A week on the rear

There is now a certain comfort in the routine of the Saturday training ride in Colorado Springs.  People are beginning to look familiar, their riding styles apparent, even while focusing on the 23 millimeter width of their rear tire from behind, and I’m even remembering some names.  Cody stands out, a fellow has large as I am, arms and legs tatooed and a ready comment in the pack.  One of the few fellows in whose draft I can really recover after a long pull.  I readily give up my place in the paceline when I’m behind one of the 90 pound women and search for Cody.  It must be reciprocal because he’s close enough behind me that I can hear him breathe. 

Patterns and routines, moving from week to week, and then year to year.  During our ride Saturday, under brilliant blue skies and an easy breeze, I felt the first twinges of winter in my legs.  The first year I was taken by surprise; what’s wrong with me, my legs just don’t have it and I’ve been training so hard.  Now I know that I’m coming up against my annual week off the bike, an annual chance to scrub the fatigue accumulating in my body and mind and begin the training process anew. 

As we head south, I take my turn pulling into the breeze.  I take the first turn, as we lack the heavy hitters of previous weeks who turn the screws the first chance they get.  So I hit the front, put some pressure on the pedals and crest the rise at 27mph and glance back.  Cody comes by and pushed the pace again.  He seriously enjoys putting the hurt on the smaller riders.  Into the wind, mass has its advantages.  I let a few riders slide by and take a turn again.  Rinse and repeat.  This is now easy and the miles tick off to the first sprint point.  A tired sensation begins to boil up from my quads and I push it back down.  We turn east and I can see the road rising and then the final rise to the sprint.  I’m positioned well, on the outside of the line, maybe six bikes back and it’s all about relaxation and spin here.  People work to get behind me and I hear Cody’s laugh; he’s pushed his way in, another advantage of mass.

But I’m tired.  I suddenly realize this and three of the riders fade back to the right.  I’m second wheel and know that I have nothing in the tank, the hill is going to hurt bad.  I say in a conversational voice, ‘Want a leadout?’  ‘Hell, yes’ floats back and I dig into the downhill and move off the front with Cody in tow.  We touch 40 and then I sprint into the side of the hill, digging myself into a deep hole of pain.  Two thirds of the way up, Cody comes by in full sprint and I fade, fade away through 30 riders standing on the hill.  Two of Lance’s Livestrong riders come slowly by and I go over the hill last in the group, hanging on, but spent.

One of Cody’s charges, a fellow he’s coaching for triathalons, asks why in the world I would lead out Cody and give up my chances.  ‘That’s what makes bike racing so much more interesting than triathalons,’ I tell him.  He ponders this as we spin north back the twenty miles to town.

So, it’s a week off the bike.  An attempt at a ride on Monday to meet folks in the cold rain at UCCS was aborted as my legs felt like two pieces of timber.  Fatigue from the move, from acclimating to the elevation, from the increasing time on the bike can lead to other bad things if I don’t rest.  The forecast of four days of snow, sleet and general wet, nasty weather aided the decision. 

We’ll start the next season this Saturday with the gang at Bijou and Tejon. 

When you’re down

Note to self: anytime I’m feeling a little blue about my situation, take a ride on Upper Gold Camp Road until the pavement gives out and there is only a view for miles to the east and ribbon of asphalt trickling back down the mountain.

The air is moist from yesterday’s downpour and I’m rested from a day of watching rain fall on my parched vegetable garden.  The squash are starting to flower again, what is the suggested annual allowance of zucchini for one person?  Whatever it is, I remember clearly why we hadn’t planted it in Iowa for the past five seasons.  I’m a little frustrated with how things are developing at the university.  Maybe not frustrated, but just missing what I had at Divine Word, camaraderie, challenge, friendship, a shared mission and wonderful students.  I’m thinking about this as I pull on my kit, stretching the legs a bit to get into the Castelli shorts, optimistically sized an XL when a XXL was really needed.  When I get those climber legs…

I take Minnehaha on the west side of town down to Manitou.  There’s construction just below us on Illinois and the rains washed rock, sand and gravel onto the

road in wide swaths.  I remember Karl sliding sideways two weeks ago and holding it up; we didn’t tell mom about that.  Post Labor Day Manitou is almost normal; the rondpoint is free as I buzz through, the cassette clicking and an older tourist, children no longer at home, glances up from the curiosity shop window.  The speed limit is 20 through town and I can easily coast that, so I arrive at the base of 26th, not so warmed up, in fact chilled would be a better word, but a sunny climb beckons and I turn south and face Cheyenne Mountain, erstwhile home of VP Cheney when he was hiding from the bad guys after 9-11.

The road begins with a steep push past Butt Park (I kid you not) and soon the Red Rocks Open Space sprawls into the distance on the right.  The climb is steepest right now and my stiff muscles work to pound out a rh

ythm.  Keep it at 330 watts or so, my threshold, this is a five mile climb and I want to pick it up at the end.  Bear Creek Park passes on my left, a beautiful road drops off steeply in the middle of a switchback.  A quick push and we’re back to five and six percent.  No one passes and I see a clot of people ahead on a pullout.  The NBC television van and some cameras set up facing the cliff face.  I spin by and say good morning.  A bend later and cyclists are coming down.  A tandem, two tandems and then a handcycle, low-slung and hugging the turns.  Each gets a wave and then I’m passing a woman on a handcycle.  A fellow on a road bike is coaching her up the climb and I give her a ‘Looking good!’ and spin past. 

I started the ride down feeling not so good, now a combination of the human spirit displayed by these handcyclists and the self-inflicted pain of the climb have the endorphins and philosophical thoughts flowing and I’m much better now. 

Snippets

Post ride, fragments of ideas, random thoughts and images, tiny chunks of time spent on the bike compressed and tied to the effort spent. How long was that? My computer tells me the entire ride, from home to ride start to somewhere south of Fort Carson to home again, lasted two hours and forty-five minutes. The computer breaks down the calories, kilojoules, wattage, speed, cadence: information that attempts to quantify the lovely buzz in my quads, the slight ache in my shoulders, but the numbers are grainy despite their precision.

