Bikes in Chicago, Weird Triathlon Dreams

This weekend, DD and I flew to Chicago to visit our friends E&L, who are two of my favorite people.  I didn't bring my bicycle, because flying with a bicycle is an enormous pain in the neck, and also because though I am faster than I was a year ago I am still far too slow to ride my bike to Chicago for a three-and-one-half-day visit.  Or, well, maybe not, but I would've had to start out much earlier than Thursday evening.

While there, we rode the 'L' a whole bunch, got caught in a torrential rain storm, visited Oak Park (especially the Frank Lloyd Wrightish parts), ate a ton of really good food (for which I shall do penance in the saddle all week), and saw lots and lots and lots of bicycles.  Once, we even got all urban and sprinted to catch a train just as it was ready to pull out, and DD got all macho and shoved his arm in the door so we wouldn't get left behind.  ...And then we went to see Circque de Soleil.

Coincidentally, we visited Chicago at about the same time last year.  While my observations are less-than-scientific (as usual), I believe I noticed a significant uptick in the number of bicycles on the road.  In fact, I very frequently found occasion to either say or at least think, "Oh, look, bicycles!"  Fortunately, DD thinks this is cute, and not profoundly irritating.  He is, after all, aware that he is marrying a two-legged, un-hairy border collie (speaking of which, I found the newfangled Hairy Harry Potter a bit disconcerting in the final HP movie.  Somehow, I just wasn't quite expecting that).

I also noticed that the vast majority of Chicago cyclists that I observed were plainclothes-wearing cycling civilians (even on the recreational roads along the lakefront).  I saw only a handful of folks in full lycra kit, none of it with big flashy logos (well, two of them had their jerseys off and stuffed into the backs of their shorts, so perhaps theirs did -- hard to ascertain, thus).  Likewise, while I saw several car-top bike carriers, I saw only one bicycle riding around the city on top of a car.  I'm going to guess, based on these observations, that cycling in Chicago is fairly non-elitist.  That's pretty cool.

Next time we're in Chicago, I hope to be able to take a ride on the waterfront, and maybe a dip in the lake.  Perhaps because of this curious aspiration, then, I had a dream this morning of which I am very nearly afraid to speak, for fear of being accused of sympathizing with ... dare I say it? ... triathletes ;)

So, essentially, here's what happened: I signed up for a bike race, got sidetracked doing some kind of work thing, arrived late and missed the start, but decided to ride the route anyway.  I figured I could at least catch a few stragglers and hang out with them, which I did.  As I chatted with one of the stragglers in question, she (this was a mixed-gender, all-categories-together kind of race, apparently) told me that there was going to be a duathlon the next weekend if I wanted to ride this course again.  I said, "Well, I don't know, I don't really run*."  Then she explained that the 'du-' part in this case involved not running, but swimming.

I enjoy swimming considerably, so I said, "Oh, okay.  I won't be very fast, because I haven't swum much recently, but that sounds fun."

Thus, the next week, I returned once again to the same bizarre and confusing college campus, where once again all the racers went off in one big bunch.  We were fine as long as we were out on the roads, but when we returned to campus, we were subjected to its bizarre and confusing system of paths, whereupon we all sort of branched off in different directions as bizarrely-costumed race stewards tried to help us get back on track.  At one point, I wound up at the bottom of a ten-foot high retaining wall -- the race course was supposed to travel along the top of said wall, on another of the campus paths entirely.  I was discouraged, but determined to complete my race -- so I found my way back to the course, convinced that I must now be DFL, only to find that several other racers were at least as confused as I was and that there was yet another group of even-more-confused racers behind us somewhere.  A gentleman dressed up as Dracula helped us get back on track.

We then headed out on a stretch of road that looked rather like one from the 100k a couple weekends back, which led us to the second leg of the race: an open-water swim in some random lake.  I fretted about not having proper swimming clothes, but decided that it would be okay to swim in my bike clothes because they dry quickly.  And, of course, because this was a dream, my shoes conveniently vanished, only to conveniently reappear in the form of sneakers later on.

