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.

Redemption and adaptation

I know, confusing title without some background of what needed redeeming the past two weeks on the bike.

The shape of my cycling week here in Colorado:

Saturday is the training ride with the local hot shots who meet at 10:00 at the Starbucks on Tejon.  A mixture of local guys, visiting pros, and top amateurs, this is the ride to be on in the area.  I ride to the start from our home in Manitou, about 8 miles down the canyon to Colorado Springs, then an easy tempo for the first 10 miles east past Peterson AFB.  Once the road heads south, the fireworks begin and the group lunges up a hill after the turn.  From that point, it’s balls-out, race-pace to the first sprint about 12 miles up the road at the top of a small climb.  The last sprint is just before the turn-around where the road tees into Hwy 115 south of Ft. Carson Army Base.  We turn and pick up folks that had to pee, couldn’t hold the pace or had a mechanical and carry a tempo back to the start.  55 miles of training ride and 8 miles on each side for warm-up and cool-down.  It’s a nice ride and every week we ride the same course with slightly different results depending on who’s in town.

Wednesday is my long ride and this week I spent it with Scoots, aka the evil Mountain Elf, on the road north of Woodland Park.

Two days this week were spent with Karl on a loop through the Garden of the Gods and these rides, more than any other, keep me in love with cycling.

Monday Karl had a half day at the elementary school, his first day at his new school, so afterwards we aired up his tires, cleaned the Nebraska bugs off his frame and located some gloves and his helmet.  We rode from the house for the first time, down Manitou Ave and then zigged over to El Paso for the ride into the Garden of the Gods. 

Karl was nervous at first, but then was shouting, “Dad, I got up to 37 miles an hour on that hill!”  We laughed and I shouted out pedestrians lumbering up the bike lane.  It was a sweet and beautiful way to spend a recovery ride and Karl showed some panache on the longer climb on the north side of the park, accelerating away from his dad.

Two days later, I figured it was time to do some base miles to build up my endurance fitness.  One thing I’ve learned since moving out here a month and a half ago; you can’t ignore the difference between the rolling hills and thousand foot elevation of northeastern Iowa and the Rocky Mountains.  Recovery is longer and so are the climbs.

Scoots came down and we saddled up at 9:30, envisioning a 118 mile loop from Manitou, west to Woodland Park, north to Deckers, over to Sedalia and then down through Palmer Lake and the Air Force Academy. 

I’ll make it official here: Scoots is now a climber.  From Manitou it’s straight onto the climb up Ute Pass, the only warm-up the brief descent from our home on Pilot Knob to Manitou Ave.  Then it’s up.  For twelve miles.

I’ve been up the pass four times now and each time I give myself about twenty minutes to let the muscles cool, but not this time.  Maybe it was the rider just ahead on Highway 24, maybe it was some inner alpine demon struggling to possess Scoots, but we went up the pass in record time, even with my friend slowing down for me on the steeper ramps.  By Woodland Park, we had only 106 miles to go and I felt like I’d just been put through the ringer and there was still suds in my hair.

Descending to Deckers is a blessed thing.  There is a climb on the way, past hills scorched by the Hayman Fire, but soon the pines come closer to the road and the cool breeze coming off the Platte River rinses the sting from the quads.  We stop in Deckers for some gatorade and run into two cyclo-tourists from Washington, Lauren and Tai.  Great folks, I invited the

m to stop for the night at our house; we’d be there in the middle of the afternoon, just 85 miles to go.  Right.

The sweet scene continued along the Platte.  The water was muddy from a landslide a few weeks before and when the north fork entered, the clear water ran next to the brown and we scooted along at a respectable 17mph as the tarmac gave way to packed dirt.  We must have been looking at the water, because we rode right past our turn to Sedalia.

We noticed this fifteen miles later, when our road teed into Foxton Road and Scoots said, “Hey, if we take that road we’ll be in Denver.”  So we turned around and passed the fly fishermen, the kayaks playing in the rapids and the astounding scenery.  One worry was the waterbottles were running low, putting off the peanut butter sandwich in my pocket. 

At our turn for Sedalia, we stopped for a snack and Scoots read a sign at the base.  He laughed and as we launched up the gravel road, just three miles from reunification with tarmac, I saw it too, “15% grades ahead”  Shit, it was plural.

I tried, I really did.  I tried so hard, I wrenched my back and landed on my balls when the rear wheel spun out and my testicles had no where to go but down to meet my top tube.  One climb, then another. I walked up one and felt relief when I could see the road leveling to a saner ten percent grade.  Then the air went out as we rounded the corner and saw the steepest climb yet. 

“Scott, I can’t do it.”  For me, this is rock bottom.  I’m never the guy that quits, but I am now.  I just can’t do it.  My water is low, my back throbs and my bike just won’t go up that climb.  I suck.

Scoots is good about it.  We turn and descend that hard-fought mile of gravel we had just endured and met our road again, the road that seemed to keep us close.  We headed the ten miles back to Deckers. 

Bonk.  The word is peculiar to cycling and for a rider it is the worst thing that can happen short of being smashed in the face by a semi-truck.  It’s sneaky, too.  Taking advantage of you when you’re being stupid, it makes you stupider.  You forget to eat, you forget to drink, you keep pushing until, suddenly you don’t feel right and the bike you’re riding just doesn’t seem to roll anymore.  I bonked on the way back to Deckers.  I met the man with the hammer and he visited a wallop on my skull.  As we rolled in, I said I would just call Janet and have her pick us up.  It was three, we’d been on the road for 5 and a half hours and I hadn’t eaten my sandwich yet.  It was gone in a flash, along with a large gatorade, a bar, a liter of Pepsi and something else that may or may have not had fur on it. 

By three fifteen I felt better and we decided to give the climb to Woodland Park a shot.  If we could get there, it was a twelve mile coast to home.  By three thirty I knew this wasn’t going to happen.  By three thirty three I was pulled over on the side of the road, dizzy and incapable of riding more than twelve miles an hour.  We’d gone 88 miles and I was done. 

The long and the short of the rest of the story is that we did indeed call Janet, but Scoots had to ride back and forth over a mountain to do so.  We then waited for a while before realizing that we’d made a mistake in the directions and she was driving in the wrong direction.  This necessitated another ride for both of us over the climb and we nearly made it to Woodland Park before the blessed Scion arrived to take us away. 

The rest is a wonderful dream involving Fat Tire Ale, bean burritos and lots of laughs. 

Moving in

The past weeks have been a whirlwind.  Closed last Friday, moved in Wednesday, received a sea of cardboard boxes filled with all of our earthly possessions on Thursday morning, unexpectedly early.  Toss in a four week summer course in general linguistics, a two week intensive methodology course for a visiting group from Mexico and final grades due TODAY, and one gets the sense that the world is spinning a few degrees faster.

My cycling life has taken a hit of sorts.  After initially maintaining my weekly time in the saddle, I got tired.  No other way to explain it.  Perhaps the altitude acclimation, perhaps the crazy work schedule and stress of moving…

So now we’re a few weeks along in our Colorado experience, half a week in our new Manitou home, and I’m not so tired today, even though our Sunday group did a good, hard climbing ride up to the zoo and through the Garden of the Gods. 

Maybe this is starting to feel like home.