Some crystaline pictures. We are a small group crossing Tejon as the morning traffic at Starbucks watches us depart over a steaming mochacinno, maybe twenty riders. The forecast of rain mid-ride as cut our numbers by two-thirds. I'm new; is this normal? 'I don't know,' the guy in the Kelly Benefits kit says, 'I usually don't come when the forecast is for rain.' I realize I'm riding with folks who didn't check Weather.com before they left.

The exceptions are from the midwest. Byron from East Lansing, his pro mountain bike friend, Kelly and myself did look at the forecast and still came. Without so many riders, what will the training ride be like today? An easy cruise?

Kelly's blue Giant kit is a permanent fixture at the front as we hit race speed and begin south. I pull through and notice I'm holding 34mph into a stiff SE wind. I notice that and count pedal revs to ten, then twenty and pull to the right. I don't feel well; my legs are gummy and I'm a bit tired. I've strung out the line with my pull and it takes a while to find a comfy spot behind someone big enough to shelter me.

We're moving up the hill to the first sprint point and I'm following wheels and go over fifth, second week in a row that I can still draw breath over the top. I'm pleased. Kelly and a fellow from Spike who seems intent on impressing her, go over first. I move in behind her as we line up at 40mph for the turn right. Drafting her is like drafting a paper clip and I feel like I'm pulling but not getting any credit. First chance I move over to Spike and feel about fifty pounds come off my legs.

Kelly is attacking. Attack, Kelly, attack. Kelly is attacking into the wind. Does Kelly weigh more than eighty pounds? Attack, Kelly, attack. Spike follows. Spike is bigger than Kelly. Chris follows Spike. No one follows Chris. Spike is tired. Kelly is tired. Attack, Chris, attack.

As I pass her, Kelly is breathing in gasps. I was breathing hard, too, but when I come from behind, I relax my face and control my breathing for a few moments. She glances over and I smile. The effect is immediate and she falls back to the group.

I'm by myself and it feels too hard, too far from the last sprint and my legs are tired. I ease up and Spike catches me. I ride behind him and the right arm wiggles, the international signal to pass and pull on that side. I decline. The group swallows us up.

Reaching up to the baseline

It’s September now and the air is cold, even at nine o’clock in the morning.  Arm warmers, a relic from my memories of springtime rides in Iowa, are pulled out, adjusted under the jersey and much appreciated on the descent to the start of the Saturday morning ride.

Manitou Springs proper is quiet, tourists don’t seem to wake too early, and the rondpoint on the west side of town doesn’t even require a touch of the brakes as there is absolutely no one about.  A bit different scene after the turn to El Paso at the park, preparations for the weekend art festival sponsored by Commonweal artists are underway, tents raised, booths set up, a crazy knot of parked cars, vans and trailers.  I glide through, more than a door length away from every vehicle; no one is watching for me.

Ahead a cyclist, no two cyclists spread apart, the one in front 25 meters ahead of his partner.  I spin and let gravity pull me closer.  ‘Good morning!’  He glances over and offers a greeting between breaths.  We catch his partner at the stop sign on 31st.  I lag a bit, but they lag more and I keep the spin going.  They seem gone, maybe turned off to the Garden on 30th, but then there’s a click of a derailleur shift and I slow a bit to chat and they lag some more. 

I’m downtown too fast, too early and pick a seat at the Starbucks.  I see Steve the homeless guy, shuffle down the street as I arrive, no verbal assault today, I guess.  I think I’m sitting in his chair.

Tom rolls up next, a great conversation partner in the group and one of the only guys to laugh at my jokes.  By our ‘start’ time of ten, about half of the riders have arrived; when we start at 10:15, there’s a good forty riders, including some new notaries: Steve Johnson, head of USACycling, and Danny Pate and Mike Friedman of Garmin.  As Friedman moves up in the group, he deliberately rubs his front wheel on the back of Pate’s rear wheel.  This is a greeting of sorts and they’re slapping each other on the back and talking.  Steve Johnson is riding a brand new Specialized bike with electronic Di2 on it.  He’s also wearing Mario’s world champion jersey as well; a little retro with a lot of latest geek equipment.

We hit the turn south and the group spreads and accelerates up the hill marking the beginning of the 20 mile hard section of the ride.  My legs feel wonderful today, again a strange thing after the hard ride on Wednesday, but maybe this is the way it works.  I mentally take it easy as we’re cruising along at 35mph, on a slight downhill into a headwind that will keep the little guys in the group.  For the first five miles, many of the weaker riders are taking turns on the front; most of the jerseys with sponsor logos hang back, shepherding their effort a bit and this is not a bad tact to take.

I go on the front in the paceline about half of the way to the first sprint point.  Just ten turns of the crank, maybe a few seconds, and I move to the right and downshift to slow and give the fellow in back a break from the wind.  It’s a pleasure to work in a group of skilled riders.  There’s no worries about lapped wheels or bad lines and we rocket toward the sprint.

At ten wheels back, I practice a mental trick I use in races; these guys are working for me, pulling me to the line.  I stay in the wake and feel myself being pulled up the hill.  My goal is to stick and not fall back and I don’t, I float over about fifth wheel and I can still breathe!  Downhill and we hit 40 and into the turn we go.

Later, ‘Not bad for a big guy.  I thought you were going to go back.’ Christine weighs about 90 pounds and offers absolutely no draft in the group.  I manage to get her wheel several times and give it away as soon as I can.  She thanks me for my draft and we talk a bit.  Perhaps a riding mate for Janet?  She needs other women to ride with and Christine is a very good rider.

The ride stops at the Seven Eleven in Fountain and we cruise through Fort Carson back towards the mountains.  Lightning and smoke fill the valley.  ‘They’re doing some prescribed burns today.’ Our group has been reduced to about 20 riders, among them Mark, the fellow that inspected my new house in Manitou.  He glances back for me and we turn off and ride a shortcut on Motor City road, a terrible place of car lots and wide concrete ugliness.  We talk, we’re about the same age and similar experience and we’ve developed the instant trust of pulling together in a paceline. 

Up a creek

She is beautiful.  Not in that glamorous. over the top way seen in Bazaar, a magazine whose sole purpose seems to be recycling, but she is beautiful in a rare and lasting way, more an expression of her soul than any particular physical attribute.  I ride behind her and she blends with the beauty of the landscape, an expanse of red rock and juniper stretching to a horizon far to the east, framed by a red wall towering to the west.