Just as my little group was ready to jump into the lake, a series of huge waves began lashing the shore.  For a few minutes, we all stood around, looking at each-other as if to say, "I'm not crazy enough to go first."  Then the lady who had told me about the race sort of shrugged and dove in, and I decided to follow.  It took several tries to get free of the big waves, after which we swam a pathetically short distance and emerged on the other side where ...

...People were running?

I said to my friend from the first race, "Oh, I didn't realize this was a tri-athlon!"

She said, "They must have put you back in the wrong group after we all got off course during the bike part.  Don't worry, though, nobody will mind."

To which I replied, "Oh, okay," as if that made any sense at all.

And then we ran straight out of the water, shoes having magically appeared on our feet.  I found myself regretting my lack of cross-training (a fact that plagued me all weekend in real life -- I need to spend more time walking and stretching to balance the time on the bike; walking makes me sore surprisingly fast) and running very slowly, but still not being dead last (in part because many of the remaining swimmers were still slogging through the big waves).

Shortly thereafter, I realized none of this made any sense at all, and woke up.

Of late, my dreams have grown stranger and stranger, but I'm also feeling more creative, so maybe that's a good thing.

That said, I have absolutely no idea what this whole triathlon dream thing is all about.





Notes
*In fact, I greatly enjoy running -- off road, in the woods and so forth -- and used to do quite a bit of it.  However, I don't enjoy running in the city, and as such don't generally run unless I am in Chicago and trying to catch the train.  That said, I have nonetheless agreed to take part in a running event coming up in August :)

Major Changes

Okay, so I'm not actually making any major changes to this blog or anything. Rather, I've decided to formally change my major.

When I went back to school, having learned that as much as I love computers, the corporate IT world is SOOOO not for me, I thought I would eventually finish up as a farm vet. However, my schedule and that of the courses requisite to start down that road did not seem to agree (especially since I was registering hella late and almost all the sections of everything I could get to were already crammed beyond capacity) -- so, instead, I signed up for Intro to Psych.

Over the course of this semester, I have learned that I find psychology — especially developmental, life-span, and neuropsychology — absolutely fascinating. Even more fascinating that the insides of things like sheep and cows, which, if you knew me in person, you would realize fascinate me even more than bicycles (crazy, I know!).

I actually feel more excited about this change than just about anything I've encountered recently except DD, who is still basically the greatest thing on earth, as far as I'm concerned (and who thinks I am adorable when I go on Top Secret Missions that take all day instead of doing something responsible, like going home and finishing the laundry, during my free time between Stocking for Sauron and going to class). Since I am essentially a disgustingly happy and optimistic individual, known for unnecessary perkiness and generalized happy-go-lucky-ism, being this excited about something means I'm, like, really, really excited.

Like, this kind of excited:

OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG!!!11!!!111!!!oneone!!omgwtfbbq1

...Which is probably saying something, even for me.

(Please note that I only rarely actually pee on the carpet when excited. I am well house-trained. I also know basic commands like 'sit,' 'stay,' and 'Baby, have you seen the TiVo remote?')

In other news, a company called Mission Workshop is making a SPD-compatible sneaker that actually looks like ... um, well, a sneaker, basically. If I win the lottery, I might but a pair, because they actually look like they might be a pretty cool product. If I can sucker someone into buying me a pair (Mom? If you're reading this, my birthday is coming up!), I will review those. I guess I should first finish and post my other product review, "Bike Wash: Yes, It's Actually Worth It."

Lastly, Quicksilver is in the shop still, but it turns out his bottom bracket is fine — it's his pedals that are shot, which I guess is what happens when you ride a bajillion miles on plastic platforms. Eventually, they die. Billy will be swapping them out for some SPD pedals, so I will be wearing my SPD shoes around a lot in the future.

