Larkspur

A naked man sits on the edge of his bed, a spaghetti of bright lycra  mounded next to him.  The order of dressing is dictated by the weather outside, cool, gray and windy, also from the purpose of the day, a long ride along the front range, five or six hours in the saddle.  The socks are first, then the legwarmers and armwarmers.  I’m an unusual sight, but the door is closed.  Heart rate monitor strap around the chest and then an underlayer for the torso.  Red big shorts and with the straps now over the shoulders, he’s starting to feel clothed.  A long sleeved wool jersey, Campagnolo emblazoned across the back declaring my affinity for expensive bike bits from Italy, but something only a few people will understand, and I’m ready to load the back pockets.

The air is warm outside, but descending the valley road to town, things cool off and soon my breath is visible as I wait at the stoplight for my left turn onto Cascade.  Mike rolls up a few minutes late; he also spent time waiting at stop lights en route (who says that cyclists are all scofflaws?) and we roll north towards Palmer Lake and then Larkspur. 

Living in Manitou Springs presents a challenge for me.  If I head west on a ride, uphill, it basically means riding hard for an hour or two and then coasting downhill back home at ridiculous speeds.  If I head the other direction, we live in a valley, it means coasting downhill into a not-so-bicycle-friendly city and then choosing between the wastelands south and east of town or the hills north.  I don’t want to diss Colorado Springs too much; city fathers have made an effort to create bicycle lanes and put up Share the Road signs when it isn’t possible to make a lane, but riding in the area for a few months now, I get the distinct impression that someone did this purely at random, perhaps with a blindfold, map and a tail with a pin in it. 

Beyond the faux bike lane planning is the fact that most people in the Springs are trying to kill me.

True.  Although my head is on a swivel and I peer into every empty parked car and look through every intersection to guess the intentions of each participant in our traffic dance, someone tries to kill me.  Mike, too.  This time it’s a Hummer H3, black with tinted windshields, trying to run us off the narrow Jackson Creek Parkway, which runs parallel to Interstate 25.  When someone tries to kill you, it’s a flight or fight response.  Flight is impossible, so we shout, scream, wave our impotent fists in the air at the tinted rear windshield.  The little bit of adrenaline gives me a push up the hill, maybe H3 is stopped at the light.

Our run today takes us to the Speedtrap Coffee shop in Palmer Lake.  It’s a weekly stop for me now.  They close at 1, long before our loop to Larkspur brings us back, so we enjoy a quick and legal PED (performance enhancing drug), half a bagel with cheese.  A bottle refill and we’re climbing the rest of the Palmer Divide.  Two miles and then it’s fun time, downhill with a tailwind.  There is nothing better on a bike.  Free speed, everything quiet, on a smooth road and then Perry Lake Road appears far too fast and we’re on rollers trending upwards to Larkspur.  ‘Should we go a bit farther north?’  Mike asks before the turn.  Naw, we’ll be right on 90 miles for the ride by Manitou and it’s time to pay for the tailwind.

The road south to Palmer Lake, Spruce Mountain Rd., is relentless in a flat, treeless, hill five miles away kind of way.  I look down for awhile and watch the pavement flow beneath my wheels.  I look up and that far away hill is still there.  The wind slows us to 15, then 13 as we climb.  The computer tells me it’s a 3 percent grade, even though the road appears to be flat-lined.  The hill is 7 percent and we keep a decent pace up and then it’s flat again.  The faux plat. 

The constant pressure on the pedals is excellent training and we use the time to talk about ourselves, local races, training philosophies, friends we’ve made, new equipment.  Palmer Lake arrives and I’m surprised we’re actually 50 feet higher here than the summit at Spruce Mountain. 

It’s all downhill from here to town.