The first twenty years

Humans are funny, really.  We take for granted the most important things in our lives, the love we share with others.  Every once in a while we use arbitrary tools like holidays and anniversaries to wake ourselves up for a moment and realize for that fleeting moment what we have.

Today we rode our bikes under sunny Colorado skies in a kind of déjà vu of our lives nearly twenty years ago.  The cold wind kept snapping my attention back to the woman spinning next to me and I don’t know if I’ve felt so close to her as now.  We struggle in our lives, a climb up a twelve percent grade sometimes, but in the deepest part of ourselves we know that there will more moments of free motion, gliding with the wind at our backs.

And I smile in anticipation.

 

Happy anniversary Janet!

 

The swiss chard is dead

Had to happen really, there was no way that we’d be able to eat swiss chard year round at 6500ft in Colorado, but I was secretly hoping.  After Saturday’s excellent ride, the temps dropped and the snow began to fall on Sunday.  It’s still falling.

We are assured by neighbors and friends that this is not normal.  Yesterday I drove Karl over to his buddy’s house a mile away and learned something very important: these ultra-conservative types that run the government south of Denver walk their talk. They sincerely believe that God will take care of snow removal.  Or perhaps they believe in that adage that “God helps those drive who shovel the roads themselves.”  Regardless, this place makes Iowa snow removal look awfully good.

Today is Tuesday and I was hoping to get out with a riding buddy on Wednesday or Thursday for a long ride.  Unless a miracle happens (see above, God, if you read my blog), I’m staring at a lot of hours on the rollers this week.  This is where rollers move from being an occasional novelty, “Hey look, honey, I can ride with no hands.” to which twelve hour Tour dvd am I going to watch again.  I’ll also need to think about which days are going to be my quality days with significant workout goals beyond time spinning in aerobic zones.  That’s easy when there are sprints, hill climbs and the surging egos of our Saturday chain gang, but on rollers these things must be simulated.  Here’s what the week looks like:

Sunday: easy one hour or so spin to recover from Sat’s 3 and a half hour training ride.

Monday: off, time to do some work on that online class!

Tuesday: Two hours on the rollers, with 2x20min reps in zone 3-4, okay, zone 4.  Time to develop power and push the LT a bit.  Maybe the 1998 Tour de France…

Wed: Easy one hour spin to loosen up the legs, time to reinflate that excercise ball and do some core work?

Thurs: See Tuesday.  Should be on Stage 5 or 6 now, or maybe already into the mountains if they do those short summaries of the stages.

Fri: An hour and a half on the rollers for Spin-Ups!  Such a happy sounding workout, just do ten reps of 30 sec maximum cadence spinning in a low gear.  No bouncing in the saddle!

Sat: Is the snow melted yet?  God are you reading?  If the roads aren’t clear by now, it’s 3 hours of steady endurance pace on the rollers. 

Sun:  Note to self: Shoot yourself before you do this again.

Despite the ice

Minnehaha Road twists down the side of Pilot Knob to Manitou Avenue at a twelve percent clip.  Normally there’s a pothole just past the hairpin and some loose sand strewn above the road and in the middle of it, the rain leaving part of the hillside in the road.  Today there is  a sheet of ice and snow.  It’s only .27 miles according to the computer, but I have a foot out and search for the gravel hiding under the snow at the edge of the road for a bit of purchase.

The thermometer reads 27 when I push off for the Saturday morning ride.  I’m bundled in my winter riding clothes, some of which haven’t been worn since March.  When was the last time I used the Lobster gloves?  Can’t remember.  Why am I headed out?  Well two hours on the rollers yesterday is a motivator.  The spectre of three more hours churning away on those instruments of torture were a great motivator.  With the cold and snow forecasted for Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, I’ll be back on them soon enough.

I make it to the main avenue without sliding out and take over the center of the lane, the only clear spot where the concrete comes through the snow.  Yesterday warmed up in the afternoon, right before the sun slid behind the peaks at 3pm and just long enough to melt some snow, which then quickly turned to ice.  Today is supposed to warm again, all the way up to 40 and the process will be repeated.  The lanes are increasingly clear as I descend with Fountain Creek towards the city.  By the time I pass under the Welcome to Manitou Sign, I’m home free and thinking more of exposed face then sheets of ice.

I’m early to the coffee shop and get to wait ten minutes for the hardiest souls of the training group to show up.  And they do, about fifteen of them.  Bundled against the weather, sharing stories about the ice and snow and secretly feeling good about having the gumption to get out and ride today, this day being an oasis of warmth on the weather forecast, surrounded by temperatures in the teens and foreboding forecasts of snow and weather advisories.

Just read somewhere that the air resistance at 40 degrees is 6 percent higher than at 90.  Seems like picking nits, but I hold onto this as an explanation of why I feel slow and sluggish this time of the year.  Thick air and thick clothes.  We’re all in the same boat as we head east on Platte.  It’s been exactly five months since my first ride with the group, a hot day in early July where the air was thin, very thin and I spent a great deal of the ride hiding the fact that I couldn’t breathe.  Today I pull the group most of the way for the warmup.  Riders line up behind me, probably more of an effect of my generous draft then my mind-boggling speed.  It’s OK; I’m warm now, the blood is flowing and I hit the sweet spot with my clothing: warm enough to keep out the draft, but still able to breathe enough to not leave me soaking wet in a plastic bag. 

We turn south and hit the hill.  I’m at the front and ride a smart tempo into the hill.  I’m undergeared for this part of the ride, a 53x14 is my tallest gear, and I’m spinning at about 110 rpm as a rider sprints past and gaps the front of our group.  Not sure why he’s doing this and that is the central idea in cycling, isn’t it?  Energy should only be spent for a reason.  It’s winter, we’re all bundled up, and there is no way in hell this guy is staying off the front by himself until the first sprint point in ten miles.  Besides what’s the point?  There’s no honor in winning a sprint in December.  Eric jumps out to join him.

I pull them back.  It takes about a mile and I see that I can spin my top gear and hold 32mph pretty comfortably.  The small gear keeps me honest and spinning, building base.  Later, I’m explaining to Eric, who’s been riding since July and is new to the sport, why I put the easy gears on.  It’s not complicated: it’s base-building time and the small gears will prevent me from succumbing to the temptation of mashing the big gears.  Time for that later on. 

As we reel the escapee back in, I see he’s a new guy, big like me, but young.  He’s angry with Eric for not working with him and even threatens to fight him.  I tell Eric maybe that he was speaking metaphorically, but the big guy is new to the culture of the ride.  He has no idea what he’ll feel like 45 miles from now as we hold a steady tempo back into the city.  The other guys do and they’re saving they’re matches so they can finish well. 

The sprint up Link Hill comes and goes.  The big guy aggressively takes it from Eric and the rest of us enjoy their draft and spin up the hill.  We’re into a slight wind right now, but any wind feels significant when it’s freezing outside.  Miles later, we realize the hill has erased half of our group.  I move to the back and it only five riders come by.  Where did they go?  The tiny, bossy woman frantically waving folks through to make a rotating paceline, the owner of a local bicycle business, the fellow wearing the USA team kit.  Gone and we miss them, or at least their draft.

I’m enjoying the ride and soon the flat sprint comes and I spin away in our group.  Eric and the big guy duke it out and I don’t see who wins.  That’s Ok, we’ve got thirty miles to go back home and I feel lucky and alive and good.

A brick in time

“A brick is a brick,, it is 20kms of training,, so 100kms you get 5 bricks,

Each brick is placed on the ground,(flat line) and when you have 10 bricks,

You start again on the bricks and build a wall.

So you have a wall with 5 layers of bricks on it,= 10000kms,

Target is 50 lines of bricks = 10,000

Easy peeezy”  Geoff Smith, alias Bicycle Rider France, alias Old Sog Smith, alias my very good friend and mentor on two wheels

The snow is falling, lightly but stubbornly, and the temperature went 25 degrees below freezing last night and climbed to only twelve degrees below freezing today.  No chance for a ride outside, not from our perch on top of Pilot Knob, until the sun burns off the slick roads.

Another day on the rollers.  I have my Ghent Wevelgem dvd set up on the computer; it’s the 2005 edition of the race won by, not to be a spoiler four and a half years later, by Nico Mattan, a spunky little Belgian who passess Flecha in the last 100 meters of a nearly 5 hour race to win.  Great stuff.  I bring the wheels up to a spin and hit the Start button on the Garmin.  We’re doing spinups today, a 15m warmup, then eight 30 sec low power, high cadence seated sprints with a five minute easy spin between each.