Billy also observed that I have corrosive sweat, which was actually responsible for my brake-sticking issues. QS now brakes like a normal bike; it is no longer necessary to flip the funky little levers on the calipers to get the brakes to back off. In short, this means I will soon be able to ride QS like a normal bike. Billy replaced my brake cables for me; next time I re-wrap the bars, I'm going to replace the cables and housings. Maybe I'll even buy some of 'em dere fanshy cables what with the spaishul coatins' and all.

Okay.

Well

Off to take my psychology exam (which is not the same as having my head examined).

Wish me luck.

Things I've Learned in 2010: A Third-Term Report Card

The nearly-beginning of November seems like a good time to reflect on things learned in the past almost-year: not yet time for a final assessment, but a good time for a progress report. Think of this as a kind of third-quarter report card, like the one your parents might have used to determine whether you were going to summer camp or summer school when you were a kid ;)

Cycling-wise, it's been a pretty good year for me. I bought my first serious (albeit old, though we prefer to say 'classic') road bike; I rode my first metric century, even though it was supposed to be Imperial; I finished my first 'cross race (slowly, but dangit, I finished).

This isn't to say that 2010 hasn't had its difficult moments -- I blew up my knee 'purty good' after making a truly bone-headed cornering error on my faithful old hybrid; I bonked hard around mile 70 of my first imperial (as in miles-vs-kilometers) century back in July -- but the great moments have overwhelmingly outnumbered the sticky ones.

I've also learned a lot, and for that I owe thanks to a bunch of great local bike-geeks, roadbikereview's forums, bikeforums.net, the immortal Saint Sheldon's venerable website, and an ever-growing list of bike bloggers (Connecticut-based racer Sprinter della Casa stands near the top of the the list).

Meanwhile, a good number of other bikey people have kept my obsessive nature from running away with me and helped forestall my tendency to obsess about gear ... well, at least, somewhat (what do you mean, I can survive a few more months without a proper 'cross bike? ...by then, 'cross season will be over!).

I'm recording my thoughts on what I've learned here primarily for my own amusement. Someday in the future, I plan to look back on this post and chuckle at my seemingly-impossible naiveté.

However, if you stumble across this post and it makes you laugh and reminds you of a time when you barely knew how little you knew, or helps you feel like there's some hope that someday you, too, will disentangle the great mystery of freewheel-vs-cassette-vs-freehub, or whatever else, then this post will have done double (maybe triple) duty. That's icing on the cake.

So, without further ado, here are a good number of things I've learned in 2010.

The Technical Bits

The little stick in the middle of the presta valve stem is supposed to be loose when you unscrew the little metal thingy that keeps the valve closed. This does not mean the stem is broken*.

There is no such thing as a 21-speed bike, or a 27-speed bike, or even a 10-speed bike -- rather, there exists a staggering array of bike frames, all of which are compatible with at least one combination of cog- and cranksets. However, not all parts are compatible with all frames, and almost no parts are compatible with some frames. The existence of track dropouts does, however, mean that the animal known as a 'singlespeed bike' does, in fact, exist.

Given creativity, a set of tools, and a sufficient budget for parts, it is possible to customize almost any bike with almost any array of gears, as long as the frame doesn't have track dropouts. Some racers swap out their cogs according to the demands of the race at hand. Some of them even carry multiple sets with them to races.

Cassettes are not freewheels. Freewheels are not freehubs. Freehubs are not hub gears. None of them are derailleurs, no matter how you spell derailer.

Some things are best left to the professionals, and if you leave them to the pros, it doesn't mean you're a totally worthless home wrench. That being said, if you can't change a flat, you might want to learn before you head out on a century.

Yes, good quality components do make a world of difference. No, you don't have to buy them new.

Spinning is winning. Mashing is ... bad for your knees.

The Reflections-About-Myself Bits

If pressed, most of us in the cycling world will admit we have specialties. I am okay at sprinting (a good skill to have if you ride in traffic a lot) and pretty good at just plain old rolling, but God Almighty made me a climber. I'm grateful for that.