Perhaps I’m high.  Literally.  The altimeter shows about 7500 feet on my fancy computer.  We’re climbing steadily up Gold Camp Road, a few miles from our home in Manitou Springs, an easy downhill glide to a five mile climb up Bear Creek Canyon.  The rhythm of the effort becomes a chant; my mind wanders to the Beauty Way chant from the Navajo healing ceremony,

All that has harmed me will leave me,
leaving my body cool once more.
Within me today,I shall be well.
All fever will come from me,
and leave me,leave my brow cool.
I will hear today
and see today
and be my own true self today.
This is the day I shall walk.
This is the day when all that is ill will leave me
and I shall be as I was,
as I walk in a cool body.
This day onwards I shall be happy
for nothing will prevent me.
I shall walk and beauty will go before me.
I shall walk and beauty will be behind me.
I shall walk and beauty will be above me.
I shall walk and beauty will be beneath me.
I shall walk and beauty will surround me.
I shall walk and speak of beauty.
For the rest of my days I shall be whole,
for all things are beautiful.

We wind our way up, the pedals now part of the chant, the effort part of the chant, the rocks, wind, our lives together, our shared laughter, we continue on our beauty way, riding with beauty all around us, a whole, our ride together.

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Now I know why God made streams

Like a nagging headache or an intermittent backpain, my bonk-aborted ride two weeks ago sat in the back of my brain festering.  “I’m going to do a long ride today, honey.  I should be back for the kids’ soccer practice at 5.” 

The plan was to complete the loop up to Sedalia and down to the South Platte River, returning via Deckers and Woodland Park.  Doing it counter clockwise would mean going down the 15% gravel grades down to the river, instead of up them which was part of my undoing last time. 

Palmer Lake and Deckers both have places serving espresso, so I knew I was going to be OK. 

I rode through the Garden of the Gods, turned north on 30th Street and left the scenic portion of my ride and entered the crazed car culture that is Colorado Springs.  Centennial to Allegheny is somewhat bike friendly, if not friendly to the eyes.  Rows of condos, and apartments and the itinerant Walgreens give way to one acre lots and suburban homes.  Looking beyond the houses and one can visualize the beautiful red rock country they’ve been super imposed upon.  A woman is washing her driveway with her hose as I descend to the knot of roads and Academy.  We’ve come to this.

I’m not feeling that great, probably allergies, but I dread my time on Academy.  Last week I was nearly taken out trying to get to the friendly cycling confines of the Air Force Academy, turned back because of road construction at the North Gate, and damn near killed again by an organic shopper rushing to get to Whole Foods.  The irony.  Janet chastized me yesterday for yelling at a driver that cut us off on a ‘Bicycle Route’.  ‘What am I supposed to do? They’re trying to kill us!’ 

And so it happened, as it must I suppose, a fellow in large Dodge D250, probably in a hurry to buy something, lays on his horn.  I’m riding north on Academy, trying to get to the turn north on Voyager.  There are four lanes of traffic, including a turn lane, which I’m taking right now, not wanting to move into the middle of the crazed shoppers and commuters who are much to busy texting and talking on their cells to bother with some freak on a bicycle.  No, the turn lane is the safest location.  The guys hits the horn again.  There is an additional turn lane 10 yards up the road; he’s turning into a parking lot; I am impeding his shopping instinct. My own instinct of self preservation kicks in (he’s trying to kill you!) and I turn and let him have it, gesticulating like a crazed Italian.  This all passes quickly.  He moves ahead in the additional turn lane, briefly hitting his brakes, perhaps considering a more physical challenge.  I turn on Voyager.

The urban center gives way again to suburban and then I’m riding along the expressway towards Monument.  I am still in the Suburban Sprawl, home of the Village Inn, Seven Eleven and intense traffic.  Where are these people going at 10am?  Finally, a few miles north, I can smell pine again and Palmer Lake arrives

with my first latte.  I put my feet up and take care of a cheese sandwich tucked in my jersey.

 

There’s a headwind today, about 10-15mph out of the northeast, which means that I get to eat it all the way to Sedalia, about 60 miles into the ride.  The great thing now is that I’ve nearly crested the Palmer Divide, a gradual ramp that peaks around 7500 feet just north of town.  Downhill into the wind shouldn’t be too bad and there is always the possible tailwind once I get to the Platte.

The road smoothes out and the wide spaces begin to digest my thoughts.  The scale of the west is monumental.  Grass and the occasional pioneer pine, a complete lack of traffic and the smooth then dotted then smooth yellow center lines of the road tap out a visual rhythm and my ride becomes a meditation.

Sedalia and another gatorade stop at the local fly and convenience store.  ‘Where you heading?’  ‘Back home to Manitou.’  The flyfisherman/grocer eyes me.  ‘You’ve got a ways to go yet.’  I agree and thank him for the two gatorades.  I’ve drunk six bottles so far and it looks like this will be at least a 12 bottle ride.  Gatorade and my bagel with schmeer and cucumbers, my cheese sandwich and giant chocolate chip cookie, my clif blocks and granola bar; I will not bonk or

dehydrate today.

I do know why God invented streams for cyclists; roads built along streams are humane affairs, with tolerable inclines in the 3-4 percent range.  Any time a road leaves the stream, creek or river, the cyclist is in human hands and then the sky is the limit, literally.  The road from Sedalia begins the trek back to the mountains.  There is a stream off to the side and the climb is gentle.  I’m astounded how good it feels not

to have a headwind and begin to daydream a bit as the mountains loom closer.  Suddenly the road is jerked to the right and the pitch is over 12 percent.  My legs scream at me for not putting on the 13-27 this morning.  The brain forgot.  The sun is out and it’s suddenly hot with no wind blowing and the road goes up and on and on and up again.  There is brief respite and a phantom horizon through the trees; just cruel jokes.  There is no stream to regulate this agony just my brain and some gatorade and I pull over to rest a second. 