For the first two sprints, there is sludge in the legs.  The cadence gets to 120rpm before the smoothness goes away and I get bouncy and have to throttle back a tad.  The last six sprints are better, topping out at 135 before the bounciness appears.  The point is to develop leg speed and a smooth spin. 

After the third or fourth spinup, I notice how slowly the thirty seconds is passing.  I’m not dying or anything, but each breath comes and goes and the seconds slow to a slowly measured trickle.  I look up and see the break of six men slowly being brought back and then the five second beep, beep, beep, beep, beep and the monitor says Rest 5 min and everything in the world accelerates towards the next beep, beep, beep, beep, beep of the following interval.  Time surges and pulls back in direct opposition to my effort on the bike.  Criteriums are like this.  60 laps to go and then after the pulsing and contraction and expansion of efforts, four good efforts on each lap, it’s 3 laps to go and the the last laps take up most of the time as each motion, sound, click of a gear shift and touch of brake become a conscious mix in the mind, deserving notice, a thought, perhaps a reaction.  The bell lap and then time stops.  I age a year during the final four turns and then the shout, grimace, surge and dive down into the quiet of the effort and the line.

Spinups.  I travel through time and watch the snow fall as I wind down.  Nico wins the dramatic finish.  I look at my monitor, ahh, one more brick.

First ride with team

Cycling is a team sport.  Many folks think otherwise, riding a bike is a solitary practice for them, culminating in the ultimate example of solo self-absorption, the triathalon.  Americans have really bought into this perspective and even here, in Colorado Springs, home of the USOC and numerous coaching concerns, riders spend most of their time riding by their lonesome and the few teams that are here, seem to lack the cohesion to train together, let alone race together. 

So I’m excited about joining a team, Colobikelaw, and doubly excited that they have a group of twelve guys or so that race the Master’s 35+ category 3 together and get results.  And they have training rides to build cohesion. 

Left to Right: Philip Capraro (35/4), Chris Sauer, Marco Capraro, Brian Hart, Colin Catel, Marco Horton, Jason Cherry, Steve Ruskaup, Ryan Muncy, Tim Cody, Doug Gordon, Brad Rolf

We met at Cafe Europa in Denver for a post-Thanksgiving ride to burn a little fat and to chew it as well.  Several of the guys were new like me, some had upgraded from category 4 this year and this was our first chance to get to know each other and our riding styles.

Sounds so complicated, this riding the bike in a group, but so much of what happens in a race depends on what you know of your teammates, their personalities, desires, abilities.  I’m descending with a fellow six inches in front of my wheel at 50 miles an hour; I need to know what he does when there’s a pothole, or gravel in the road.  I need to know if he keeps pedaling when he gets out of the saddle on a climb or slides backwards for a moment.  In a race, is he the guy that chases down a break and can hold it, or does he have the big sprint for a finish?  These are things that you get to know on training rides.

Doug is our team leader and is immediately dropped as we head to the bike path and Invesco Field.  We don’t realize this for five miles.  First rule: do not drop your team leader.  It’s not his fault, the pace was way too hot for warming up and we were dodging in and out of side roads and turns on the trail.  We reconnected after a phone call and sending Marco back down the trail.

We ride to Golden and then the group decides against the climb up Lookout Mtn and instead adds a few more k’s of rolling terrain north of Denver.  It’s a bit cold, 40 degrees or so, but the sun stays bright.  The group surges and retracts, over and over again.  A rotating paceline is started and then stalls as young Marco needs a push to pull off.  Gaps form as riders pulling off don’t ease up and we talk about all of it, part of the process. 

One of the hardest things about group riding, especially in the states, is that strong riders always feel the need to pound their chests, ride their bikes as hard as they can, even to the detriment of the group’s cohesion.  I always come back to my Wed outings with Geoff in southern France, ‘Tranquil, tranquil, Chris.’ as we would head out on the long ride with some really good riders.  The object was always to be riding the same pace five hours later, together. 

Later, when we’re sitting a table outside the cafe, sipping lattes, one of the strong fellows says, ‘When I ride, I ride hard.’  We laugh later when the same guy declines the idea of riding a team time trial.  There’s much more to this riding game then just being strong.  As crusty old Geoff said a few years ago, riding now is 70 percent mental and 30 percent physical, while in our more youthful days it was the opposite.  I try to explain this to young Marco during the ride as he sprints out ahead of the group and then fades.  Save your strength, use it to be smooth and do things that help the group. 

Sounds like good advice to live by in general.

Thanksgiving day riding

A little bit of everything

Winter is almost here and the air is cold and thick and penetrates our skimpy layers.  The long downhill to 26th Street and the run up Gold Camp Road leaves a chill in the bones that sticks until we’re half way up the climb.  Janet and I split up in the Broadmoor; she heading back up to Manitou and me doing a bit larger loop through town, up Mesa and around the Garden of the Gods. 

Ubermensch to Jedermensch

“Mature Fantasy Store” says the sign over the strip mall, lending new meaning to ‘strip’.  I’m sitting in the sun, out of the north wind, in front of a wall mural shouting patriotic support for our troops, and watching as car after car park at the end of the lot, SUVs and trucks mostly, and indeed mature men file into the store with no windows.  No one comes out.  Why is it that the most conservative Christian parts of the US have the most strip joints and XXX shops?

I’m waiting on Mike, a teammate from Colorado Bike Law, the team I’ve joined.  We’re going to ride east of the Springs today, destination a bit uncertain, but there’s a strong north wind and the temps will peak at 45 degrees a few hours from now.  I can see the slopes of Pikes Peak from where I sit and the white blanket of snow has spread farther down the slope and even onto the north facing foothills surrounding my home.  It’s getting colder.

Suddenly a furry face, and I’m being licked by a large German Shepherd, and then another romps up with his jaws open wide, not in some kind of canine threat, but because a ball is lodged about as far back as it can fit.  I fish it out and toss it and then a smoking man turns the corner.  Toss, fetch, toss, fetch and then they jump on me again. 

After a quick phone message, a figure shoots south on Peterson Road.  How many fit cyclists are out today?  I hop on the bike and follow suit and discover there is yet another strip mall on the other side of Powers.  We settle on the southern route that we ride with the training group on Saturday mornings, south to Fountain, south a bit more and then back north on El Paso and across Ft. Carson.  The wind is at our backs and the sun is on our faces and we live in that brief moment of cycling bliss when all is right with the world.  We know it’s temporary, but that is what makes it so wonderful right now.

I’ve been fighting a cold virus and feeling pretty crappy the past few days.  Janet and I rode yesterday before her flight to Pittsburgh and it felt good to stretch the legs and get the blood pumping after two days of moping around and doing laundry.  Today I’m not sure if I’m recovered from yesterday’s short ride, but I feel pretty good at the turnaround, forty two miles and not yet two hours into our effort.  Of course, the next twenty five miles will take two and a half hours, but as I explain to Mike, one of the great benefits of my fancy power meter is that I can focus on the power number instead of the speed.  Coming south, we were averaging over 25mph, closer to 30, but the wattage was floating around 150, an easy effort.  Coming back north, into that cold wind snapping the flags straight (who ever said patriotism was useless?) the power number is sitting right at 300, climbing to 400 on the slight rollers.  I can feel good about that on a day that started with a sore throat and sniffles. 

Our conversation ranges from politics to wardrobe malfunctions to time trial bikes and back to politics.  We’re getting to know each other.  As an adult male, it’s fascinating to be aware of the friending process that happened unconsciously to me as a kid.  Janet and I are so focused on friendships for Johann and Karl, we sometimes neglect attending to the process for ourselves. 

Soon, we are at the corner of Tejon and Arvada.  A tap of the fists, an invite to dinner and we’re off in our separate directions, Mike back to the ride start for him and me 600 feet back up to Manitou just in time to pick up the kids.

Larkspur

A naked man sits on the edge of his bed, a spaghetti of bright lycra  mounded next to him.  The order of dressing is dictated by the weather outside, cool, gray and windy, also from the purpose of the day, a long ride along the front range, five or six hours in the saddle.  The socks are first, then the legwarmers and armwarmers.  I’m an unusual sight, but the door is closed.  Heart rate monitor strap around the chest and then an underlayer for the torso.  Red big shorts and with the straps now over the shoulders, he’s starting to feel clothed.  A long sleeved wool jersey, Campagnolo emblazoned across the back declaring my affinity for expensive bike bits from Italy, but something only a few people will understand, and I’m ready to load the back pockets.

The air is warm outside, but descending the valley road to town, things cool off and soon my breath is visible as I wait at the stoplight for my left turn onto Cascade.  Mike rolls up a few minutes late; he also spent time waiting at stop lights en route (who says that cyclists are all scofflaws?) and we roll north towards Palmer Lake and then Larkspur. 