That being said, there are still plenty of hills out there that can whup me good, so I'll never forget Who's in charge, here. Likewise, there are plenty of climbers better than I am, so my ego won't get too overblown.

Eating when it's 100 degrees out with 89% humidity when you've been pulling faster than you should have been into the wind for way longer than really was necessary is a skill. More precisely, it happens to be a skill I don't have. Likewise 'pacing myself.'

Crashing gracefully, on the other hand, is part skill and part talent. I am grateful that I seem to have both. Had I not, I would probably be dead by now.

Yes, it really does help to take a day off once a week.

Goals also help.

I am a hopeless bike junkie. I have no desire to admit there's a problem and change.

The Philosophical Bits

It's better to own a crappy bike that you actually like riding than a high-dollar beauty you can't stand. Moreover, it's okay to ride what you have. I've always believed both these things, but I've lost sight of them and relearned them from time to time, so onto the list they go.

A high-quality bike will, in fact, help you ride faster in less time if you're using it to replace a not-so-great bike -- but it doesn't have to be a new, state-of-the-art carbon soufflé miracle with unobtanium stays or something. A good-quality steel-framed racing machine from the early 1990s will do the trick, as long as the components are solid, provided you can find one. Moreover, people will be significantly more impressed and/or pissed when you leave them in the dust on just such a steed.

That being said, it is still cheaper and more effective to trim some weight from the rider than it is to trim some weight from the bike. Likewise, bear in mind that when you're used to riding a sweet, light beauty, you will suffer the next time you find yourself straddling a rented beach cruiser.

If your bike could still outrace you if it had a better rider (well, and I guess if you had two of your bike), it's not time for an upgrade yet (there are certainly folks who disagree with this philosophy; that's okay, too). In the immortal words attributed (perhaps apocryphally) to Eddy 'The Cannibal' Merckx, 'Don't buy upgrades, ride up grades.'

In a 'cross race, even if you're Dead Effing Last, remember that there were probably eight guys who dropped out in your category, and next year, you probably won't come in DFL. In a road race, from what I hear, there were probably twenty who DNFed, but you still might come in DFL next year anyway, so you should at least try to inject some heroics, like pulling the guy who eventually wins up some big hill or something.

That being said, discretion is the better part of valor: 'When all else fails, run away / and live to fight another day.' It is okay to quit if you aren't feelin' the mojo, unless you have sponsors, and then it's okay to quit under whatever condition your sponsors say it's okay to quit. I don't have sponsors, so I can't comment further on that. I do have my own personal soigneur/team driver/cheering section/awesome boyfriend, but since he's a physical therapist, he's very much in the 'don't kill yourself if you don't have to' camp.

Finishing a century is an awesome achievement, but so is having the brass 'nads to start one, even if you don't finish.

Not every ride is a race. That being said, there is no such thing as a 'non-competitive ride.'

Anyone who says otherwise is probably lying.


notes
*Ironically, I actually did break a valve stem core this morning. Um, oops. It was time to pop Quicksilver's rear wheel off and clean the cogs really thoroughly, anyway. Yeah, that's it. That's the ticket...


In other news:

Adorable Kitty Pictures. Sort of.

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.

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

1. Move to the edge of the group.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. 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

1. Wait for the group to loosen up.
2. See above.

How to Spit in a Tight Group — Alternate Method

1. Pray.
2. Attempt 'hole shot' manoeuvre.
3. 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...

Ride Report: Republic Plaza to Indiana University Southeast

A while ago, I learned that saying 'never' is not an option for me.

Any time I say, 'I'll never x,' I condemn myself immediately to doing the very thing I've just said I'll never do. For example, not that long ago, as I'm sure I've mentioned, I was one of those people who insist that they will never, ever wear Lycra (at least, not without something on top of it).