‘You OK?  Got enough water?’  Sure, thanks, just taking a breather.  The pine forest is deep and I’m surrounded by the scent of sun-warmed pine sap.  A logging truck is pulling out up the road and I contemplate this short, 27 mile jaunt to Deckers.  I already know that there is a steep downhill grade on gravel; I attempted the reverse with Scoots two weeks ago, but what is there between the two Knowns of where I’ve been today and where I was two weeks ago?  A philosophical question. 

The legs churn on up the climb.

All dressed up

I’m still getting used to the air, not just its thinness, but the crisp, dry mountain smell that greets me each morning when I open kitchen door to pump up the tires and look over the bike before a ride.  The air is bracing, the sun is out and I’m looking forward to a good, hard ride with my new friends on the Saturday morning training ride.

I slide through the back streets and main street of Manitou.  The tourists are still snoozing and few locals are getting things ready for a day of business on Manitou Avenue.  Just past the cop shop, I turn left and take the little jog over to El Paso.  El Paso runs parallel to Manitou, past bed and breakfast establishments and older estates looking south over the canyon.  It’ an easy downhill spin.  A climb past 31st and then dodging the cars going to the market in Old Colorado City across from their Carnegie Library.

At Walnut, the road is going to end, a quick right and left and I’m on the main drag of Colorado Ave, pointed at Downtown Colorado Springs, warmed up and raring to go.  Perhaps this week I’ll play more on the front, take a pull or two and sprint for the at hill climb…

Road Closed Ahead.  Tejon is closed?  Then I remember, the big military parade today.  I turn a block earlier and then right on Bijou to the Starbucks.  Fifteen minutes early and not much to do but sit and watch the preparations with the patriotic folks on the street.  A young black guy, street person through and through, “You OK?”  Yep.  “No problem?”  I don’t think so.  An older woman, to no one in particular, “My husband is off to Afghanistan for his eighth tour.” Uh-huh.  “If we don’t keep ‘em out of here, then they’ll be hanging jews from the lamp posts.”  Ok, that’s enough.  I move away from my conversation partners and sidle up to another rider sitting at an outdoor table.  Ahh, my tribe.

Byron, a new student at UCCS and transplant from East Lansing, pulls up.  Greetings.  Soon we have a posse of about 25 riders wondering how we’ll get to our route, on the other side of the parade route.  The parade starts at precisely 10am; we lollygag for a few more minutes and then head back west a block to try to ride around the start. 

Bump, pause, bump.  I feel the roughness of Bijou under my bum.  Either the rear tire is really over inflated, or I have a flat.  I look down; a flat.  The group rides away and I prop the bike up on bench.  It’s game over.  I change the flat and ride back up Colorado Ave, Pikes Peak Ave, El Paso Ave and the back way to Manitou. 

Instead of high speed jockeying for position this week at the front of the pack, I trade ideas for cooking zucchini with an older woman coming back from the Old Colorado City market.  Funny how these things work.

Taking a spin with my baby

The morning is clear, dry and there’s a cool easterly breeze blowing.  The kids have school.  All day!  and Janet and I both have very nice bikes.

We go for a ride.

Who am I?

A dull throb, a low remembering of the effort on Wednesday, a slight feeling of constriction, the blood forcing its way through capillaries blocked by something or mysteriously shrunken since the last big ride.  Thoughts, can you do this? why are you doing this?  you’re old, you will get dropped, you will be embarrassed?  Inward fears, but on the outside there’s just a rider cycling down Manitou Ave, dodging the early tourists and folks setting up for the annual buddy walk in town. 

Bravado is usually in great supply before a training ride, especially one that draws riders from so many teams and regions.  No one blinks at the Kiwi or Aussie accent in the paceline, or the team kits from various domestic and international teams, Team Type 1, Jelly Belly, Garmin Slipstream, Rock Racing.  Perhaps this is adding to my anxiety.  My legs still ache but I keep it all tucked in and meet the other riders at the Starbucks on Tejon.

Waiting for the ride to begin.  It occurs to me that insecurity comes more from not knowing than anything else.  Ignorance of the other riders abilities, ignorance of my own.  Weakness is a human quality that makes us do stupid things, like shoot past another rider on a climb, an act that shouts, I’M STONGER THAN YOU!  for no other reason than to mask some shortcoming in my head. 

We roll out, kitty corner across the intersection, our group large enough to last the entire light, but impressive enough in size that the drivers are patient.  A few blocks north and then east on Boulder, the group sets a comfortable rolling speed that touches twenty and then backs off.  Folks are talking, catching up; some have a serious, brooding look.  Most often the latter are dropped when the speed doubles at the turn south.  The well-trained are comfortable enough to laugh, the others focus on the pain ahead.

The road descends and then crests a small hill at Powers.  We’re on a multilane concrete ribbon with drib drabs of Saturday morning traffic.  The hill is the first effort of the morning and there is a huffing and gasping as some riders slow too much and come back through the group.  I’m sure this worries them; we’re not at speed yet.  We leave the main drag and take a frontage road and there is a stop.  The group obeys lights and considers stop signs seriously but not literally.  Hands go down, palm back, to let following riders know to stop.  Forty riders today?  Maybe fifty.  The next stop sign is our turn south.

The pace goes from twenty to thirty five just past the turn.  Chain noise, riders out of the saddle, the strong sun glinting off helmets.  I stand and move smoothly into a comfortable seventh wheel or so, just behind someone large enough to provide a comfortable draft and steady enough to not kill me.  I dread the idea of hitting the edge, or lapping a wheel at this speed and quickly put the idea out of my head. 

My strategy today is to not take any pulls at the front, even if I’m comfortable.  This is based on two things: my tired legs and the fact that the group attacked me last week after a pull and dropped me just before the railroad tracks and the second sprint.  It might happen today, but I’m going to do everything to not get dropped.  I’m aware that I am feeling good and resist an invitation to pull into the rotating paceline, choosing to ride in the rocking chair just off the tail of the rotation.  I’m good at this.  So good that the rider looking to move to the right and towards the front doesn’t even see me.  Once in a while a rider does, and leaves the gap, but I resist and they move into it themselves.