Living in Manitou Springs presents a challenge for me.  If I head west on a ride, uphill, it basically means riding hard for an hour or two and then coasting downhill back home at ridiculous speeds.  If I head the other direction, we live in a valley, it means coasting downhill into a not-so-bicycle-friendly city and then choosing between the wastelands south and east of town or the hills north.  I don’t want to diss Colorado Springs too much; city fathers have made an effort to create bicycle lanes and put up Share the Road signs when it isn’t possible to make a lane, but riding in the area for a few months now, I get the distinct impression that someone did this purely at random, perhaps with a blindfold, map and a tail with a pin in it. 

Beyond the faux bike lane planning is the fact that most people in the Springs are trying to kill me.

True.  Although my head is on a swivel and I peer into every empty parked car and look through every intersection to guess the intentions of each participant in our traffic dance, someone tries to kill me.  Mike, too.  This time it’s a Hummer H3, black with tinted windshields, trying to run us off the narrow Jackson Creek Parkway, which runs parallel to Interstate 25.  When someone tries to kill you, it’s a flight or fight response.  Flight is impossible, so we shout, scream, wave our impotent fists in the air at the tinted rear windshield.  The little bit of adrenaline gives me a push up the hill, maybe H3 is stopped at the light.

Our run today takes us to the Speedtrap Coffee shop in Palmer Lake.  It’s a weekly stop for me now.  They close at 1, long before our loop to Larkspur brings us back, so we enjoy a quick and legal PED (performance enhancing drug), half a bagel with cheese.  A bottle refill and we’re climbing the rest of the Palmer Divide.  Two miles and then it’s fun time, downhill with a tailwind.  There is nothing better on a bike.  Free speed, everything quiet, on a smooth road and then Perry Lake Road appears far too fast and we’re on rollers trending upwards to Larkspur.  ‘Should we go a bit farther north?’  Mike asks before the turn.  Naw, we’ll be right on 90 miles for the ride by Manitou and it’s time to pay for the tailwind.

The road south to Palmer Lake, Spruce Mountain Rd., is relentless in a flat, treeless, hill five miles away kind of way.  I look down for awhile and watch the pavement flow beneath my wheels.  I look up and that far away hill is still there.  The wind slows us to 15, then 13 as we climb.  The computer tells me it’s a 3 percent grade, even though the road appears to be flat-lined.  The hill is 7 percent and we keep a decent pace up and then it’s flat again.  The faux plat. 

The constant pressure on the pedals is excellent training and we use the time to talk about ourselves, local races, training philosophies, friends we’ve made, new equipment.  Palmer Lake arrives and I’m surprised we’re actually 50 feet higher here than the summit at Spruce Mountain. 

It’s all downhill from here to town.

Two standard deviations

Friday, easy ride today around the Garden of the Gods, maybe hit a climb hard to open the legs up.  The sun is out and the sky is ridiculously blue.  Just past the rondpoint on the west side of town, a tourist is trying to read the signs in the shops and slows to five miles an hour, I slide through the gap on the right side just as a trike with a leathered up biker on top moves to the right, towards a parking spot.  I move to the left anticipating a pass.  Suddenly he swings the trike to the left also to do a U-turn in the middle of the block.  I hit the brakes and skip on the cobbles in the meridian.

It’s amazing how fast the mind works.  Instead of spewing invective and cursing his pets in front of people that know me (Hey, that new guy on Pilot Knob is a real wacko), it’s ‘Hey, buddy, where did you learn how to drive?’  He doesn’t like this, ‘You shouldn’t pass on the left.’  Retort, ‘You shouldn’t try to kill me by crossing two solid yellow lines.’  And now we’re past each other. 

I’m angry, way too angry for what’s just happened.  A couple of turns of the crank and thoughts about my meeting a couple of days before begin leaking out and I understand where the anger is coming from.  Wednesday morning Janet and I met with Johann’s IEP team.  IEP means Individual Learning Plan.  If you enjoy acronyms, you’ll love the world of education, where acronyms are a convenient way to refer to people and their needs.  ELLs?  As in I’ve got a bunch of ELLs in my classroom aren’t a kind of bug or type of computer, they’re kids who speak a different language at home.  You could call them LEPs in some states, or NNSs if you’re more theoretically bent. 

In my sons’ educational worlds, we’ve been focused on having them seen, referred to and treated as kids.  Unfortunately, that isn’t enough for some folks who feel a need to quantify who they are with ‘instruments’ and ‘probes’ to find evidence of who they are that is readily evident if you get to know each of them. 

‘Our hands are tied.  In order for your son to get paraprofessional support, we have to do ‘cognitive' testing.’  Intelligence.  Some test results from the battery of other tests already done are pushed across the table.  Look, see where your son is testing?  His scores are below the large white space in the middle.  This is somehow meaningful.  An estimated age equivalent is scribbled next to the table, 7 years, 6 months.  So precise!  There is strong magic in the precision of the test, a test normed on the folks swimming in the middle of the bell curve.  ‘We need to do an IQ test to rule out cognitive deficits.’  Hmm, have you taken an IQ test as well?  Nervous laughter.  Why don’t we put all of our IQ cards on the table? 

Raised voices now, this is getting personal.  How will an IQ score help you teach him better?  We gave you a box of ‘evidence’ before we came; I don’t think you looked at it too closely.  ‘Now we need the numbers.’  The bait and switch. 

We are so concerned about separating those that belong from those that don’t.  When my son was born, I saw a long line of ‘services’ leading to a life of separation, wiping tables at McDonald’s, living in a ‘home’ with others separated from the rest of the normal people.  He was one week old when we were told about a special school forty miles from our home in Iowa where ‘his needs would be met.’  I got angry then and told the ‘team’ they had five years to plan on him being in our local school two miles away. 

‘Have you met with local families who have children with Down’s?’  I look at the nurse, ‘Wouldn’t that be like a meeting of amputees?’  I know she’s trying to be helpful, but she doesn’t know us, our family, my son.  I know the reason that a Down’s group might be useful would be to fight a system of separate but equal, a habit of pulling out those different ones who don’t belong.  My team is the system and we’ll have that fight now, thank you.  ‘Your son is two standard deviations below the norm.’  Let me translate: Your son is two standard deviations below being fully human. 

I push into the climb, red rocks in the sun, pinion pine in the air; I feel the wind on my face and let the anger flow through my limbs.  I’m alive; I feel the pain, gravity resisting my will, the sweat and stink of the real world reminding me that I’m alive.  The struggle of life is not antiseptic and defies measurement.  I laugh at the crest and dive down the apex of the turn.

We are all two standard deviations away from something, otherwise we would all be the same.

Quantitative and the Qualitative

Saturday morning training ride numbers:

Easy ride down to the start, sticking to the even grade of Colorado Avenue, no traffic, no wind, lots of sun

Duration:      22:59 (30:09)
    Work:          127 kJ
    TSS:           7.7 (intensity factor 0.447)
    Norm Power:    143
    VI:            1.55
    Pw:HR:          -46.25%
    Pa:HR:          22.77%
    Distance:      6.844 mi
    Elevation Gain:        516 ft
    Elevation Loss:       1039 ft
    Grade:         -1.5 %  (-525 ft)

Ride starts with an easy seven mile roll to the east side of town, we average around 20mph and the group sticks together.  At Mark Dabling Rd. we turn south and hit the hill at race speed, position is important, towards the front and push up the hill and we crack into the thirties and the group is now a long string.  Rotate on and off the front, raise the tempo and we’re in the high thirties, the road rolls away beneath us and I hear no one talking behind me; they are just trying to breathe.

Duration:      1:08:14 (1:11:39)
    Work:          830 kJ
    TSS:           78.1 (intensity factor 0.83)
    Norm Power:    265
    VI:            1.31
    Pw:HR:          0.93%
    Pa:HR:          -27.65%
    Distance:      27.636 mi
    Elevation Gain:        1420 ft
    Elevation Loss:       2139 ft
    Grade:         -0.5 %  (-719 ft)
                          Min    Max    Avg
    Power:           0    1115    203     watts
    Heart Rate:  98    167    145     bpm
    Cadence:       17    178    81     rpm
    Speed:           0    37.8    24.2     mph
    Pace             1:35    0:00    2:29     min/mi

After the last sprint we roll easy and pick up the riders jettisoned from the pack, most do go off the back.  After a few miles we’re all together and the tempo picks up a bit, maybe around 22mph as we go into a slight north wind.  My legs have felt sluggish all ride and this makes me feel good; I’m now able to participate, belong, on a sub-par physical day. 