Now, I pretty much live in my lycra cycling shorts, and I'm okay with that. Whether or not everyone else is — well, that's another story, but nobody's complained yet. I get to occasional perplexed look, and once got a very strange smile in the grocery store (hmmm...), but for the most part, nobody bats an eye (probably because Louisville is full of roadies). Indeed, one of the very best things about being a cyclist is the fact that not only can you go out for lunch more or less in your underwear (or pajamas, if that analogy is more comfortable for you), but once you arrive at the restaurant in question, you can eat as much as you want. Unless it's so hot you can't eat, but that's another problem entirely.

So when I say, 'I never ride my bike on the sidwalk,' what I mean, more accurately speaking, is that I never ride my bike on the sidewalk, except when I do.

Take Wednesday night's trek out to school, for instance.

Now, Louisville has, historically, not been known for its gridlock — but as our downtown business district grows denser, it draws more cars — and more cars mean it's more likely that somebody's going to misjudge the available space across the intersection, or just decide to be a self-important schmuck.

Imagine, if you will, three or for such unfortunate souls and/or self-important schmucks clogging up the core of a small city with small 19th-century blocks.

Now imagine me, already 15 minutes behind schedule, confidently riding out into the fray*.

As I roll merrily down Market Street, I soon realize that traffic is moving at a snail's pace — and I'm not talking about a carbon-fiber-shelled Road Snail with STI (that's Slime Trail Integration, for those of you not in the know), either. The snail I'm picturing is more like one of those swoopy, brightly-colored single-speed ones you see cruising down the boardwalk in Florida.** Also, the snail I'm picturing is often not moving at all, and when he is moving, he's often busy trying to make his shell occupy the same space as somebody else's shell while talking on his shell phone (forgive me), causing the other snails to honk at him as they drop their shell phones in their coffee.

Perhaps I've now hyper-extended my metaphor? I may need to see someone about that.

Anyway.

After about 10 minutes sitting within 3.5 blocks of my office, I realize there is absolutely no way I am ever going to get to school at this rate — so I zip down the turn lane on between Fourth and Third Streets (don't worry, I do know which way the counting numbers go — it's west, of course, and I was headed east) and hop on the super-wide sidewalk underneath the Convention Center (which straddles Third Street).

A quick right at Jefferson — well, technically, a really slow right, because riding on the sidewalk makes me paranoid — takes me to Second Street, where I cross pedestrian-stylie, then find a good spot to merge back into the traffic headed for the Clark Memorial Bridge into Indiana.

There, I also find that road construction is exacerbating the traffic problem — so the drivers aren't entirely to blame.

It takes maybe another ten minutes to make it to the bridge, sitting through a couple of cycles at each of the two intervening lights — and then I'm upon it, the Bridge of Doom widely feared and reviled by Kentuckiana cyclists of all calibres and classes.

On the bridge, however, I find that the drivers play nicely. I find myself wondering if it's the sharrows, with their riderless phantom bikes, or if it's just a good day. Moreover, about a third of the way across, I come upon a police officer sitting in the right-hand lane. A nice lady in a truck lets me in so I can go around him, and then I have the whole right-hand lane entirely to myself for the rest of the crossing — woooohooooooooooo! The sweeping descent into Injianer sure is fun when you have a whole lane to yourself.

Once across the river, of course, my troubles begin. I realize that I have read my directions as far as "Turn right on Court Ave." Since I know where that is, there is little point in having read them that far. I also realize I can't remember the name of the street where I'm supposed to turn. Is it Spring Street? Kentucky? 10th Street? Wait, I'm on 10th Street.

So I spot Kentucky Ave, panic, and turn left.

I then proceed to make a giant, ridiculous loop that brings me back almost the the point where I turned left, only to pause and realize that I made said left turn approximately one half block before reaching the street I should be on. D'oh!

So, there it is, Spring Street. This time, I have the sense to read more than one turn ahead: in fact, I read two whole turns ahead — but I totally misread the distances.