Riding at the front, I have no idea who is behind me, the same riders move around me, familiar pedaling motions, predictable behaviors.  I hear Cody, a large rider like myself and so instantly a friend in the draft, telling a new rider he brought along to stay on my wheel.  “Just stay on it.  Don’t worry about the sprint, you won’t be a factor.  Just keep his wheel.”  This makes me feel good.  I’m a resource; I can be counted on; and, I belong.

The sprint is approaching.  We pass a subdivision HOMES STARTING IN THE 120,000’s; we pass through a left turn and I see the first hills approaching.  A few weeks ago I made the mistake of moving onto the front here and paid for it.  I’m comfortable, there’s no trouble keeping the pace or the wheel in front of me and and let’s keep it that way.  Over the second bump and I see the hill whose top marks the first sprint.  My goal is too stay comfortable.  Comfort, easy, breathe, be comfortable and smooth.  Cody comes by on the left and I let him.  Good for him if he gets the sprint today.  He fades.  The little guy in the Garmin kit takes a pull and we all strain under the effort to not break the string.  We crest the hill and I’m fifth wheel now and the effort has taken my ability to breathe away.  I take regular gasps, but I’m on the moon; there’s no air.  And we’re going downhill, spinning out my 53x12, probably around forty but I can’t see clearly enough to glance at the computer.

The secret is to keep the mask in place.  Catch your breath on the sly and by the next turn, I’m following the wheel of someone and letting another into the corner.  If this were a real race, I’d close the door on him, but I’m sure I’ll need whoever it is in a few minutes. 

We’re rolling on to the second sprint.  I let myself go to the back.  All of these riders are working for me now!  The back comes up quickly; there’s maybe ten of us now.  Ten.  We pass the spot I was dropped last week after a pull and resist the urge to pull again.  A slight rise and Garmin sprints and pulls the chain taut.  A gap grows in front of the rider in front of me and I let it.  He pulls off and I catch the wheel of someone else to close the gap.  Comfort.  Garmin sprints again and we all stay close.  The sprint point is in eyesight, a lonely sign on the side of a deserted road next to a railroad track.  I survived.  I feel good.  I belong.

Redemption and adaptation

I know, confusing title without some background of what needed redeeming the past two weeks on the bike.

The shape of my cycling week here in Colorado:

Saturday is the training ride with the local hot shots who meet at 10:00 at the Starbucks on Tejon.  A mixture of local guys, visiting pros, and top amateurs, this is the ride to be on in the area.  I ride to the start from our home in Manitou, about 8 miles down the canyon to Colorado Springs, then an easy tempo for the first 10 miles east past Peterson AFB.  Once the road heads south, the fireworks begin and the group lunges up a hill after the turn.  From that point, it’s balls-out, race-pace to the first sprint about 12 miles up the road at the top of a small climb.  The last sprint is just before the turn-around where the road tees into Hwy 115 south of Ft. Carson Army Base.  We turn and pick up folks that had to pee, couldn’t hold the pace or had a mechanical and carry a tempo back to the start.  55 miles of training ride and 8 miles on each side for warm-up and cool-down.  It’s a nice ride and every week we ride the same course with slightly different results depending on who’s in town.

Wednesday is my long ride and this week I spent it with Scoots, aka the evil Mountain Elf, on the road north of Woodland Park.

Two days this week were spent with Karl on a loop through the Garden of the Gods and these rides, more than any other, keep me in love with cycling.

Monday Karl had a half day at the elementary school, his first day at his new school, so afterwards we aired up his tires, cleaned the Nebraska bugs off his frame and located some gloves and his helmet.  We rode from the house for the first time, down Manitou Ave and then zigged over to El Paso for the ride into the Garden of the Gods. 

Karl was nervous at first, but then was shouting, “Dad, I got up to 37 miles an hour on that hill!”  We laughed and I shouted out pedestrians lumbering up the bike lane.  It was a sweet and beautiful way to spend a recovery ride and Karl showed some panache on the longer climb on the north side of the park, accelerating away from his dad.

Two days later, I figured it was time to do some base miles to build up my endurance fitness.  One thing I’ve learned since moving out here a month and a half ago; you can’t ignore the difference between the rolling hills and thousand foot elevation of northeastern Iowa and the Rocky Mountains.  Recovery is longer and so are the climbs.

Scoots came down and we saddled up at 9:30, envisioning a 118 mile loop from Manitou, west to Woodland Park, north to Deckers, over to Sedalia and then down through Palmer Lake and the Air Force Academy. 

I’ll make it official here: Scoots is now a climber.  From Manitou it’s straight onto the climb up Ute Pass, the only warm-up the brief descent from our home on Pilot Knob to Manitou Ave.  Then it’s up.  For twelve miles.

I’ve been up the pass four times now and each time I give myself about twenty minutes to let the muscles cool, but not this time.  Maybe it was the rider just ahead on Highway 24, maybe it was some inner alpine demon struggling to possess Scoots, but we went up the pass in record time, even with my friend slowing down for me on the steeper ramps.  By Woodland Park, we had only 106 miles to go and I felt like I’d just been put through the ringer and there was still suds in my hair.

Descending to Deckers is a blessed thing.  There is a climb on the way, past hills scorched by the Hayman Fire, but soon the pines come closer to the road and the cool breeze coming off the Platte River rinses the sting from the quads.  We stop in Deckers for some gatorade and run into two cyclo-tourists from Washington, Lauren and Tai.  Great folks, I invited the

m to stop for the night at our house; we’d be there in the middle of the afternoon, just 85 miles to go.  Right.

The sweet scene continued along the Platte.  The water was muddy from a landslide a few weeks before and when the north fork entered, the clear water ran next to the brown and we scooted along at a respectable 17mph as the tarmac gave way to packed dirt.  We must have been looking at the water, because we rode right past our turn to Sedalia.

We noticed this fifteen miles later, when our road teed into Foxton Road and Scoots said, “Hey, if we take that road we’ll be in Denver.”  So we turned around and passed the fly fishermen, the kayaks playing in the rapids and the astounding scenery.  One worry was the waterbottles were running low, putting off the peanut butter sandwich in my pocket. 

At our turn for Sedalia, we stopped for a snack and Scoots read a sign at the base.  He laughed and as we launched up the gravel road, just three miles from reunification with tarmac, I saw it too, “15% grades ahead”  Shit, it was plural.

