. Normally, I can make it through a 20-ish mile ride without spitting 200 times, or even 20 times. Yesterday's ride, however, involved way, way more spitting than is usual for me, and probably doubled my annual loogies-per-mile average (an important cycling statistic).
I was concerned, at first, that it would be very difficult to, ahem, relieve myself of the bounty of my respiratory system's truly stupendous efforts without grossly (and I do mean 'grossly') offending some other poor soul. However, I quickly learned that a small set of steps can prevent catastrophe.
It may, of course, be that you're one of those lucky souls who never find themselves foaming at the mouth on a group ride. If so, please, share with me your secret.
On my daily excursions, I have inhaled, eaten, been eaten by, and wiped from both glasses and bike any number of species of flying arthropods.
And, of course, yesterday, I managed to inhale one, thereby profoundly irritating my highly-irritable respiratory tract. I spent the rest of the bridge crossing wheezing and trying to cough up my lungs (not to mention my breakfast), but manfully succeeded in keeping all internal items in place and, indeed, in keeping my spot in the fast group, minus a couple of places.
Likewise, I did not die, though for a moment I was mildly concerned about that possible outcome, as the Second Street Bridge is riddled with joints and various large metal structural elements just waiting to exact their revenge on some poor, addle-pated cyclist, and it is hard to watch out for obstacles while hacking up a lung, as it were.
I have absolutely no suggestions whatsoever concerning how to handle insects, short of 'Insects: avoid them when possible.' However, that's really not very helpful, because it is impossible to avoid insects while hurtling down the road at 20 MPH or faster.
First, I learned that I can maintain a reasonable pace — not blistering, but pretty good — while choking on insects. Also while fighting back the intense nausea that results from keeping up athletic effort while unable to properly breathe.
Second, I learned that there is at least one other guy who comes out on an old Allez for these things. I've seen another Allez of roughly Quicksilver's vintage once before; the one I saw yesterday makes three.
Third, I learned that I am extremely susceptible to the pack mentality. I headed out on this ride intending to pause along the way to shoot some pictures. All the pictures I took, however, are from the start and the end of the ride. This is because I rolled myself up to the back of the first starting group, the 'Competitive Cyclists' group, and once I found myself riding in the flock ... well, you know how it goes.
There was a lot of chasing, bridging, passing, and getting passed going on, considering that the announcer firmly admonished us: "THIS IS NOT A RACE. IT IS A RIDE." No organized efforts, perhaps, but I suspect many of us in the front group were, in our own minds at least, having the race of our lives.
I wonder how big a podium we'd need to fit all the winners? That's my kind of race. I grew up with Shel Silverstein, and while part of me is all about crushing the competition, another part of me is all about 'Hug-O-War'-style racing, where everyone**** wins (also known as 'randonneuring,' I guess?).
As for me, I didn't win, because in my fantasy race I was playing the role of 'star climber,' because apparently climbing is what I do well (when I'm not aspirating mayflies, and even then I'm not too bad at it). I'm confident that I led my (imaginary) team to victory, nobly sacrificing my own shot a the podium, and that's good enough for me. Besides, I'm pretty sure I finished in the top 50, which is pretty good out of a field of 6,000 (non-racers). Not that I care, or bothered to notice ;)
Lastly, I learned that The Jens Voigt Method works really well. If your lungs act up, you tell them, SHUT UP LUNGS! in your best German accent. If your legs start burning, you tell them, SHUT UP LEGS! in your best German accent. If your wrists ... well, you get the point.
Because Jens Voigt is The Man, and we should all try to be a little more like Jens Voigt, even when we're (AHEM) not racing.
**This, by the way, is my racing plan for next road-racing season.
***I hope my fellow cyclobloggers who have actually raced in actual races where they give you an actual number, as opposed to the kind which begin with exchanges like, "Bet I can beat you up that hill!", will be able to confirm or deny this theory. Thus far, all of my races have been the less formal kind (and sometiems not all the participants knew they were racing — I should note that it's particularly humiliating to lose a match race with someone twice your age who doesn't know he's in a race at all).