After tooling up Spring Street past the hospital, I come to Eastern Avenue. This, I think to myself, Is a piece of cake! I head onto Eastern, confident that I can find my way to Triangle, even though I have never so much as heard of Triangle Drive before today. How hard can it be, right? It's just a right-hand turn off of Eastern. No biggie.

Riiiight.

So I descend a steepish little hill through a double railway underpass (in the mini-tunnel, I realize that my taillight is off -- D'oh again!), climb a steepish little hill back up to the Interstate-64, wait patiently for the green light, stop at the red light halfway across the overpass, wait politely for the green light ... and then I sail back down into a mostly-commercial area that I know from previous journeys.

This little stretch should be fun — but it's riddled with terrible pavement, randomly narrowing-and-widening road surface, giant and terrifying potholes, and really poor lane markings. Oh, and the double stoplight at the top of the second climb isn't so hot, either. Instead of a fun stretch, it's stressful and irritating.

By now, my water is roughly the temperature of the earth's molten core, and I've been going for a while. I realize I'm hungry and that, between my late start, traffic, and my directional SNAFU, I might not make it before the cafeteria closes (I'm not sure when quittin' time is for them, but they were already trying to close the last time I was there, right around 6:00). I pull off and lock up outside a little convenience store, which provides me with water, chocolate milk (recovery drink of champions!), and whatever snack I can find that I think won't be wholly incompatible with a half-numb mouth leftover from the afternoon's dental work.

As I chug my chocolate milk, I pause to check my my cue sheet: surely Triangle Drive can't be too far from here!

And then, alarmingly, I realize that my cue sheet appears to be telling me that Triangle Drive is only 0.2 miles from where I turned on to Eastern. Rats!

...So I down the milk, a cold Smartwater, and a couple sips of regular water and head back up the road: no sign of triangle. Up the little climb to the overpass. Wait for both red lights. Down the little climb. Up the other side (my tail light is now on, so I feel much better). Still no sign of Triangle. Then at last, at the top of the road, in the distance I see...

...

...The spot where I turned onto Eastern from Spring. What the heck?

Determined not to ride that same little stretch yet again, I decide I'll try a side street: but it turns out that the side streets are arranged in a square that feeds onto a road that connects to Spring at one end and dies at the other. This, I will later surmise, is because of the rail line that lies between me and the rest of Indiana — but at the time, it just seems kind of arbitrary.

Thoroughly irritated, I decide to pull over and re-read the directions (the fact that I read them at all is a minor miracle, by the way, and can be attributed solely to my need to get to class by 7:30 — normally, I just rely on my sense of direction, which is generally excellent, and explore 'til I find a connecting road). Then, an epiphany: that doesn't mean I go 0.2 miles to Triangle Drive — it means I go 0.2 miles ON Triangle Drive***.

Bizarrely, some part of my brain decides at this point that if only we were using the metric system, this whole episode could have been avoided. Some other part of my brain realizes this is terribly irrational. However, I am now too relieved at the resolution of the Great Triangle Drive Mystery to waste time being annoyed about riding that same little segment of road again.

You know the drill: down the hill. Under the rail bridges. Up the hill. Wait for the light. Ride fifty feet. Wait for the light. Over the highway. Down the hill.

This time I proceed straight ahead, hoping against hope that the mystical Triangle Drive will appear — and, eventually, it does.

And I ride 0.2 miles on Triangle Drive, because that is the whole length of Triangle Drive. Then it's on to Blackiston Mill, which starts out commercial, then suddenly becomes Rainbow Drive and decidedly residential in character.

Rainbow drive offers up the unexpected reward of a beautiful waterfall crossing at Silver Creek. Next time, I'll stop and get a picture — that is, after all, why I paid 80 whole dollars for a snazzy new phone with a 2 megapixel camera, after all****.

The rest of the ride is pretty: shaded Rainbow winds through quiet, rolling hills. Soon, I turn onto Klerner, and then I'm pretty much there. A quick shot across Grant Line, and I'm on University Drive, headed towards the Life Sciences building.

