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.