I tried, I really did.  I tried so hard, I wrenched my back and landed on my balls when the rear wheel spun out and my testicles had no where to go but down to meet my top tube.  One climb, then another. I walked up one and felt relief when I could see the road leveling to a saner ten percent grade.  Then the air went out as we rounded the corner and saw the steepest climb yet. 

“Scott, I can’t do it.”  For me, this is rock bottom.  I’m never the guy that quits, but I am now.  I just can’t do it.  My water is low, my back throbs and my bike just won’t go up that climb.  I suck.

Scoots is good about it.  We turn and descend that hard-fought mile of gravel we had just endured and met our road again, the road that seemed to keep us close.  We headed the ten miles back to Deckers. 

Bonk.  The word is peculiar to cycling and for a rider it is the worst thing that can happen short of being smashed in the face by a semi-truck.  It’s sneaky, too.  Taking advantage of you when you’re being stupid, it makes you stupider.  You forget to eat, you forget to drink, you keep pushing until, suddenly you don’t feel right and the bike you’re riding just doesn’t seem to roll anymore.  I bonked on the way back to Deckers.  I met the man with the hammer and he visited a wallop on my skull.  As we rolled in, I said I would just call Janet and have her pick us up.  It was three, we’d been on the road for 5 and a half hours and I hadn’t eaten my sandwich yet.  It was gone in a flash, along with a large gatorade, a bar, a liter of Pepsi and something else that may or may have not had fur on it. 

By three fifteen I felt better and we decided to give the climb to Woodland Park a shot.  If we could get there, it was a twelve mile coast to home.  By three thirty I knew this wasn’t going to happen.  By three thirty three I was pulled over on the side of the road, dizzy and incapable of riding more than twelve miles an hour.  We’d gone 88 miles and I was done. 

The long and the short of the rest of the story is that we did indeed call Janet, but Scoots had to ride back and forth over a mountain to do so.  We then waited for a while before realizing that we’d made a mistake in the directions and she was driving in the wrong direction.  This necessitated another ride for both of us over the climb and we nearly made it to Woodland Park before the blessed Scion arrived to take us away. 

The rest is a wonderful dream involving Fat Tire Ale, bean burritos and lots of laughs. 

Moving in

The past weeks have been a whirlwind.  Closed last Friday, moved in Wednesday, received a sea of cardboard boxes filled with all of our earthly possessions on Thursday morning, unexpectedly early.  Toss in a four week summer course in general linguistics, a two week intensive methodology course for a visiting group from Mexico and final grades due TODAY, and one gets the sense that the world is spinning a few degrees faster.

My cycling life has taken a hit of sorts.  After initially maintaining my weekly time in the saddle, I got tired.  No other way to explain it.  Perhaps the altitude acclimation, perhaps the crazy work schedule and stress of moving…

So now we’re a few weeks along in our Colorado experience, half a week in our new Manitou home, and I’m not so tired today, even though our Sunday group did a good, hard climbing ride up to the zoo and through the Garden of the Gods. 

Maybe this is starting to feel like home.

Springs Sat Training Ride: Part Deux

A week into my Colorado life, making the ride in downtown Colorado Springs less fraught with anxiety and anticipation; I knew what was coming.  Knowing where I was going and where to park was also reassuring.  Less comforting was the tread on my rear tire.  Unloading the bike, I noticed the Gatorskin I glued the day before the Quad Cities criterium on Memorial Day was finally showing some threads.  Not bad service, I just hoped it would last the ride.

Cruising past the Starbucks on Tejon, no riders are there yet: 9:50am.  Looks like the 10am start is an approximation. 

The ride starts easy as it heads east.  We navigate the city streets, stopping for stop lights and moving in and out of the traffic.  A couple of small climbs before we turn south and hit race pace.  There are a number of new riders this week: a couple of professional women with aussie accents, a Kelly Benefits rider, a fellow from the Ride Clean squad and the usual squadron of Air Force team guys.

We hit the turn south.  There’s a stiff headwind and I’ve been telling myself just to hang in there.  The legs don’t feel that great and my head feels like it’s covered in gauze, perhaps the afterglow of the margueritas I had last night at Christi’s?  But I’m up in the first six and driving the pace, taking my turn.  The road has a slight downhill pitch and the wind takes care of any sweat. 

New today: a recumbent blasts by, probably about 32mph.  The big sprinter in green kit tries to keep the wheel, but there’s no draft and it’s like pulling on your own.  Our pace settles in at about 29mph and we pick up the recumbent on a slight incline.  I move over to the inside position, and soon the recumbent sweeps backward through the group, taking the riders sandwiched against the road’s edge with him.  Soon he’s back, coming past fast on the outside.  We learn to leave him to do his thing.

The first hill sprint comes and I stay in the front of the first group this time, pleased that my acclimation to the altitude is coming along.  A tiny girl from the AWB team with that funny accent is right there as well and the big green sprinter is pipped at the line by a smaller rider who comes by in his wake.

I call off the second sprint; it comes right after the nasty railroad crossing and I don’t want to hit the rocks too fast with my dicey rear tread.  Half the group takes off and I do an easy pace.  We’ll meet up when they do the turn-around.

Sunday is for riding

“meet at Vindicator and Centennial, just north of the Walgreens.”  so said the email from Ed King this week, organizer of a local ride near Ute Park and fellow poster on Roadbikereview.com.  A twelve mile ride down from our friends’ home across the interstate from the Air Force Academy, passing through suburban, urban and beautiful red rock country, led me to the Walgreen’s parking lot.

A bit early.  Forty five minutes early.  A ubiquitous Starbucks beckoned at the end of Allegheny Rd and a tall skinny late later, I was only twenty minutes early, but feeling much better about it.  A Toyota Land Cruiser rolls into the parking lot with a Merlin attached.  I go over to say ‘hi’ and meet Carl, who helps folks visualize their mountain cabin dreams by rendering said dreams on the computer, complete with virtual walk-through rooms.  I ask if there was a way to render the reality of forest fires in his mockups and he laughs, ‘Don’t think that would sell well with the vendors.’ 

