Oh the Irony

One day last week I drove down to pick up Mei at the University, and arrived at University Avenue exactly at noon, when hordes of students were changing classes or going to lunch. Going through the intersection (I had to turn left) was tedious and slow, owing to the long lines of humanity streaming to God knows where. I inched forward, tailing the car in front. As the light turned red he went through, but the rush of oncoming traffic left me stuck where I was. In the middle of the bike lane. A steady stream of bicycles approached from either side, veering around my car, like a mountain stream rushing past a boulder. More than one cyclist glared at me. As I would, too, were I in those cleats. I was very glad when the light changed and I inched out of there, chastened and apologetic.

Reminded me of how much difference perspective makes. Also on the way to Mei's work, a residential street we used to go through has been converted to a "bicycle boulevard" -- cars are allowed, but only from one direction, which happens to be the opposite of the way we are going. I have to admit it irritates me sometimes, this new swerve in my path. Almost makes me want to flout the law. Biker bastards.

Speaking of scofflaws, Sunday I went on the new stretch of the Badger State Trail, eight miles that link Madison's trails to parts south. I wasn't sure exactly where the trails joined, and was concerned I might miss the intersection. Fat chance -- it turned out to be the first bicycle path cloverleaf I've ever encountered. But when I got about a mile in, I found a "Path Closed" sign, because it was not yet officially completed. But so far as I could tell, all that remained was signage and maybe a few access points to road crossings. Beyond the sign a long black ribbon of virgin asphalt beckoned, I weakened, and on I went. A beautiful ride, past numerous closed path signs (at every highway crossing) and no catastrophe followed. Later on more riders showed up, so I didn't feel quite as sinful. I think maybe I was disappointed.

What I didn't like was the cold. It was about 45 degrees, just warm enough that I got sweaty under the windbreaker, but cold enough that I was cold without it. I toughed it out, though a few miles from home I stopped at the EVP coffee house, and had a cup of green tea and a bearclaw, and toasted to the Slow Bicycle Movement. Kind of funny -- my total ride was only about 25 miles, but as I neared the end I was glad to stop. Perhaps, like the Nebraska Cornhuskers, I played down to my competition, knowing that I didn't have to tough it out for a long haul.

Though I'm still considering taking the Badger trail south for 50 miles, then turning around to make my century. If the wind is right and everything else is aligned. Stay tuned.

498=900.04

What a difference a few days make. I've been spoiled by almost idyllic weather this summer (save the downpour on Centurion day), so that today's gray, chilly, and damp conditions took a tad of getting used to. I had planned to do a fairly long ride, but domestic issues raised up, especially Daniel, so I didn't get out until nearly 9 a.m. Temp in the low 60s but the rain had stopped, at least for the moment. I felt surprisingly good when I began, sort of like Rocinante was raring to go, but quickly noticed a click from the front wheel -- the brake was a bit off, and ticking with every revolution. Not serious but seriously annoying. I decided I'd make a visit to Budget for an adjustment.

The Southwest Trail was uncrowded, mostly walkers, the only cyclists I saw were against me, heading up the trail as I rode down. I came out at Regent Street, where I saw a line of students waiting their turn to go into Mickie's Dairy Bar, for a stiff breakfast and shot of caffeine to help recover from their Saturday night shenanigans. Still a good half hour until the bike shop opened, so I took the trail all the way to Lake Monona, rode along the short, past the Terrace, where a few other cyclists appeared, midst the fisherfolk and joggers. I crossed East Wash, to Mifflin Street, which is now a bicycle boulevard, meaning bikes have primary status and can use the entire lane; cars must yield. That's kind of fun, and I wished a car would drive by so I could exert my authority. None did; it's obvious the city won't turn any busy streets over to the bikes. It was a residential street, and the windows were still dark. Smart people, sleeping in.

I rode up to the Capitol -- as I drew near I passed a recessed doorway to a closed business, and saw two people huddled there against the rain and cold, dirty sleeping bags and grubby clothing. Obviously homeless. I considered Rocinante and my gear and felt a bit guilty. Not that we are high-end or high-maintanence, but still, the $30 I casually spent on my Nashbar jersey, bought on clearance, would go along way to those folks. But I reminded myself the equation is much more complex and rode on, down State Street, where the shops and restaurants were pretty much deserted, debris from Saturday night still littering the road.

I followed Gorham Street back to downtown, past the university, along the pewter gray lake under a dark gray sky. The sky spit a bit, but nothing serious, and soon sun burst through for a few moments, replaced by a dingier sheet of solid, pale, cloud. Got to the bike shop just after it opened at 10. Adjusting the front brake was simple (and free); the guy pointed out that my wheel was a bit out of true (I knew that) and showed me how to adjust the brakes again, when the sound inevitably returned, as it would until I got a new wheel someday. I had noticed lots of noise from the rear brakes, more than usual even on a wet day. Turned out the pads were hardened and all but gone, so we replaced them. $31 total, not much to me, relatively speaking, but I again thought about those folks in the doorway. Thought about them, shrugged, and went on my way. Followed the lakeside trail, then up to Mendota Drive, past the University residential housing, and through Shorewood Hills, past the golf course and the upscale houses, all still mostly green, but definite hints of the approaching autumn.

