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.