Soon a group of eight riders has gathered.  Dominic and Elaine own a local restaurant that has been written up in Zagat’s guides; Eric owns a furniture store that having a going out of business sale, ‘couldn’t resist selling the building’; Amy is a DoD contracter and an avid cyclist with a good sense of humor.  Eric and I chat as we head south and asks how I’m adapting to the elevation.  ‘Fine except for the climbs.’  He asks if he can call me Thor and soon we’re heading out to do some climbs.

The sign for Seven Falls says that it is three miles away, but twenty minutes down, or actually up, the road, I know this is a lie.  There isn’t any Seven Falls; there’s just this road that keeps ascending.  Alternating thrusts of 12 percent then 7 percent, then 14 percent, prevent a rhythm from developing.  It’s just about staring at the road a few feet in front of the wheel.  I glance at the wattage numbers and we’re staying constant in the upper 300’s, sometimes jumping to 500 on a steep ramp, or sprinting up to 6 mph to get around a dead deer that is only half there (the other half in the belly of a mountain lion) but smells like a herd of dead deer.

It’s just Dominic and I suffering together.  Eric is up the road a few hundred feet and I try to cross up to him, but succeed in only burning that last match.  A cool rock beckons and I totter over to it to get my breath.  Twenty minutes later, Dominic is a few hundred feet away and I get back on the bike to catch him.  We’re near the top and Eric is coming back down.  Screw it, I turn the bike and pull up with him and we hurtle down the narrow road, between the red rocks, the creek and probably under the gaze of some very stuffed mountain lion.

Later I ask Carl if the Seven Falls climb was a regular feature of their rides.  ‘No,’ he says, ‘we’ve never ridden up there.’ 

Thanks a lot for that Eric!

A Saturday morning ride

I was as nervous coming to my first training ride in Colorado Springs as I’ll be meeting my first UCCS class on Monday.  Was I fit enough, would the altitude be too much for me, and, most critically, would I fit in?  In the end, I share the same anxieties about finding friends, fitting in with the group and being accepted as my ten year old. 

The old stoic, Epictetus, comes to my aid.  “Make the best use of what is in your power, and take the rest as it happens.” 

That, and a couple shots of espresso, and I’m good to go.

We meet at the Starbucks on Tejon, in downtown Colorado Springs.  I decide that the goal of the ride is to not get dropped, and if that is not a worry, to stay near the front.  A group of about 35 riders pedals off at 10:15 and I also make a note to find a good wheel.  Two guys I talk to before the ride starts are likely candidates.  Steve is a retired Air Force vet now doing Christian ministry and doesn’t have more than a few grams of fat on him.  Wiry with chiseled features and a good smile (I make a special note to avoid religion at all costs).  The other fellow is also new to ride but is the new Air Force team’s coach and is a Cat 1 rider from New Mexico.  His wheel does turn out to be the one to follow.

Now, hours later, other riders also come to mind.  A surly guy, built like myself, a nice woman, rail thin, a rider dressed in dark blue US Postal kit and a camelback strapped on (mental note to avoid).  We sort ourselves into a peloton and navigate the city streets of the Springs, heading east.  The pace is easy for the first 8 miles or so, until we turn south and suddenly I’m sprinting out of the turn to close a gap. 

The group strings out into a long paceline and I move up through the pack to take one of the front wheels.  I don’t know where we’re going, so I can’t be on the front, but I can be upfront and avoid the riders falling off the back.  We’re cruising along at a constant 29 mph with surges into the low 30’s, but I’m pleased that I’m breathing well and not under too much stress.  We’re in the flats and I feel like I’ve got power to spare yet.  The first spring comes about twenty miles in.  It’s up a hill and I get the first hint that I’m not 100 percent when I’m winded half way up.  I gapped the field, can’t hold it and fade right through to the back chasing on with the other slow guys.

We head south to another sprint and then back track north to Ft. Carson, cross it (bring your ID) and head north back towards the Springs.  The group splits and I opt to take the flatter route to town and finish with about 55 miles in.  Good miles and the body feels stressed.  One of the guys slaps me on the back and says I rode well today.  ‘How long have you been in Colorado?’

‘One day.’

‘Shit, you’re going to kick our asses in two months.’  Probably not, but I would like to do better in those sprints…

No longer an Iowan: Day 1

Kearney, Nebraska: Just past Grandpa’s Steakhouse, across I-80, W Road heads west along the Platte River.

To say it’s flat here is an understatement.  After a quick twist in the road, W continues to the horizon, a lean, smooth ribbon slicing through endless green fields of green corn stalks, a testament to American monoculture.  Most of the world’s religions seem to have grown from flat, featureless landscapes like this.  Will the next be some type of corn worshiper sect?  These random thoughts flit in and out of my head, with nothing outside of myself pushing in, everything is leaking out.

Yesterday was an emotional day.  Packing the house, moving a lifetime of things onto an auctioneer’s moving van, layers of our life together peeling away.  After loading a sink we never installed, the planer and table saw that helped rebuild our old farm house and sorting through the detritus of our honey business, it didn’t take much to let hot tears stream down.  What it took was seeing my ten year old son cry as I prepared to hit the road.  How did I help create this being who loves me so much?  He fought to hold back the emotion, struggling to be manly, to be brave, and it all occurred to me at once, a strange combination of leaving, loss and the promise of something new, yet unknown.  I cried till my eyes hurt.

The wind is from the south and, at 32 minutes I turn around on a non-descript point on the infinite line that is W Road.  I’ve climbed 42 feet in 9 miles.  Half of that must have been the overpass.  My legs are gummy; I can feel the blood pushing through the muscles stiff from sitting yesterday in a Japanese car seat, and it’s uncomfortable.  A couple of sprints (but where is the sprint point?) and the feeling goes away for awhile.

Tuesday, Janet and I rode as a couple on the Tuesday morning ride for the last time.  Amidst the green waste I ride through, it occurs to me that a good friend is someone I can disagree with openly without feeling a threat to our friendship.  I haven’t met many folks like that in my life; we tend to gravitate towards people we are unlikely to have disagreement.  I’ve made some real friends on my rides with the local club…

And the ride ends and it’s time to reload.  Four bikes on the roof, loads of boxes stuffed in the car and a crucial box of wine from France, stuff we’re saving…

A mind at 28mph

Sunday morning was our club's annual Eagle Point Criterium.  The forecast's call for thunderstorms earlier in the week had softened to showers beginning at 2pm, so things were looking up for my Masters race at 10:30. 

