Despite the ice

Minnehaha Road twists down the side of Pilot Knob to Manitou Avenue at a twelve percent clip.  Normally there’s a pothole just past the hairpin and some loose sand strewn above the road and in the middle of it, the rain leaving part of the hillside in the road.  Today there is  a sheet of ice and snow.  It’s only .27 miles according to the computer, but I have a foot out and search for the gravel hiding under the snow at the edge of the road for a bit of purchase.

The thermometer reads 27 when I push off for the Saturday morning ride.  I’m bundled in my winter riding clothes, some of which haven’t been worn since March.  When was the last time I used the Lobster gloves?  Can’t remember.  Why am I headed out?  Well two hours on the rollers yesterday is a motivator.  The spectre of three more hours churning away on those instruments of torture were a great motivator.  With the cold and snow forecasted for Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, I’ll be back on them soon enough.

I make it to the main avenue without sliding out and take over the center of the lane, the only clear spot where the concrete comes through the snow.  Yesterday warmed up in the afternoon, right before the sun slid behind the peaks at 3pm and just long enough to melt some snow, which then quickly turned to ice.  Today is supposed to warm again, all the way up to 40 and the process will be repeated.  The lanes are increasingly clear as I descend with Fountain Creek towards the city.  By the time I pass under the Welcome to Manitou Sign, I’m home free and thinking more of exposed face then sheets of ice.

I’m early to the coffee shop and get to wait ten minutes for the hardiest souls of the training group to show up.  And they do, about fifteen of them.  Bundled against the weather, sharing stories about the ice and snow and secretly feeling good about having the gumption to get out and ride today, this day being an oasis of warmth on the weather forecast, surrounded by temperatures in the teens and foreboding forecasts of snow and weather advisories.

Just read somewhere that the air resistance at 40 degrees is 6 percent higher than at 90.  Seems like picking nits, but I hold onto this as an explanation of why I feel slow and sluggish this time of the year.  Thick air and thick clothes.  We’re all in the same boat as we head east on Platte.  It’s been exactly five months since my first ride with the group, a hot day in early July where the air was thin, very thin and I spent a great deal of the ride hiding the fact that I couldn’t breathe.  Today I pull the group most of the way for the warmup.  Riders line up behind me, probably more of an effect of my generous draft then my mind-boggling speed.  It’s OK; I’m warm now, the blood is flowing and I hit the sweet spot with my clothing: warm enough to keep out the draft, but still able to breathe enough to not leave me soaking wet in a plastic bag. 

We turn south and hit the hill.  I’m at the front and ride a smart tempo into the hill.  I’m undergeared for this part of the ride, a 53x14 is my tallest gear, and I’m spinning at about 110 rpm as a rider sprints past and gaps the front of our group.  Not sure why he’s doing this and that is the central idea in cycling, isn’t it?  Energy should only be spent for a reason.  It’s winter, we’re all bundled up, and there is no way in hell this guy is staying off the front by himself until the first sprint point in ten miles.  Besides what’s the point?  There’s no honor in winning a sprint in December.  Eric jumps out to join him.

I pull them back.  It takes about a mile and I see that I can spin my top gear and hold 32mph pretty comfortably.  The small gear keeps me honest and spinning, building base.  Later, I’m explaining to Eric, who’s been riding since July and is new to the sport, why I put the easy gears on.  It’s not complicated: it’s base-building time and the small gears will prevent me from succumbing to the temptation of mashing the big gears.  Time for that later on. 

As we reel the escapee back in, I see he’s a new guy, big like me, but young.  He’s angry with Eric for not working with him and even threatens to fight him.  I tell Eric maybe that he was speaking metaphorically, but the big guy is new to the culture of the ride.  He has no idea what he’ll feel like 45 miles from now as we hold a steady tempo back into the city.  The other guys do and they’re saving they’re matches so they can finish well. 

The sprint up Link Hill comes and goes.  The big guy aggressively takes it from Eric and the rest of us enjoy their draft and spin up the hill.  We’re into a slight wind right now, but any wind feels significant when it’s freezing outside.  Miles later, we realize the hill has erased half of our group.  I move to the back and it only five riders come by.  Where did they go?  The tiny, bossy woman frantically waving folks through to make a rotating paceline, the owner of a local bicycle business, the fellow wearing the USA team kit.  Gone and we miss them, or at least their draft.

I’m enjoying the ride and soon the flat sprint comes and I spin away in our group.  Eric and the big guy duke it out and I don’t see who wins.  That’s Ok, we’ve got thirty miles to go back home and I feel lucky and alive and good.