Montpins

After a rained out club ride on Sunday and a spirited but short 47 mile ride with Geoff on Monday (the last 7 miles of which was a race-like cat and mouse at about 24mph over 'heavy' roads), I took a nice ride on the loop to Montesquieu and over to Argeles yesterday. Today I looked at my odometer for the week and it read a miserable6 65 miles, and it was already Wednesday!

The temps were cool but the sky promised some sun as soon as it got about its business of burning the morning mist off the Alberes. I'm feeling good right now, very good and I got to our meeting spot in Le Boulou a bit faster than usual. I made a mental note to really focus on riding within myself; it's sometimes too easy to feel good and go hot and then melt down before the real riding begins. That's where Geoff comes in.

'No heroics on this climb,' as we're riding out of St. Jean Pla de Corts and up our 'warm-up' climb to Llauro. 'Just nice and steady.' This is where I'm really learning from this veteran road racer. I've read a boatload of books, watched numerous videos and have stacks of Velonews, Cycling, etc piled around the house, but to get a gentle nudge this way or that from this 'old fart on a bike' (Geoff's words) is priceless and sinks in with the muscle memory of a long slow burn up towards the Col de Llauro. He is Socrates on a bike, not pretty to look at, a gadfly in your eye when it's useful, wandering the streets on his bicycle offering nuggets of wisdom.

'Don't give an inch.'

'What do you do when someone in the break says ease up? Attack!'

And after today's epic ride with a few pros, 'Well this is better than sitting on your arse watching the tele.'

This week we meet Steve Lampier, leaving next week for ten days with his team in Brittain and then for the balance of the season in Belgium. He hopes to get some results and get in with an upper division team as a stagiare; his coach Mark McKay, three times top professional rider in the UK (check out http://www.markmckaytraining.com/); Caroline, a professional rider with an Italian team getting ready to head off to El Salvador for a stage race in a couple of weeks; and of course Geoff, our guide, wit and gadfly to motivate us along.

We head north from our meeting place in Thuir, cross the Tet river and industrial wasteland of Baho and wind our way around the outskirts of Rivesaltes. The day is still a bit cloudy and cool, gloves are still on as are the leggings and the pace is a bit hotter than past Wednesdays, just hovering around 20. With the larger group we get to move around, meeting people, exchanging stories, and letting the miles roll under the tires. I ask Mark where we're headed and he demurs, 'Geoff knows.'

We meet a couple of riders from Le Boulou's racing club heading the other way, 'Hey Boulou!' Geoff shouts. Past Rivesaltes, we cross the Agly river. and climb a bit in the headlands of the Serra d'el Clot. A tiny road turns off and now we're climbing. Caroline is a wonderful climber, elfin, maybe 90 pounds (Mark has threatened to turn her loose on Geoff earlier when he needled her a bit) and soon there is a small gap, maybe 50 yards between Geoff and I and the others. They ease up at the top and we tag back on and we start our descent. The road is nearly straight and Steve comes by me on the left. I took it easy on the climb and have something left and pedal a bit, passing him at 41.9 mph, the terminal velocity of me pedaling a 50x12 gear. But I'm bigger by about 35 pounds than Steve and fly by. He comes up along side at the bottom and glances at my gearing.

'Just a compact with a 12,' I say. He smiles. I know he was out in the mountains yesterday for a 160k spin, so I'm not thinking too many big thoughts about myself, but it does feel good to hold my own once in a while. We turn south again, crossing the Agly and heading through Baixas. As we start a new climb out of town, it occurs to me that I'm a bit tired. Where will we stop for a cafe creme?

Calce. A small village perched on the edge of the range leading to the peak at La Forca Real. There is one cafe, but it looks closed. Crap! Mark tries another door and it opens. Right, we park our bikes and barge in. The owners are gracious, noticing the Anglais argot bandied around between the riders, they use rough English with us, smiling. In the traditional communities, and especially among older people, les coureurs de cyclisme is still a respected person. Either that, or the snot dripping from Geoff's nose and the wild, decafeinated look in our eyes, made them super friendly.

Another climb waited for us as we left Calce. A gentle 6 or 7 percent, it still hurt my stiff legs, but around a couple of bends and we were greeted with an a panorama of mountain and desert vistas reaching miles to the north. The road drops to the Col de la Dona and we begin the wonderfully long descent to Corneila la Riviera. The road is crappy, but the desert scenes around us are magnificent.

Not far along, Steve asks me how I'm feeling. I've got about 80 miles in along with several thousand feet of climbing, but I'm still feeling good. 'Great.' We take a sharp left onto what Mark calls Paris-Roubaix. Steve surges ahead with Mark and me following. The road reminds me of home; broken pavement, potholes and gravel. I know from experience that going faster over broken pavement actually smooths out the ride and step up the speed and nearly catch Steve before the end.

I'm feeling tired but good; the body hum that comes after a long workout provides a warm glowing feeling, but I know that there isn't much left in the tank. However when we reach a downhill past Thuir and Steve once again shoots by me, I say goodbye to the last of my glycogen and sprint after him, overtaking him on the short climb until he comes by again. It feels good to work hard on the bike, or play hard. We stop at a fountain at Terrats, fill our bottles and bid our friends adieu. They're off to meet two more riders arriving from the UK and will spend a couple more hours on the bike with them.

Geoff and I head towards the Alberes and St Genis. A few miles down the road, it's apparent to me that I'm empty, completely empty, and I take a big breath to clear my vision and move to Geoff's rear wheel. I'm sure he knows what's up and I play on the edge of the bonk for the next 8 miles. We're moving along at 21mph or so but soon I'm recovering a bit. I'm running on fat and every effort up a hill immediately puts me back in the red zone. I survive, though, and am thankful that Geoff doesn't sprint into the village. On our spin to my turn-off, we both understand we've had a wonderful ride, the kind of ride that changes something deep inside and we're happy in a the profound way that only a hard workout on a bike can provide.

5:26, 94.5, 3720ft