Driving into town, the fog was lifting and the air still felt warm from the day before.  My task before the racing started was to mark the cracks, holes and large oak trees on the course.  At 7:20 the gates were open and David and Bruce were already wrestling with the finish line banner. 

There are trees growing in the road at Eagle Point park.  No one has ever run into one yet during an event, but just to be sure, I wrap each oak with orange tape at eye level and string it off to the side of the road.  The other obstacles are familiar now, the grate with slots that could grab a wheel (hasn't happened), the curb that offers some air to a rider riding too far to the right or left, the garbage can holder (a steel pipe) sans garbage can, offering to skewer an unsuspecting rider.  On some there is residual orange paint from last year.  One can does the mile-long course and, as I finish, the whine of the leaf blowers dies away as well and the course is ready.

The Masters 40+ is a small group, just twelve riders.  This is deceptive as the other eleven riders are top riders, some category one or two, some with many miles spent in southern climes training this winter.  At other races, the field is often packed with 'fodder', guys just starting out, guys curious about what a Masters race is like.  There is no fat in this field, and this is typical for most Iowa races; just the lean field of good riders.

So, our group is like the eschappe that escapes from the larger field at Super Week.  We start hard, pushing a bit towards the first corner.  No one really wants to be on the front, but no one wants to be relegated to the rear either and we're all thinking the same question: who is the Guy?  Soon, the accelerations happen and we quickly learn who the favorites are.  Each time, Tracey with his bright green bar tape accelerates off the front and then looks around to see what he did.  Chris E. covers and I follow, dragging the whole group because I'm not accelerating fast enough to get a gap.  This happens over and over for the first five laps.

Time slows down under effort.  I realize that if my life was spent doing this, I could live forever.  But it's only been five laps, eleven more to go.  The acceleration comes again and I decide that I will not drag the group along again, someone else should. 

But no one does and that is the winning move.  Six of us are left to argue over fifth place.

Quick Pic

Getting for first club ride of the season and got this picture in the mail from the folks that take photos for the Birkie. 

Snow really isn't so bad.

Blown Clean

Coming home from work, it was time to pay for the northwest tailwind of the morning.  With interest, as the wind was pushing 17mph with gusts up to 25, still from the northwest.

The sun was shining, though, and the legs felt fresh, finding a rhythm.  I watched my shadow dancing on the side of the road as I stood on a climb on Prier Rd. 

Halfway to Petersburg, my mind blown clean of the day’s anxiety, the stress streaming out in cold rivulets on my back, image snippets float in memory.  The Harley rider putting chapstick on in front of the Detour Tap in Petersburg.  He smiles and signals to the passenger seat on his ‘bike’.  I smile and point down the road.

Into the wind.

An Amish afternoon

The day is warmer than expected and for the first time this season I actually feel fast on my bicycle.  Perhaps it’s the shedding of the layers of clothes (I am the Michelin Man sans tires); perhaps all of the training I’m doing is having an effect; or, maybe, warm air is less dense than the frigid 33 degrees and rain I’ve been dealing during this purgatory of a month.  March is purgatory.  I’ve survived the cold brutality of life in an Iowa winter, only to be forced to pay for my sins with cold and rain during an Iowa spring.

Today is a respite.  The sun is up, the wind is under twenty miles an hour, and there are tinges of green in the silver and brown landscape.

My plan is simple; do a hilly loop to Littleport and come back through Garber and Colesburg.  Hills and a bit of distance.  From my house, Highway 3 dips into a canyon for a couple of miles.  This is an old road, built over a creek.  On each side the road does little to scrub the climb’s pitch.  Climbing out is a great warmup, but the descent with cold legs just makes everything a bit colder.  I’m sure I creak and grown like an old floorboard as my speed drops into the low thirties and I pick up the pedalling again on the flat past the park and stand as the pitch arrives.  Walls of limestone on the right, the curving brown of Elk Creek on the left and in a mile the rollers heading west to Edgewood.

Wind is out of the southwest, a bit stiff at 14 or so, but the sun makes up for it.  After Edgewood, it’s a left on Littleport Rd., named after the town cleverly built between the bluffs on the Turkey River.  In 1998 the town was under 23 feet of water.  A friend and I canoed it a few days after the crest.  One clear memory of a dead cow in a tree high above the river. 

The road climbs coyly in a series of false flats, making it’s way to the ridges before the river.  The wind is out of the southwest and I feel a slight push on the slower uphills.  Fields of corn stubble stretch out and roll to the horizons all around me and in some moments I feel my pinpoint of perspective losing itself in the landscape.  A long downhill to the river and town, with a step in between where pedalling is needed again.  I remember the joints on either side of the bridge, the jolting sense memory of my first ride here seven or eight years ago (did I really live here for five years without riding this road?).  And then the river is past, the stinking wrecks of houses underwater ten years ago but still lingering, past, the old church moved high up the bluff, past (but much more slowly; I’m in my lowest gear, standing now) and in too short a time I’m at the turn to Garber.

There isn’t much to recommend the road to Garber here, outside of the slight tailwind.  It’s flat and new, cheaply built homes litter the sides of the road.  Vinyl over plywood, yards filled with recreational toys made of cheap vinyl and plastic.  One place takes the cake.  Behind a modern two story home that would look swell in a suburb of Milwaukee, sits a man in a canoe in a farm pond.  Docked to his left, about 20 feet away, is a pontoon boat.  Ah, the dream.

Elkport also sits in a valley squashed between the bluffs of the Turkey.  It’s twin, Garber, lies to the east a bit and the river runs down the middle.  A road closed sign tells me that I might soon have to add a couple of serious climbs to my ride plan.  Sure enough, the bridge over the Turkey, my path to Colesburg, is completely gone.  In it’s place a pile of wood and concrete and two imposing cranes.  Something is sure going to happen here, but not today, and I turn towards a beautiful hilly climb through Amish country.

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Happy St Patrick's Day

Gaelic Gallop to Petersburg, Saturday, March 14th, 2009