miami beach

I first rode my bicycle in Florida about eight years ago. I was attending a conference in Tampa, renting a room in St. Pete's and rode with a local group called the Mad Dogs. I met a former Olympian from 1932 who was able to hang in the rocking chair of the A group. He was 92 and loved talking about his tomatoes and was a true ancien coureur. The other stand out memory was the A ride itself. We averaged 27 mph down to the state park at the tip of the peninsula and back and often cruised at 30+. It was completely flat. There were about seven or eight of us on the front participating in the pace line and another thirty or so sitting in the rocking chair, it was a big chair, being whisked along in the draft.

When you ride in a group, the idea is to maintain the effort, the pressure on the pedals until you are the one on the front, then the idea is keep a constant speed that the group can tolerate. This forces the lead to work harder and, after a number of turns on the crank, to pull off and rest in the back of the pace line. That morning, has we headed south, our safety against the blue-haired drivers aided by our numbers, we would hit causeways where the road would rise to cross the water. In Iowa, this would be considered a small roller, a tiny hill that wouldn't require even a downshift, just a muscle-through. In Florida, because of the relentlessly flat terrain, those causeways caused a dramatic reaction in the group. The first time we hit one, I was on the front, feeling good and excited to be in the paceline. I powered over the bridge and, at the top, signaled with my elbow to let the next guy come through. There wasn't one. Muscling through the small climb had dropped the group and they were about twenty yards behind me.

I was embarrassed. Dropping the group was a huge faux pas in riding culture. In Europe it might get you uninvited to the next group ride. I apologized as I soft pedaled back through the group and was very aware when the next rise came up. Again, the group downshifted, riders started breathing hard and everyone slowed. I did the same and marveled at the feeling of being a better climber than the others. Me, the too-large oaf who would get dropped on climbs in Iowa and France, was like a visitor from Krypton here. I didn't let it get to my head.

So yesterday, eight years later, I rode north in Miami Beach, past hotels, the strip I wandered with an old friend the night before. Palm trees, passing views of the ocean on my right and then the intercoastal canal on my left. Somewhere past thirtieth street I noticed the Jewish influences more and the trendy seediness of the South Beach area was behind me. Then island narrowed and the road tilted up into a causeway. I smiled and remembered my ride in St. Petes and then considered what an apt metaphor this was about life.

I turned at the Welcome to Sunny Isles sign and rode back to the condo on the other side of the island, spinning circular metaphors the whole way.