Duration:      2:06:34 (2:31:24)
    Work:          1318 kJ
    TSS:           99.1 (intensity factor 0.686)
    Norm Power:    220
    VI:            1.26
    Pw:HR:          5.53%
    Pa:HR:          29.24%
    Distance:      34.108 mi
    Elevation Gain:        3806 ft
    Elevation Loss:       2539 ft
    Grade:         0.7 %  (1267 ft)
                           Min    Max    Avg
    Power:           0    955    174     watts
    Heart Rate:   80    160    133     bpm
    Cadence:         19    155    74     rpm
    Speed:           0    28.9    16.1     mph
    Pace               2:05    0:00    3:44     min/mi
    Altitude:        5359    6775    5988     ft
    Crank Torque:    0    1101    200     lb-in

‘My wife left me.  She got the kids up earlier than usual and left the house before I got up.  Then she texted me and told me to pack and get out of the house.’

Amazing how words can change things, alter an environment, nudge what we think is true to another place.  We’re standing in front of a Starbuck’s on Tejon in Colorado Springs.  It’s warm, a wonderful day to do something we’ve been doing together for a while now, ride our bikes in a big circle.  People are laughing, leaning over their handlebars, feeling the sun burn through the cool air and heat the lycra stretched across backs and arms.  Eric has stopped talking and I look up at him.  A few seconds ago, this was just pre-ride banter and now he has just said something very important, much too important.  I look up and see him, his face is open, honestly listening to what I will say in return.  Over his shoulder one of the women on our ride is also listening as spectator, interested in our conversation. 

‘She left me because I’m riding too much.’  And it’s true, Eric is riding much more in the last few months than he has in his seventeen year marriage.  He’s also dropped fifty five pounds and feels good about himself for the first time in a long time.  ‘She says I look unhealthy.’  But it’s not about that.  It’s not about the cycling, the time spent in the saddle; it’s about the discrepancy between who he was and who he is now.  He’s changed and his wife is confronted with where she is now.  It would be presumptuous to give advice, so I tell him about my marriage.

Twenty years ago, I was scared silly about committing to a relationship with someone that wasn’t going the same direction as myself.  We fall in love with people all of the time, I still do, but what occurred to me twenty years ago and what still seems true is that we often fall in love with someone at a common meeting place, but on the way to somewhere completely different.  Make the connection there without realizing this and soon the bond is getting pulled at, snapping when the roads are far apart.  I remember telling Janet this metaphor in a tent pitched in a Bulawayo, the scent of Jacaranda falling around us, moments before we decided to get married.

Twenty years is a long time for two individuals to change, and we have, but we haven’t just changed, we’ve grown and were lucky enough at twenty five to have enough self knowledge to make a reasonable guess that we were growing in the same way.  Lucky.

Eric is growing, cycling is his new found medium, and any advice that I could give him would be to look for opportunities to allow her into the joyful world he’s discovered.  It’s so easy not to, hoarding the experience for yourself, developing new relationships, confronting new challenges and feeling rising fitness and self-esteem.  So tempting to keep it all.  I give some advice.  Plan time to ride together.  Give her time to exercise with friends and work to facilitate it.  I think of what I’ve learned the hard way.  I’m smiling and see that the woman behind Eric is smiling too. 

We push off across the intersection.  She’s wants him to come home.  She’s started running. 

Culture of the bike

Any group of cyclists is a culture onto itself, a unique combination of personalities, skills, rules and mores for the time that group is riding together.  Moving from a culture of riders I was comfortable with for the past eight years in Dubuque and trying to fit in with a new group of riders here in Colorado has been a personal challenge, one that helps me to understand the dynamics my kids are facing at school, making new friends, understanding what’s done and what isn’t done.

I make mistakes even when I’m certain I’m not.  On a ride in southern France a few years ago, I was on the front of small and diverse group of very good riders.   I’d been in country for several weeks already and had dropped the beat-your-chest riding style of most American group rides and was riding calmly next to Steve, the U23 road champ of Britain.  Steve’s a great guy, it turns out, but in the middle of our first ride together he grabbed my arm and let loose with a string of obscenities.  “What the f--- are you doing?  You think you’re better than me?  I’ll kick your a—any day of the week.”  The last few sentences give the gist of what was said.  I was confused; moments before I’d been so pleased to be riding with this group, and now I’d done something that must have been on par with killing ‘is mum.  “You’re f---in’ half-wheeling me!”  Another slew of obscenities.  Half-wheeling is when one rider, riding abreast of another at the front of a paceline, nudges his wheel in front of the other.  This causes the other to accelerate slightly to compensate.  The other rider again nudges forward and again the other rider has to accelerate.  You can see why this would be uncomfortable after awhile.  To this day, however, I’m certain I never half-wheeled Steve.  I think he just wanted an opportunity to vocally demonstrate his position in the group, which was certainly above me. 

All of this is unsaid, except for the obscenities of course.  I need to earn my position in the group by demonstrating my fitness over time. 

Flash forward a couple of years and there is Chris riding on the Saturday morning ride in Colorado Springs.  Riding with the group since the first week of July, this was probably my twelfth or fourteenth time out.  Folks know my name; I chat with people in the paceline; heck, I even took a sprint a couple of weeks ago.  So, I wasn’t prepared for the drama of the ride as we approached the hill sprint on Link Road.

We were really rocking as we headed south and Cody and I floated to the front and drove the pace to about 40 for a few miles, alternating pulls.  We were going into a wind, so it made sense for the two biggest guys to be on the front for a bit.  The spring was miles away and there was time to recover for it, but when the group heads south, it’s definitely race time.  Guys work for teammates and small breaks try to happen and they get chased down by other folks.  Every time for fourteen times that’s the way it’s been. 

A mile before the sprint, I’m taking a breather and come off the front and three guys come by.  A gap, no one else wants the wind, so I slot in at fourth wheel.  Two guys are Spike teammates and one in all gray is obviously a friend;  not one has taken a single pull to this point.  They do a quick rotation and the gray guy tries to wave me through as I just ride in the rocking chair off the last wheel of the rotation.  I decline, still catching my breath and not wanting to get attacked before the hill sprint after a pull.  He waves more vigorously and I decline and he shakes his head in disgust.  I grunt and tell him to do something to himself.  He is offended, but weighs all of 130 pounds.  I ignore him and he continues to rant about what a idiot I am on the bike.  I realize he is a Kiwi, and likely a visiting pro.  The hill sprint comes and goes and we surge to the next sprint.  He shouts for folks to pull through, no one wants to and I’m still in first six wheels, surfing folks moving up and staying out of the heavy wind.  Another rider I’ve never seen before, this one is a Stars and Stripes outfit, tells me to take a pull. 

‘Why?’ 

Quizzical look on her face.

‘Why should I pull through?  Are we on a team ride?  Will it help me in the sprint ahead?’

‘This isn’t the world championships.’  Well, duh.  But it is a race simulation in the middle of a long training ride with a bunch of guys from different teams.  I’m not going to be bullied into pulling other people into sprint finish with a headwind.

For some reason this bothers me for a while during and after the ride.  Cody, drafting me into each of the sprints rides up behind the gray rider and loudly complains about little riders making noise about pulling when they were no where to be seen during the first part of the ride.  Of course I’ve cleaned up the language a bit.

Later, I realize it’s about pecking order and the constant psychological games that riders play with each other, especially in the heat of a hard ride.  My dog does the same thing with other dogs and I guess cyclists are doomed to behave in the same manner with each other. 

Thank goodness we don’t pee all over the place.

A week in review

Before writing about Saturday’s weekly training ride with the group at Starbuck’s on Tejon, getting the pics downloaded from the last week and a little commentary about two significant rides is definitely in order.

Saturday

Drove up to Parker to ride with prospective teammates on ColoBikeLaw’s 35+ Masters cat 3 team.  With just four guys, hills and wind, our 62 miles together had a higher average power output than riding with the group on Saturday mornings.  No where to hide, and I didn’t need a powermeter to figure out that we were working hard.

A couple of moments: “So what do I need to do next to be on this team?”  Phillipe with a completely serious face, “Well, write a three to four page essay about why you want to be on the team.”  General laughter, but a few minutes later we learn that Phillipe really did write an essay.  Harder laughter. 

“You look like Jan Ulrich.”  Hmm.

“Let’s bike into Watkins.”  A few minutes later, “Is this it?”

Sunday

Long spin with Karl down to ‘the Springs’ on the bike path and then north to UCCS and back through the Garden of the Gods (above, looking at Cheyenne Mtn to the south).