****...who finishes...
Many authoritative books, blogs, and websites explain the important set of skills that one should master in order to become a competent group cyclist. However, I have noticed that many of them — maybe most — neglect a few key points.
As such, freshly back from a big group ride (in fact, the biggest group ride I have ever seen in person!!!), I believe I am in a good position to comment, if not-so-authoritatively, on them. Note that I'm just commenting here — not so much advising as just observing.
The first skill I'd like to address is an essential one — an unpleasant-but-important one that any cyclist who rides often enough will eventually have to employ, particularly during allergy season. It's the skill that allows us to clear our throats as well as our thoughts; to remove obstacles (from our tracheas); and to roll on even after aspirating the occasional mayfly. It's a skill that is also near and dear to the hearts of old-timey saloon patrons, runners, and thugs — yes, I'm talking about spitting.
Spitting
While nobody has performed a scientific analysis of the topic, I'm sure that we all agree that spitting, while totally gross, is sometimes necessary. It has taken me some time to become comfortable with the idea (and I still won't spit on the sidewalk, no matter how urgent the need), but there are simply times when one must, as they say, hawk a loogie, lest one drown in one's one sputum.This is rarely a major issue for a cyclist — when riding solo, we may generally spit with abandon, and in a small group we can simply fall back or pull out of line just a bit.
In a large group, however, such as the main pack of a race, a charity ride, or a big municipal ride*, spitting without mishap requires a certain degree of grace and finesse.
This is especially true, I think, on non-competitive rides, wherein the riders come to have fun, not to suffer, possibly make it to within 43 spots of the podium, and earn another war story**. I suspect that I would be more willing to forgive the occasional ill-timed or ill-aimed goober in a race, assuming I even noticed it***. I tend to ride in a bit of a trance, anyway.
Among the first things I noticed (shortly after, Hey! I can actually keep up with these guys! Whaddaya know! and Crap, it's definitely time for a tuneup!) on my giant group ride yesterday morning is that I am the spittingest cyclist east of the Ohio River. West of the Ohio River, on the other hand, or east of the Eastern Continental divide, my allergies and asthma are much less bad, and thus I am less ... um ... productive.
But Louisville, she is a harsh mistress — and so I suffer through all the prime cycling months — you know, March through October — afloat on a sea of my own respiratory excreta. Or something like that.
This is especially true when one of my first orders of business during a ride is the aspiration of some kind of large insect (possibly a Mayfly?) during a climb. Normally, I can make it through a 20-ish mile ride without spitting 200 times, or even 20 times. Yesterday's ride, however, involved way, way more spitting than is usual for me, and probably doubled my annual loogies-per-mile average (an important cycling statistic).
I was concerned, at first, that it would be very difficult to, ahem, relieve myself of the bounty of my respiratory system's truly stupendous efforts without grossly (and I do mean 'grossly') offending some other poor soul. However, I quickly learned that a small set of steps can prevent catastrophe.
How to Spit in a Loose Group
- Move to the edge of the group.
- Check both your left and right sides — even if you plan to send your miniature missile sailing on the right, someone coming up behind you on the left might find it necessary to dart around you on the right. You might hear them coming, but if (like me) you are plagued with terrible allergies that also compromise your hearing, you might not.
- If you're going less than 15 or 20 MPH, you can probably just turn your head to roughly 2:00ish and launch. Turn your head too far, and you're likely to wind up wearing it. Ask. Me. How. I. Know.
- If you're moving fast, however, first check the immediate road for potholes and the like, then cock an elbow, tuck your head, and go for the hole shot.
- Lastly: the idea is to spit down, not out. The faster you're going, the truer it is.
How to Spit in a Tight Group
- Wait for the group to loosen up.
- See above.
How to Spit in a Tight Group — Alternate Method
- Pray.
