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.