Monday

There’s really no reason to go to Hannover, CO except to go through it on the way to somewhere else.  Dodging tumble weeds blowing across the road at twenty miles an hour, enjoying the fragrances from the Fountain City Dump was balanced by the complete lack of traffic and the opportunity to say I’ve been to Hannover, a statement the few in the Springs can make.

Notes for next time: bring extra water, unless you want to knock on the door of that seriously scary looking trailer again.  (above, heading back, and up and into (the wind), to the front range.  A glimpse into how the area looked fifty years ago before 400,000 people moved in).

Tuesday

Shortened ride with Janet through the Garden of the Gods.  Life intrudes and the weather is turning cool.  A nice recovery ride from yesterday’s windy, 85 mile effort.

Wednesday

Snow and sleet are always a good excuse to squeeze in a rest day.

Thursday

Dust off the rollers and do an easy spin.  Is that a sore throat coming on?

Friday

A harder effort on the rollers as life again intervenes and the kids are home for another break from school.

Green Eggs and Yak

In a hundred miles the ride can go from the ecstasy of 30mph with a tailwind for twenty miles to a relentless wind layered over an unmoving horizon, a straight, treeless line, thin lipped except for the slight smile of a faux plat a few miles ahead.  How quickly we forget the ecstasy and dwell on the single digit speed and the tight weakness in the legs.

I glance back up, that is one shaggy buffalo.  Wait.  Beefalo?  Holstein colors and long hair.

“Organic Yak Meat” reads the sign a few minutes later.  www.greeneggsandyak.com.  Who knew?

We trundle on.

The forecasts these days on the front range of the Rocky Mountains extend from 70 and sun to 20 and snow.  Weather.com is the cyclist’s friend and Wednesday’s forecast was beautiful, sunny and almost seventy; definitely a time to ride, especially with snow predicted for the weekend.

Yesterday Janet and I climbed Ute Pass to Woodland Park and today my legs were still feeling a tad sore from the effort and reminded me of that as I climbed through the Garden of the Gods.  The sun was out, though, and the tourists were snug in their beds and the road was a glorious ribbon holding my spinning wheels.  Here I was heading out on a long ride along the mountains.  Desert smells brought me back to our time in southern France a few years ago.  Instead of cork oak on the sides of the Alberes, there was Gamble oaks on the sides of Red Mountain and the Colorado foothills. 

In and out of the Garden, then through the north side of Colorado Springs and it’s urban traffic and soon I was knocking on Brady’s door in Gleneagle, across from the Air Force Academy.  We had a tail wind and it pushed us through Monument, Palmer Lake and Perry Lake.  When we crested the Palmer Divide, the road began a gradual downhill to our turn east on Wolfensberger Road.  Then we paid.

There is a mesa in front of us, to our left, and the road seems intent on climbing it.  The pitch rises to 8, then 10 then 11 percent.  Anything above 6 percent hurts.  Double that and I’m in difficulty.  We climb and climb and the road moves away and then back to the mesa.  This is hurting a bit much and I shift down and back off the effort.  The wattage drops below 300 and let Brady venture out in front of me.  Goals for this fine fall day?  Get out on the bike and turn the pedals for five or six hours.  Snow is going to cancel the Sat morning ride and the rollers are looming large for the weekend.  A long effort now will carry me over until the warm weather returns next week.  I’m building my base now for next season, my first season racing here in Colorado and I want to do it right.

We descend into Castle Rock and scan for a coffee shop.  The flags are nearly stiff and pointing north, so we’ll need something to perk us up for the ride home into the wind.  Daz Bog beckons from a corner and we slip in for a latte and croissant.  Sixty miles in and just forty five back to Manitou.  Gilbert Street and then Lake Gulch road take us towards home and we again are going up, up the Palmer Divide. 

Time to pay for the ecstasy and restore the balance.

From the porch

Mist hangs over Ruxton canyon and the sun is working to burn its way through to the hillsides.  Blue can be seen if you look straight up, so we know it’s going to be sunny this morning.  The damp brings out the smell of pine and earth, and the air is thicker again, if just for awhile. 

Today is a day for hanging out the laundry, putting together a shopping list and planning a couple of meals.  Karl is home and Johann has a late start at school, so a hike on the Intemann trail halfway up Red Mountain (middle of the picture above) might be in order.  No bike time today, maybe gluing on a new tubular as the rear has threads showing. 

I love it when I can wear a tire completely out.

The wind is the fat guy’s friend

Well, even the larger-than-average guy’s friend. 

Bundled up against the just above freezing temps, I could feel the southeast wind pushing through the layers of clothes.  Should I have worn the vest? the heavier winter mits? the full winter bib?  The sun was out and the black lycra warmed and soon Bijou and Tejon was in front of me and I found a warm spot in the sun in front of the Starbucks.

Cody popped out of the bagel shop next door, dressed in his summer kit.  ‘Do the tattoos keep you warm?’  He looked at me like I was dressed by my mommie.  I know the thermometer read 37 when I left the house, but I was still reassured when some other guys rolled up with arm and leg warmers and winter hats.

About thirty rolled out of town, a good showing for a cold Saturday in October.  The group dodged broken glass, bits of scrap iron and wood and the occasional rednecked F150 driver flipping us off for taking a third of a lane on Platte when two and a third were still available.  The pace picked up on the climb by Academy and Byron from East Lansing says ‘I feel a recovery week coming on.’  Echelons keep forming to the left as the wind spreads us out, the older, wiser crowd find spots to the left of the wheel in front and the pace slows as the turn south approaches.

I’m feeling good today, a good week of cycling as opened up the legs and none of the achy congestion of last week remains.  It takes a couple of hard standing revs and I move up to fifth wheel.  We’re going into the wind now and a couple of guys sprint off the front to crest the hill.  They’ll be back.  I’m not feeling generous today and keep my pulls short as we sweep south towards Link Hill, the first sprint.  We’ve got an assortment of riders on the front today and I’m choosy whose wheel I take.  Cody wants me to fill a gap behind a guy with hairy legs riding a mid-80’s Trek with downtube shifters, knees splayed to the sides, and I decline.  He fills it and I follow him, a wall of exposed flesh with an awfully nice draft.  Another good wheel is a fellow with a real Posties kit on, perhaps Creed or another former Lance underling.  He’s solid and predictable and I notice he leaves a huge gap behind the guy with hairy legs.

With the wind, the little guys who normally torture us on the run-up to the hill sprint are quiet, timidly following in our slipstreams.  The pace slows to 24mph and we ramp up the hill, Clay coming around Cody and I to take the sprint.  I feel good and save a lot for the second, flat sprint coming in ten miles.  Clay, someone I just met on the warmup, gets a slap on the back.  Cody says he faded badly at the top, but he still nipped us.  His prime?  He gets to pull the group down the hill.

The second sprint south of Fort Carson is more typical for me.  Time changes, moves and elongates as the distances stretch and a meter grows longer.  Thoughts aren’t complete, more like perceptions, clipped Twitter-like ideas like: green will sprint, stay five back, where’s Cody the big Ape, right gear, one smaller, Cody is shifting and lifting out of the saddle, jump now, hard, hard.  How many meters have passed?  30?  Cody gains an initial two bike gap as Hairy Legs is flustered by someone flying past, and then I come past and he snorts a ‘holy shit’ and I don’t hear him any more.  I come by Cody and suddenly I’m out front.  The sign goes by and I sit up and coast.  Today I didn’t feel the effort and feel like I could do it again.  A good feeling.

Our tempo ride back to town is punctuated by a stop at the 7-11 in Fountain, where we reach over the back of the counter to fill our bottles, and an ID check entering the base at Fort Carson.  After filling my bottles, I introduce myself to a fellow in a CoBikeLaw jersey.  I contacted them last week about joining their Masters team.  Mike and I talk for the rest of the ride to Colorado Springs.  He’s ridden a great deal in Italy with his friend’s cycling company and raced all over the west.  We talk about travel, riding in Europe and the people we’ve grown to lover there and I finish the ride up to Manitou feeling that maybe I’ve found a niche in this crazy, beautiful place after all.

A week on the rear

There is now a certain comfort in the routine of the Saturday training ride in Colorado Springs.  People are beginning to look familiar, their riding styles apparent, even while focusing on the 23 millimeter width of their rear tire from behind, and I’m even remembering some names.  Cody stands out, a fellow has large as I am, arms and legs tatooed and a ready comment in the pack.  One of the few fellows in whose draft I can really recover after a long pull.  I readily give up my place in the paceline when I’m behind one of the 90 pound women and search for Cody.  It must be reciprocal because he’s close enough behind me that I can hear him breathe. 

