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.