Flying with B52s

The cold comes in through the fingertips, slowly spreading until I have to take my hand off the bar and move it a few times to push the cold back out.  There is sun today and there is wind, twenty miles per hour of it out of the northwest.  Five of us push against it thinking about the tailwind we’ll enjoy on the flipside.

Sean can’t help himself.  Each hill represents a chance to burst forward from the confines of the group.  Having twenty percent of the group surge ahead breaks the tempo a bit, but no one says anything.  We’re cold, maybe that’s it.  Or maybe complaining about the pace would be an admission of weakness, something a middle-aged man is normally loathe to do.  I’m leading the ride, it being in my neck of the woods, so folks off the front have to ask directions from the plodding old man each time we reach a turn.

I’m at the end of a fourteen hour week, long for me, the last week of the first base period.  Next week the hours are cut in half to seven and I’ll do a power test to see where things are at.  And then the second base period will begin with a twelve hour week.  There’s a rhythm to the year that I find pleasant, an ebb and flow of fitness and fatigue, recovery and exertion that mimics the world’s rhythms.  It’s impossible to be in peak form year round and this period I’m in now is building the large base of aerobic fitness needed for the hard stuff coming in a few months’ time.

All of this might seem like narcissistic navel gazing to some, but riders understand it deep down.  I have to, otherwise Sean shooting away on the climbs would be discouraging.  During our roll up to the Academy, I ask him how his training is going, and he confides that he’s focusing more on mountain biking this year and hasn’t ridden a great deal.  Somehow this makes me feel better, but I know better than to trust a roadie telling me he hasn’t been riding much.

We round into the wind full on as we leave the south gate and enter the Air Force Academy proper.  The road here is probably the best in the area.  Undeveloped, smooth, little traffic and long climbs.  Four climbs to be exact if one takes Pine to the left and does the entire ten mile loop.  “What is the elevation?” one of the guys asks.  “We top out at 7400.  On the second climb.”  I tell everyone to feel fine about leaving me behind, my legs are a bit tired, and we roll into the wind.

The first climb comes and I fall off the back with our team leader, Doug, and the U23 (Under 23) rider, Taylor.  He’s actually U20 and spent a few weeks this summer riding in France and Belgium with Bruyneel’s camp.  He’s supple on the bike and has that narrow look of younger riders, more greyhound than Clydesdale.  I assume he’s being polite to stay with Doug and me as Sean and Steve have gone up the road in a fit of climbing exuberance.  The climb is long, more than a mile, and I know there’s more to come, so I’ve settled into a hardish pace that I can keep for a while.  Doug and Taylor move away and then come back and soon we’ve crested and begin the second climb to the high point.  The views fall away to our right and, through the tall pines, we can see the mess that is Colorado Springs and the tree line of Black Forest to the north.  On our left the foothills sometimes block the wind and sometimes funnel it directly at us.  Sean and Steve are waiting at the pull out on top of the climb.

We eat bananas and powerbars and zip up for the descent.

“Turn left at the T-junction.  There’s still two more climbs.”  Doug says Oh, great, who picked this route?  and we laugh and slot in for the short descent.  The third hill is psychologically a challenge, it can be entirely seen from the descent, but it’s a power climb and I feel good and keep a nice tempo up it and stay with Doug and Taylor and watch the other two hit the top a few hundred meters ahead.  The last climb comes after another descent and Taylor blows up and falls back with Doug, who offers a helping hand.  It’s not long, but again one can see it coming and think about it too much before actually working on it.  I know what comes next, the long descent to the B52 and a right turn where we’ll feel the wind’s hand on our back, helping us home.

Forty six years

Yesterday was my birthday.  The day before, it occurred to me that I was getting older.  Not because of the hard ride my teammates on Colobikelaw put me through on a supposed ‘easy’ day on ‘flat’ roads southeast of Denver.  After three hours of four-man echelons into the wind and chasing down escapees on the hills, it suddenly popped into my brain that thirty years ago I built my first wheel.

I was suddenly old. 

Sixteen years old, riding my bike to a small bike shop on the north side of Milwaukee, in the ‘core’ of the projects on 23rd Street and Fond du Lac Avenue, I had no idea how the decision to apply for a job posted on the board at school would change me and the direction of my life.  A couple of years earlier I had ridden my first century on a Sears Free Spirit ten speed, an abomination of a bicycle.  Made with plumber’s pipe painted a dull mustard and fitted with the lowest tier of components available, it even sported ‘safety’ levers on the brakes.  Riding one hundred miles on it, lap after lap through Whitnall Park for a March of Dimes fundraiser in 1978 did three things.  First it destroyed the bike and launched my experience as a bicycle mechanic, then it showed me the delicious joy of riding for hours on a bicycle.  I was hooked and started racing the next year on a Trek, before Trek was cool.

And it led me to a bicycle shop far away from my semi-suburban home on Milwaukee’s southwest side.  About that same time I remember a story in the Journal about minority numbers in the different areas of the city.  Our area, with a population of 10,000 had exactly three minority residents.  I rode the city bus (or my bicycle) to my high school every day, a ten mile trip that took me past County Stadium and up through Pigsville.  Marquette High was on 35th and Wisconsin Avenue and I never noticed before that every white person on the bus got off there and a crowd of black people stood waiting to get on.  After two years, I rode the bus past Wisconsin for the first time and it hit me like a brick; I was the only white on the bus.  Years later, I would have the same experience as a Peace Corps volunteer in a small village on the edge of the Kalahari. 

I’ve been led to many places by my bikes.  As I reflect on my life so far, there are few regrets, few lost opportunities to keep me awake with thoughts of what could have been.  Perhaps it’s lingering fatigue from yesterday’s ride, but a sense of contentment is all that I find and a renewed excitement anticipating the time ahead. 

A new year

A painful blue sky backdrops the red stone formations of the Garden of the Gods.  White then gray then dark mist coalesce into clouds riding the north wind south.  It’s likely snowing just a few miles away on Woodmen Avenue.  Here the sun penetrates the freezing wind and my left side is warm climbing Mesa’s two mile rise.  My legs feel great; I’m sneaking a ride in before a predicted snow storm; every turn of the crank feels like a bonus, a reprieve from another session on the rollers.

It’s a new year, full of the possible, the improbable, the likely.  Cycling-wise, I’ve joined a new team and have had the opportunity to ride with some good guys, good at cycling and good in the Aristotelian sense as well. 

A new year also means a new training cycle.  This week is my first week of Base 1 (Base 123, Build 123, etc) and I’ve had the chance to supplement a bit with xc skiing at 10000 feet in Breckenridge.  Nothing like a good lungbuster workout with a better skier to push a limit. 

Plans for 2010?  Cycling: use my new TT bike to get better at the TT events up in Denver, develop a rapport with my team and work on winning races together, drop a few pounds and continue progressing in my fitness: increase my total hours to 600 this year.  Build a bicycle frame.

Off the bike: Develop more friendships with adults, something that seemed to get harder as I got older.  Spend good time with the family, continue keeping time to ride and be with Janet alone, hike a few 14 teeners, find time to write more.

All good things.