Patterns and routines, moving from week to week, and then year to year.  During our ride Saturday, under brilliant blue skies and an easy breeze, I felt the first twinges of winter in my legs.  The first year I was taken by surprise; what’s wrong with me, my legs just don’t have it and I’ve been training so hard.  Now I know that I’m coming up against my annual week off the bike, an annual chance to scrub the fatigue accumulating in my body and mind and begin the training process anew. 

As we head south, I take my turn pulling into the breeze.  I take the first turn, as we lack the heavy hitters of previous weeks who turn the screws the first chance they get.  So I hit the front, put some pressure on the pedals and crest the rise at 27mph and glance back.  Cody comes by and pushed the pace again.  He seriously enjoys putting the hurt on the smaller riders.  Into the wind, mass has its advantages.  I let a few riders slide by and take a turn again.  Rinse and repeat.  This is now easy and the miles tick off to the first sprint point.  A tired sensation begins to boil up from my quads and I push it back down.  We turn east and I can see the road rising and then the final rise to the sprint.  I’m positioned well, on the outside of the line, maybe six bikes back and it’s all about relaxation and spin here.  People work to get behind me and I hear Cody’s laugh; he’s pushed his way in, another advantage of mass.

But I’m tired.  I suddenly realize this and three of the riders fade back to the right.  I’m second wheel and know that I have nothing in the tank, the hill is going to hurt bad.  I say in a conversational voice, ‘Want a leadout?’  ‘Hell, yes’ floats back and I dig into the downhill and move off the front with Cody in tow.  We touch 40 and then I sprint into the side of the hill, digging myself into a deep hole of pain.  Two thirds of the way up, Cody comes by in full sprint and I fade, fade away through 30 riders standing on the hill.  Two of Lance’s Livestrong riders come slowly by and I go over the hill last in the group, hanging on, but spent.

One of Cody’s charges, a fellow he’s coaching for triathalons, asks why in the world I would lead out Cody and give up my chances.  ‘That’s what makes bike racing so much more interesting than triathalons,’ I tell him.  He ponders this as we spin north back the twenty miles to town.

So, it’s a week off the bike.  An attempt at a ride on Monday to meet folks in the cold rain at UCCS was aborted as my legs felt like two pieces of timber.  Fatigue from the move, from acclimating to the elevation, from the increasing time on the bike can lead to other bad things if I don’t rest.  The forecast of four days of snow, sleet and general wet, nasty weather aided the decision. 

We’ll start the next season this Saturday with the gang at Bijou and Tejon. 

When you’re down

Note to self: anytime I’m feeling a little blue about my situation, take a ride on Upper Gold Camp Road until the pavement gives out and there is only a view for miles to the east and ribbon of asphalt trickling back down the mountain.

The air is moist from yesterday’s downpour and I’m rested from a day of watching rain fall on my parched vegetable garden.  The squash are starting to flower again, what is the suggested annual allowance of zucchini for one person?  Whatever it is, I remember clearly why we hadn’t planted it in Iowa for the past five seasons.  I’m a little frustrated with how things are developing at the university.  Maybe not frustrated, but just missing what I had at Divine Word, camaraderie, challenge, friendship, a shared mission and wonderful students.  I’m thinking about this as I pull on my kit, stretching the legs a bit to get into the Castelli shorts, optimistically sized an XL when a XXL was really needed.  When I get those climber legs…

I take Minnehaha on the west side of town down to Manitou.  There’s construction just below us on Illinois and the rains washed rock, sand and gravel onto the

road in wide swaths.  I remember Karl sliding sideways two weeks ago and holding it up; we didn’t tell mom about that.  Post Labor Day Manitou is almost normal; the rondpoint is free as I buzz through, the cassette clicking and an older tourist, children no longer at home, glances up from the curiosity shop window.  The speed limit is 20 through town and I can easily coast that, so I arrive at the base of 26th, not so warmed up, in fact chilled would be a better word, but a sunny climb beckons and I turn south and face Cheyenne Mountain, erstwhile home of VP Cheney when he was hiding from the bad guys after 9-11.

The road begins with a steep push past Butt Park (I kid you not) and soon the Red Rocks Open Space sprawls into the distance on the right.  The climb is steepest right now and my stiff muscles work to pound out a rh

ythm.  Keep it at 330 watts or so, my threshold, this is a five mile climb and I want to pick it up at the end.  Bear Creek Park passes on my left, a beautiful road drops off steeply in the middle of a switchback.  A quick push and we’re back to five and six percent.  No one passes and I see a clot of people ahead on a pullout.  The NBC television van and some cameras set up facing the cliff face.  I spin by and say good morning.  A bend later and cyclists are coming down.  A tandem, two tandems and then a handcycle, low-slung and hugging the turns.  Each gets a wave and then I’m passing a woman on a handcycle.  A fellow on a road bike is coaching her up the climb and I give her a ‘Looking good!’ and spin past. 

I started the ride down feeling not so good, now a combination of the human spirit displayed by these handcyclists and the self-inflicted pain of the climb have the endorphins and philosophical thoughts flowing and I’m much better now. 

Snippets

Post ride, fragments of ideas, random thoughts and images, tiny chunks of time spent on the bike compressed and tied to the effort spent. How long was that? My computer tells me the entire ride, from home to ride start to somewhere south of Fort Carson to home again, lasted two hours and forty-five minutes. The computer breaks down the calories, kilojoules, wattage, speed, cadence: information that attempts to quantify the lovely buzz in my quads, the slight ache in my shoulders, but the numbers are grainy despite their precision.

Some crystaline pictures. We are a small group crossing Tejon as the morning traffic at Starbucks watches us depart over a steaming mochacinno, maybe twenty riders. The forecast of rain mid-ride as cut our numbers by two-thirds. I'm new; is this normal? 'I don't know,' the guy in the Kelly Benefits kit says, 'I usually don't come when the forecast is for rain.' I realize I'm riding with folks who didn't check Weather.com before they left.

The exceptions are from the midwest. Byron from East Lansing, his pro mountain bike friend, Kelly and myself did look at the forecast and still came. Without so many riders, what will the training ride be like today? An easy cruise?

Kelly's blue Giant kit is a permanent fixture at the front as we hit race speed and begin south. I pull through and notice I'm holding 34mph into a stiff SE wind. I notice that and count pedal revs to ten, then twenty and pull to the right. I don't feel well; my legs are gummy and I'm a bit tired. I've strung out the line with my pull and it takes a while to find a comfy spot behind someone big enough to shelter me.

We're moving up the hill to the first sprint point and I'm following wheels and go over fifth, second week in a row that I can still draw breath over the top. I'm pleased. Kelly and a fellow from Spike who seems intent on impressing her, go over first. I move in behind her as we line up at 40mph for the turn right. Drafting her is like drafting a paper clip and I feel like I'm pulling but not getting any credit. First chance I move over to Spike and feel about fifty pounds come off my legs.

Kelly is attacking. Attack, Kelly, attack. Kelly is attacking into the wind. Does Kelly weigh more than eighty pounds? Attack, Kelly, attack. Spike follows. Spike is bigger than Kelly. Chris follows Spike. No one follows Chris. Spike is tired. Kelly is tired. Attack, Chris, attack.

As I pass her, Kelly is breathing in gasps. I was breathing hard, too, but when I come from behind, I relax my face and control my breathing for a few moments. She glances over and I smile. The effect is immediate and she falls back to the group.

I'm by myself and it feels too hard, too far from the last sprint and my legs are tired. I ease up and Spike catches me. I ride behind him and the right arm wiggles, the international signal to pass and pull on that side. I decline. The group swallows us up.

Reaching up to the baseline

It’s September now and the air is cold, even at nine o’clock in the morning.  Arm warmers, a relic from my memories of springtime rides in Iowa, are pulled out, adjusted under the jersey and much appreciated on the descent to the start of the Saturday morning ride.

Manitou Springs proper is quiet, tourists don’t seem to wake too early, and the rondpoint on the west side of town doesn’t even require a touch of the brakes as there is absolutely no one about.  A bit different scene after the turn to El Paso at the park, preparations for the weekend art festival sponsored by Commonweal artists are underway, tents raised, booths set up, a crazy knot of parked cars, vans and trailers.  I glide through, more than a door length away from every vehicle; no one is watching for me.

Ahead a cyclist, no two cyclists spread apart, the one in front 25 meters ahead of his partner.  I spin and let gravity pull me closer.  ‘Good morning!’  He glances over and offers a greeting between breaths.  We catch his partner at the stop sign on 31st.  I lag a bit, but they lag more and I keep the spin going.  They seem gone, maybe turned off to the Garden on 30th, but then there’s a click of a derailleur shift and I slow a bit to chat and they lag some more. 