I arrive at school at 6:30, with an hour to spare — good time, all things (traffic, snack break, riding the same freaking stretch back and forth a couple of times) considered.

Next time I ride this route, I plan to carry less crap (I forgot to take all the unnecessary stuff out of my backpack), and I won't need a cue sheet. I'll also find a different route to the Second Street Bridge — probably down 8th to the MUP, then back up the little road that runs parallel to the bridge. That will save me a lot of headaches, though it will also mean I start my climb onto the bridge at roughly 0 MPH.

I realized a GPS device would come in handy on this kind of ride — it woudn't misread the distances, and would tell me when to turn, so I wouldn't worry that I'd missed something. Then again, I usually pre-ride routes in areas I don't know very well, if I'm planning to use them as transit. I just didn't get around to it this time. But I still think a GPS device might be fun (and make tracking my rides waaaaay easier).

Tonight I plan on a longish road ride followed by some off-road fun. I think I'm going to go play in Iroquois Park, and I will try to remember that I now have an awesome phone that lets me take pictures. I'm going to leave my backpack at work and retrieve it on the way back.

On Monday, both work and school are closed for Labor Day, and there's a gigantic group ride called 'The Mayor's Healthy Hometown Subway Fresh Fit Hike and Bike.' I'm going to take part. I think it's cool that Subway sponsors our giant biannual everybody-and-their-Uncle-Fred ride, but there is a part of me that believes a ride name that overwrought could only happen in the same state that plays host to the Rough River Lake Dam State Resort Park, which sounds more like a second-grade spelling test than an actual state park.

Notes

*I didn't get a round of applause last night, but I did on Monday, which was really weird! I was sprinting to catch a bus, and a crowd waiting to cross the street at the corner of Sixth and Jefferson randomly started cheering. For the record, I do think I know the guy who started them off, though -- maybe that explains it? Anyway, it's possible they were just being ironic, but still, it was kind of cool.)

**Touring snails are highly variable in speed, and a topic for another time.

***Next time I need a cue sheet, I'm going to make a large-print cue sheet with pictures. Maybe that will work better...

****Well, okay. That and the fact that I lost my old phone.

August Vacation Report

You might (or might not) be surprised to hear that on my vacation I rode exactly 0 miles on a bicycle — exactly. Unless you count the 10-ish miles that I rode after I left work last Monday as 'miles ridden on vacation.'

In fact, I did not actually even rent a bike. It turns out that there was way too much back-and-forthing planned for that (little did I know). We went to the Everglades. We went to Flamingo, at the very southernmost tip of mainland Florida (we wanted to hit the keys, but didn't get around to it, because driving to Flamingo took like three times as long as it was supposed to), on the other side of the Everglades. We drove allllll the way around Lake Okeechobee. We went to Miami and hung out there. And I spent a wonderful, delightful, blissful day on the beach (by which I mean 'swimming in the Atlantic for hours on end while my poor roomie, who was on medical restriction, looked on longingly').

Amazingly, I did survive an ENTIRE WEEK without sitting on the saddle of a bicycle. To top it off, I didn't even ride in this morning — I absolutely love flying, but it always makes me feel crappy. Especially when my flight is stuck in Atlanta for a bazillion hours because they're apparently driving, rather than flying, the plane in from Tennessee. Especially, especially when there are four other flights going to Louisville from Atlanta in the same time period, ALL OF WHICH ARE DEPARTING ON TIME! ._.

However, since that was the worst portion of my vacation, I really can't complain. And, in fact, the airport in Atlanta is a good one to be stuck in, if you must be stuck in an airport. It has comfy waiting areas and real restaurants (with normal-life prices). We did TGI Friday's. I recommend their Carribean chicken salad, even if you're not in Florida. Historically, I have not been a big fan of TGIF outside of their 'endless lunch' (it's hard to screw up soup, salad, and breadsticks, and their chili is quite tasty), so enjoying an actual meal there was really surprising.