- Attempt 'hole shot' manoeuvre.
- Apologize.
It may, of course, be that you're one of those lucky souls who never find themselves foaming at the mouth on a group ride. If so, please, share with me your secret.
Insects
I have noticed that group rides seem to attract pesky insects. On my first LBC ride, one of my fellow riders was stung by a wasp which flew into his shorts.On my daily excursions, I have inhaled, eaten, been eaten by, and wiped from both glasses and bike any number of species of flying arthropods.
And, of course, yesterday, I managed to inhale one, thereby profoundly irritating my highly-irritable respiratory tract. I spent the rest of the bridge crossing wheezing and trying to cough up my lungs (not to mention my breakfast), but manfully succeeded in keeping all internal items in place and, indeed, in keeping my spot in the fast group, minus a couple of places.
Likewise, I did not die, though for a moment I was mildly concerned about that possible outcome, as the Second Street Bridge is riddled with joints and various large metal structural elements just waiting to exact their revenge on some poor, addle-pated cyclist, and it is hard to watch out for obstacles while hacking up a lung, as it were.
I have absolutely no suggestions whatsoever concerning how to handle insects, short of 'Insects: avoid them when possible.' However, that's really not very helpful, because it is impossible to avoid insects while hurtling down the road at 20 MPH or faster.
Additional Observations
I learned a couple other things on this ride.First, I learned that I can maintain a reasonable pace — not blistering, but pretty good — while choking on insects. Also while fighting back the intense nausea that results from keeping up athletic effort while unable to properly breathe.
Second, I learned that there is at least one other guy who comes out on an old Allez for these things. I've seen another Allez of roughly Quicksilver's vintage once before; the one I saw yesterday makes three.
Third, I learned that I am extremely susceptible to the pack mentality. I headed out on this ride intending to pause along the way to shoot some pictures. All the pictures I took, however, are from the start and the end of the ride. This is because I rolled myself up to the back of the first starting group, the 'Competitive Cyclists' group, and once I found myself riding in the flock ... well, you know how it goes.
There was a lot of chasing, bridging, passing, and getting passed going on, considering that the announcer firmly admonished us: "THIS IS NOT A RACE. IT IS A RIDE." No organized efforts, perhaps, but I suspect many of us in the front group were, in our own minds at least, having the race of our lives.
I wonder how big a podium we'd need to fit all the winners? That's my kind of race. I grew up with Shel Silverstein, and while part of me is all about crushing the competition, another part of me is all about 'Hug-O-War'-style racing, where everyone**** wins (also known as 'randonneuring,' I guess?).
As for me, I didn't win, because in my fantasy race I was playing the role of 'star climber,' because apparently climbing is what I do well (when I'm not aspirating mayflies, and even then I'm not too bad at it). I'm confident that I led my (imaginary) team to victory, nobly sacrificing my own shot a the podium, and that's good enough for me. Besides, I'm pretty sure I finished in the top 50, which is pretty good out of a field of 6,000 (non-racers). Not that I care, or bothered to notice ;)
Lastly, I learned that The Jens Voigt Method works really well. If your lungs act up, you tell them, SHUT UP LUNGS! in your best German accent. If your legs start burning, you tell them, SHUT UP LEGS! in your best German accent. If your wrists ... well, you get the point.
Because Jens Voigt is The Man, and we should all try to be a little more like Jens Voigt, even when we're (AHEM) not racing.
Notes
*Do other cities have these? If not, they're really missing out. Monday's ride was awe-inspiring!**This, by the way, is my racing plan for next road-racing season.
***I hope my fellow cyclobloggers who have actually raced in actual races where they give you an actual number, as opposed to the kind which begin with exchanges like, "Bet I can beat you up that hill!", will be able to confirm or deny this theory. Thus far, all of my races have been the less formal kind (and sometiems not all the participants knew they were racing — I should note that it's particularly humiliating to lose a match race with someone twice your age who doesn't know he's in a race at all).
****...who finishes...
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