I’m downtown too fast, too early and pick a seat at the Starbucks.  I see Steve the homeless guy, shuffle down the street as I arrive, no verbal assault today, I guess.  I think I’m sitting in his chair.

Tom rolls up next, a great conversation partner in the group and one of the only guys to laugh at my jokes.  By our ‘start’ time of ten, about half of the riders have arrived; when we start at 10:15, there’s a good forty riders, including some new notaries: Steve Johnson, head of USACycling, and Danny Pate and Mike Friedman of Garmin.  As Friedman moves up in the group, he deliberately rubs his front wheel on the back of Pate’s rear wheel.  This is a greeting of sorts and they’re slapping each other on the back and talking.  Steve Johnson is riding a brand new Specialized bike with electronic Di2 on it.  He’s also wearing Mario’s world champion jersey as well; a little retro with a lot of latest geek equipment.

We hit the turn south and the group spreads and accelerates up the hill marking the beginning of the 20 mile hard section of the ride.  My legs feel wonderful today, again a strange thing after the hard ride on Wednesday, but maybe this is the way it works.  I mentally take it easy as we’re cruising along at 35mph, on a slight downhill into a headwind that will keep the little guys in the group.  For the first five miles, many of the weaker riders are taking turns on the front; most of the jerseys with sponsor logos hang back, shepherding their effort a bit and this is not a bad tact to take.

I go on the front in the paceline about half of the way to the first sprint point.  Just ten turns of the crank, maybe a few seconds, and I move to the right and downshift to slow and give the fellow in back a break from the wind.  It’s a pleasure to work in a group of skilled riders.  There’s no worries about lapped wheels or bad lines and we rocket toward the sprint.

At ten wheels back, I practice a mental trick I use in races; these guys are working for me, pulling me to the line.  I stay in the wake and feel myself being pulled up the hill.  My goal is to stick and not fall back and I don’t, I float over about fifth wheel and I can still breathe!  Downhill and we hit 40 and into the turn we go.

Later, ‘Not bad for a big guy.  I thought you were going to go back.’ Christine weighs about 90 pounds and offers absolutely no draft in the group.  I manage to get her wheel several times and give it away as soon as I can.  She thanks me for my draft and we talk a bit.  Perhaps a riding mate for Janet?  She needs other women to ride with and Christine is a very good rider.

The ride stops at the Seven Eleven in Fountain and we cruise through Fort Carson back towards the mountains.  Lightning and smoke fill the valley.  ‘They’re doing some prescribed burns today.’ Our group has been reduced to about 20 riders, among them Mark, the fellow that inspected my new house in Manitou.  He glances back for me and we turn off and ride a shortcut on Motor City road, a terrible place of car lots and wide concrete ugliness.  We talk, we’re about the same age and similar experience and we’ve developed the instant trust of pulling together in a paceline. 

Up a creek

She is beautiful.  Not in that glamorous. over the top way seen in Bazaar, a magazine whose sole purpose seems to be recycling, but she is beautiful in a rare and lasting way, more an expression of her soul than any particular physical attribute.  I ride behind her and she blends with the beauty of the landscape, an expanse of red rock and juniper stretching to a horizon far to the east, framed by a red wall towering to the west.

Perhaps I’m high.  Literally.  The altimeter shows about 7500 feet on my fancy computer.  We’re climbing steadily up Gold Camp Road, a few miles from our home in Manitou Springs, an easy downhill glide to a five mile climb up Bear Creek Canyon.  The rhythm of the effort becomes a chant; my mind wanders to the Beauty Way chant from the Navajo healing ceremony,

All that has harmed me will leave me,
leaving my body cool once more.
Within me today,I shall be well.
All fever will come from me,
and leave me,leave my brow cool.
I will hear today
and see today
and be my own true self today.
This is the day I shall walk.
This is the day when all that is ill will leave me
and I shall be as I was,
as I walk in a cool body.
This day onwards I shall be happy
for nothing will prevent me.
I shall walk and beauty will go before me.
I shall walk and beauty will be behind me.
I shall walk and beauty will be above me.
I shall walk and beauty will be beneath me.
I shall walk and beauty will surround me.
I shall walk and speak of beauty.
For the rest of my days I shall be whole,
for all things are beautiful.

We wind our way up, the pedals now part of the chant, the effort part of the chant, the rocks, wind, our lives together, our shared laughter, we continue on our beauty way, riding with beauty all around us, a whole, our ride together.

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Now I know why God made streams

Like a nagging headache or an intermittent backpain, my bonk-aborted ride two weeks ago sat in the back of my brain festering.  “I’m going to do a long ride today, honey.  I should be back for the kids’ soccer practice at 5.” 

The plan was to complete the loop up to Sedalia and down to the South Platte River, returning via Deckers and Woodland Park.  Doing it counter clockwise would mean going down the 15% gravel grades down to the river, instead of up them which was part of my undoing last time. 

Palmer Lake and Deckers both have places serving espresso, so I knew I was going to be OK. 

I rode through the Garden of the Gods, turned north on 30th Street and left the scenic portion of my ride and entered the crazed car culture that is Colorado Springs.  Centennial to Allegheny is somewhat bike friendly, if not friendly to the eyes.  Rows of condos, and apartments and the itinerant Walgreens give way to one acre lots and suburban homes.  Looking beyond the houses and one can visualize the beautiful red rock country they’ve been super imposed upon.  A woman is washing her driveway with her hose as I descend to the knot of roads and Academy.  We’ve come to this.

I’m not feeling that great, probably allergies, but I dread my time on Academy.  Last week I was nearly taken out trying to get to the friendly cycling confines of the Air Force Academy, turned back because of road construction at the North Gate, and damn near killed again by an organic shopper rushing to get to Whole Foods.  The irony.  Janet chastized me yesterday for yelling at a driver that cut us off on a ‘Bicycle Route’.  ‘What am I supposed to do? They’re trying to kill us!’ 

And so it happened, as it must I suppose, a fellow in large Dodge D250, probably in a hurry to buy something, lays on his horn.  I’m riding north on Academy, trying to get to the turn north on Voyager.  There are four lanes of traffic, including a turn lane, which I’m taking right now, not wanting to move into the middle of the crazed shoppers and commuters who are much to busy texting and talking on their cells to bother with some freak on a bicycle.  No, the turn lane is the safest location.  The guys hits the horn again.  There is an additional turn lane 10 yards up the road; he’s turning into a parking lot; I am impeding his shopping instinct. My own instinct of self preservation kicks in (he’s trying to kill you!) and I turn and let him have it, gesticulating like a crazed Italian.  This all passes quickly.  He moves ahead in the additional turn lane, briefly hitting his brakes, perhaps considering a more physical challenge.  I turn on Voyager.

The urban center gives way again to suburban and then I’m riding along the expressway towards Monument.  I am still in the Suburban Sprawl, home of the Village Inn, Seven Eleven and intense traffic.  Where are these people going at 10am?  Finally, a few miles north, I can smell pine again and Palmer Lake arrives

with my first latte.  I put my feet up and take care of a cheese sandwich tucked in my jersey.

 

There’s a headwind today, about 10-15mph out of the northeast, which means that I get to eat it all the way to Sedalia, about 60 miles into the ride.  The great thing now is that I’ve nearly crested the Palmer Divide, a gradual ramp that peaks around 7500 feet just north of town.  Downhill into the wind shouldn’t be too bad and there is always the possible tailwind once I get to the Platte.

The road smoothes out and the wide spaces begin to digest my thoughts.  The scale of the west is monumental.  Grass and the occasional pioneer pine, a complete lack of traffic and the smooth then dotted then smooth yellow center lines of the road tap out a visual rhythm and my ride becomes a meditation.

Sedalia and another gatorade stop at the local fly and convenience store.  ‘Where you heading?’  ‘Back home to Manitou.’  The flyfisherman/grocer eyes me.  ‘You’ve got a ways to go yet.’  I agree and thank him for the two gatorades.  I’ve drunk six bottles so far and it looks like this will be at least a 12 bottle ride.  Gatorade and my bagel with schmeer and cucumbers, my cheese sandwich and giant chocolate chip cookie, my clif blocks and granola bar; I will not bonk or

dehydrate today.