The bestest-best part of my vacation, of course, was swimming in the ocean. I come from a sea-faring, salt-water-loving, cottage-on-the-Sound-having family, so an abiding love of marine swimming is bred in my bones. Swimming in the Atlantic feels like going home ... though, in this case, home was bizarrely warm and full of many small fish who wanted to eat my ankles. Fortunately, as a cyclist, I have very strong ankles, so the fish were unsuccessful.

The second-best part was seeing a bazillion palm trees, and still never losing the urge to say, "OMG A PALM TREE!"

The third-best part was ... um, well, everything else. I really enjoyed the unique plant and animal life — particularly all the unusual birds (I'm sure Floridians don't find them unusual). I saw:

• About a zillion palm trees of various types.
• 12ish anhingas.
• 20ish ibises (not the bicycle kind)
• One free-ranging alligator (in the Everglades)
• More snowy egrets than I could count
• One great blue heron (those guys are everywhere!)
• Some storks
• Some cranes
• Some other 'mystery wading birds'
• A bunch of Roseate Spoonbills!!!!
• Around 15 to 20 ospreys (my favorite raptors!), two of which were carrying fish
• A lot of mystery fish, including the two being carried off by ospreys
• Dozens of anoles (yeay!)
• More mangroves than you can shake a stick at
• Tons of black vultures
• Lots of other things I'm sure I'm forgetting

I also saw exactly three road bikes, two of which were ridden by folks in lycra. Most of the bikes I saw were mountain bikes and hybrids, salmoning along on the sidewalk. I also encountered one mountain bike salmoning along in the bike lane, which was a little disconcerting.

I noticed that South Florida has tons of bike lanes, but they get little use. This is probably because the otherwise-friendly people of South Florida drive like maniacs, and the bike lanes in question are pretty narrow. To complicate matters, a good many in-town roads carry 45 MPH speed limits — which might be enough to scare any newish cyclist off the roads by itself, but aggressive driving tactics are also the norm.

Every single time I took the car out (which was every time the car went out, because my traveling companion also was not allowed to drive during the span of the trip for medical reasons), someone with a desperate need to get to Publix or Flanigan's would try driving up my tailpipe, become exceedingly perturbed by my 'slowness' (at the speed limit of 45 MPH, or just over), and make a big show of blowing by me (generally speaking, I would sidle up behind them at the next red light). Roughly 50% of the time, they passed on the right. It didn't really bother me, because I grew up in Connecticut, which sits geographically between New Jersey and Boston, and thus sees more than its share of completely insane drivers — but I couldn't help but think it would take some real brass tacks for a bike newbie to get out there.

All told, I drove 724 miles, which I'm pretty sure is more than the sum total of all the driving I've done in the rest of my life. Okay, so that's not quite true, but I will say it's probably close to as much as I've ever driven in any one year. Some of those miles resulted from my unfailing conviction that you can always get from point A to point B easily if you have a good sense of direction. This is not so true when the roads tend to suddenly end in canals, forcing you to double back and find another route.

Most of them, however, came of our trip to Flamingo and our epic Drive Around Lake Okeechobee, which started out as a Drive To Lake Okeechobee To Visit The Scenic Trail, which was washed out (perhaps literally) when the heavens opened up, and then continued opening up, and then opened up some more. While obsessing about palm trees, I totally missed a turn-off, and we decided that doubling back was the coward's way out, and continued on around the lake. It was actually a really nice drive, and I intend to go back in the not-too-distant future with my road bike and ride the scenic trail and (where said trail is unavailable) the roads around the lake. And not be killed by aggressive drivers.


Edit: It may be worth noting that I did not see a single fixed-gear bike in Florida.

I did, however, see a fellow in the airport sporting a t-shirt with a picture of a fixie.

He, however, was on his way home to Winnipeg.

Winnipeg...ians — care to fill me in on the status of the fixed-gear bicycle in your fair city-in-the-North?