I do know why God invented streams for cyclists; roads built along streams are humane affairs, with tolerable inclines in the 3-4 percent range.  Any time a road leaves the stream, creek or river, the cyclist is in human hands and then the sky is the limit, literally.  The road from Sedalia begins the trek back to the mountains.  There is a stream off to the side and the climb is gentle.  I’m astounded how good it feels not

to have a headwind and begin to daydream a bit as the mountains loom closer.  Suddenly the road is jerked to the right and the pitch is over 12 percent.  My legs scream at me for not putting on the 13-27 this morning.  The brain forgot.  The sun is out and it’s suddenly hot with no wind blowing and the road goes up and on and on and up again.  There is brief respite and a phantom horizon through the trees; just cruel jokes.  There is no stream to regulate this agony just my brain and some gatorade and I pull over to rest a second. 

‘You OK?  Got enough water?’  Sure, thanks, just taking a breather.  The pine forest is deep and I’m surrounded by the scent of sun-warmed pine sap.  A logging truck is pulling out up the road and I contemplate this short, 27 mile jaunt to Deckers.  I already know that there is a steep downhill grade on gravel; I attempted the reverse with Scoots two weeks ago, but what is there between the two Knowns of where I’ve been today and where I was two weeks ago?  A philosophical question. 

The legs churn on up the climb.

All dressed up

I’m still getting used to the air, not just its thinness, but the crisp, dry mountain smell that greets me each morning when I open kitchen door to pump up the tires and look over the bike before a ride.  The air is bracing, the sun is out and I’m looking forward to a good, hard ride with my new friends on the Saturday morning training ride.

I slide through the back streets and main street of Manitou.  The tourists are still snoozing and few locals are getting things ready for a day of business on Manitou Avenue.  Just past the cop shop, I turn left and take the little jog over to El Paso.  El Paso runs parallel to Manitou, past bed and breakfast establishments and older estates looking south over the canyon.  It’ an easy downhill spin.  A climb past 31st and then dodging the cars going to the market in Old Colorado City across from their Carnegie Library.

At Walnut, the road is going to end, a quick right and left and I’m on the main drag of Colorado Ave, pointed at Downtown Colorado Springs, warmed up and raring to go.  Perhaps this week I’ll play more on the front, take a pull or two and sprint for the at hill climb…

Road Closed Ahead.  Tejon is closed?  Then I remember, the big military parade today.  I turn a block earlier and then right on Bijou to the Starbucks.  Fifteen minutes early and not much to do but sit and watch the preparations with the patriotic folks on the street.  A young black guy, street person through and through, “You OK?”  Yep.  “No problem?”  I don’t think so.  An older woman, to no one in particular, “My husband is off to Afghanistan for his eighth tour.” Uh-huh.  “If we don’t keep ‘em out of here, then they’ll be hanging jews from the lamp posts.”  Ok, that’s enough.  I move away from my conversation partners and sidle up to another rider sitting at an outdoor table.  Ahh, my tribe.

Byron, a new student at UCCS and transplant from East Lansing, pulls up.  Greetings.  Soon we have a posse of about 25 riders wondering how we’ll get to our route, on the other side of the parade route.  The parade starts at precisely 10am; we lollygag for a few more minutes and then head back west a block to try to ride around the start. 

Bump, pause, bump.  I feel the roughness of Bijou under my bum.  Either the rear tire is really over inflated, or I have a flat.  I look down; a flat.  The group rides away and I prop the bike up on bench.  It’s game over.  I change the flat and ride back up Colorado Ave, Pikes Peak Ave, El Paso Ave and the back way to Manitou. 

Instead of high speed jockeying for position this week at the front of the pack, I trade ideas for cooking zucchini with an older woman coming back from the Old Colorado City market.  Funny how these things work.

Taking a spin with my baby

The morning is clear, dry and there’s a cool easterly breeze blowing.  The kids have school.  All day!  and Janet and I both have very nice bikes.

We go for a ride.

Who am I?

A dull throb, a low remembering of the effort on Wednesday, a slight feeling of constriction, the blood forcing its way through capillaries blocked by something or mysteriously shrunken since the last big ride.  Thoughts, can you do this? why are you doing this?  you’re old, you will get dropped, you will be embarrassed?  Inward fears, but on the outside there’s just a rider cycling down Manitou Ave, dodging the early tourists and folks setting up for the annual buddy walk in town. 

Bravado is usually in great supply before a training ride, especially one that draws riders from so many teams and regions.  No one blinks at the Kiwi or Aussie accent in the paceline, or the team kits from various domestic and international teams, Team Type 1, Jelly Belly, Garmin Slipstream, Rock Racing.  Perhaps this is adding to my anxiety.  My legs still ache but I keep it all tucked in and meet the other riders at the Starbucks on Tejon.

Waiting for the ride to begin.  It occurs to me that insecurity comes more from not knowing than anything else.  Ignorance of the other riders abilities, ignorance of my own.  Weakness is a human quality that makes us do stupid things, like shoot past another rider on a climb, an act that shouts, I’M STONGER THAN YOU!  for no other reason than to mask some shortcoming in my head. 

We roll out, kitty corner across the intersection, our group large enough to last the entire light, but impressive enough in size that the drivers are patient.  A few blocks north and then east on Boulder, the group sets a comfortable rolling speed that touches twenty and then backs off.  Folks are talking, catching up; some have a serious, brooding look.  Most often the latter are dropped when the speed doubles at the turn south.  The well-trained are comfortable enough to laugh, the others focus on the pain ahead.

The road descends and then crests a small hill at Powers.  We’re on a multilane concrete ribbon with drib drabs of Saturday morning traffic.  The hill is the first effort of the morning and there is a huffing and gasping as some riders slow too much and come back through the group.  I’m sure this worries them; we’re not at speed yet.  We leave the main drag and take a frontage road and there is a stop.  The group obeys lights and considers stop signs seriously but not literally.  Hands go down, palm back, to let following riders know to stop.  Forty riders today?  Maybe fifty.  The next stop sign is our turn south.

The pace goes from twenty to thirty five just past the turn.  Chain noise, riders out of the saddle, the strong sun glinting off helmets.  I stand and move smoothly into a comfortable seventh wheel or so, just behind someone large enough to provide a comfortable draft and steady enough to not kill me.  I dread the idea of hitting the edge, or lapping a wheel at this speed and quickly put the idea out of my head. 

My strategy today is to not take any pulls at the front, even if I’m comfortable.  This is based on two things: my tired legs and the fact that the group attacked me last week after a pull and dropped me just before the railroad tracks and the second sprint.  It might happen today, but I’m going to do everything to not get dropped.  I’m aware that I am feeling good and resist an invitation to pull into the rotating paceline, choosing to ride in the rocking chair just off the tail of the rotation.  I’m good at this.  So good that the rider looking to move to the right and towards the front doesn’t even see me.  Once in a while a rider does, and leaves the gap, but I resist and they move into it themselves.

Riding at the front, I have no idea who is behind me, the same riders move around me, familiar pedaling motions, predictable behaviors.  I hear Cody, a large rider like myself and so instantly a friend in the draft, telling a new rider he brought along to stay on my wheel.  “Just stay on it.  Don’t worry about the sprint, you won’t be a factor.  Just keep his wheel.”  This makes me feel good.  I’m a resource; I can be counted on; and, I belong.

The sprint is approaching.  We pass a subdivision HOMES STARTING IN THE 120,000’s; we pass through a left turn and I see the first hills approaching.  A few weeks ago I made the mistake of moving onto the front here and paid for it.  I’m comfortable, there’s no trouble keeping the pace or the wheel in front of me and and let’s keep it that way.  Over the second bump and I see the hill whose top marks the first sprint.  My goal is too stay comfortable.  Comfort, easy, breathe, be comfortable and smooth.  Cody comes by on the left and I let him.  Good for him if he gets the sprint today.  He fades.  The little guy in the Garmin kit takes a pull and we all strain under the effort to not break the string.  We crest the hill and I’m fifth wheel now and the effort has taken my ability to breathe away.  I take regular gasps, but I’m on the moon; there’s no air.  And we’re going downhill, spinning out my 53x12, probably around forty but I can’t see clearly enough to glance at the computer.

The secret is to keep the mask in place.  Catch your breath on the sly and by the next turn, I’m following the wheel of someone and letting another into the corner.  If this were a real race, I’d close the door on him, but I’m sure I’ll need whoever it is in a few minutes. 

We’re rolling on to the second sprint.  I let myself go to the back.  All of these riders are working for me now!  The back comes up quickly; there’s maybe ten of us now.  Ten.  We pass the spot I was dropped last week after a pull and resist the urge to pull again.  A slight rise and Garmin sprints and pulls the chain taut.  A gap grows in front of the rider in front of me and I let it.  He pulls off and I catch the wheel of someone else to close the gap.  Comfort.  Garmin sprints again and we all stay close.  The sprint point is in eyesight, a lonely sign on the side of a deserted road next to a railroad track.  I survived.  I feel good.  I belong.