My front brake began ticking again, but I figured I'll try to again adjust it myself -- after all, I didn't pay for the work I had done on it.

The bike route took me back to Old Middleton Road, and my good buddy, Mt. Nemesis. My nose had begun to run, and the idea of the climb bothered me, since I couldn't breathe easily. A classic mind battle, and I reminded myself that it's all psycholigical now, me and that particular climb. I also reminded myself that the next step in cycling savvy is being able to do rides when I'm not necessarily at my peak. And so the dialogue went, as the familiar sights rolled by leading toward my inevitable encounter.

I arrived and started up. I remained seated while I climbed this time, and did so steadily. He's still due respect, but with all due respect, Nemesis is mine, now. The rest of the ride was inconsequential, some neighborhood streets, watching the odometer until it clicked over to 900 miles for the year. Then home, where I parked good old number 498 (Rocinante's Centurion number) in the garage, his odometer at 900.04.

If It Ain't Burroak, Don't Fix It

An intersection off Highway M, north of Madison and Lake Mendota.


Thursday night I was all but ready to depart for Omaha and the renewed attempt at a Century; Rocinante was clean and primed, the car all but packed (knowing my propensity for forgetting, I had already stashed my helmet, gloves, and other gear). The weather forecast for Omaha was ideal. CDs at the ready, books and music for the 7 hour drive. Little remained but to put the kids to bed and get some sleep myself.

Then, "Kaboom." Literally. A noise from the family room. "I can't walk," Daniel said in his usual businesslike tone. His voice was calm but his face white. Mei and I helped him to the couch. Before long his leg began to swell and it was time to visit the ER. Six or so hours later he came home with a bright red cast, and my trip was over -- it had all rested on the presumption of healthy kids, in school all day Friday.

Instead, the only spoked wheels rolling within my ken were those of Daniel's wheelchair.

This is not a complaint, just an observation. Daniel, the one with the right to complain because of his myriad injuries and other issues, is unfazed by it all, taking everything in stride -- or at least with a dignified limp. After all, the reason we had the wheelchair in the house was because of his hip surgery two years ago and resulting full-body cast. And he has another skull surgery set for early November. Makes any whine of mine seem pretty cheesy.

Still, as Mark pointed out, my century quest appears to be as cursed as baseball's Cubs, doomed to fail for reasons unexpected. A freak storm at the start of the Centurion, and then a freak fall by my son. Perhaps we could sacrifice a goat, but neither Anna nor Madison's ordinances would allow that.

Ah well. I haven't heard yet, but I like to think Mark and Paul went on the ride without me, towing along a riderless bicycle in memory of me, cleated shoes backward in the pedals, bound in black bunting. Probably though they went without ceremony and had pie and beer and fun. Bastards.

I did get in a short ride Sunday after noon, circumnavigation of Lake Mendota, about 30 miles in all. Balmy weather and I felt strong. Coulda done 100, I know it. I came up alongside a guy about in his 40s, and we chatted a bit; he was on his way home from downtown, a quiet morning jaunt.

I left him at Allen Boulevard, and charged down the hill, past the wetlands conservancy and back east along Highway M. Few cars, and I was reminded as I passed a few tall stands of trees, and caught glimpses of the lake shimmering in the sun, that this area is close to paradise for biking and outdoors, and it's been far too easy for me to take it for granted. In honor of the Slow Biking Movement, I stopped frequently, at Governor Dodge State Park, in Maple Bluffs (wide and quiet tree-lined boulevards with huge houses and boathouses), and finally at the UW Union, where I had a brat and a coke and watched the lake and the boats, and the mermaids.


"I have heard the mermaids singing each to each/I do not think they will sing to me." T.S. Eliot.

The homeward stretch involved riding along the University trail beside the lake, which was being set up for the final stages of Madison's Ironman event being held that day; the lead riders had been, in fact, at or about mile 63 of the 112 mile bike run as I gorged myself on bratwurst. I climbed up to Lake Mendota Drive, through upper crust Shorewood Village, and ended up back at Nemesis. I charged up him with all the determination and irritation I could muster, standing in the saddle, and cleared the first summit in third gear, far better and faster than I had done before. Far ahead I saw a white-shirted rider walking his bike up the second summit; I charged onward, but the by the time I got there he had remounted and disappeared down Old Sauk Road, too far ahead for me to condescendingly comment that "this hill can be a bitch, right?".

Then home, 30 miles more on the odometer, which now sits as 875 for the year.

Garfoot and Friends

Garfoot beginning the long ascent.



Old Sauk Pass

Sunday morning, 7:15, blue sky, crisp still air. 46 degrees, and I have my longer shorts on, with a long-sleeved shirt under my jersey. Off to Garfoot via Old Sauk. As happens so often, the beginning is slow and stiff, like riding in molasses. I wonder why I'm doing it -- sort of -- and visions of coffee and Sunday morning paper rise unbidden. But I push on, and feel the day beginning to warm.

I'm thinking about Paul's comments about the Slow Bike Movement, and resolve to keep it in mind. I pull off Old Sauk into Pope Farm Park, ride up to the parking lot, and walk to the top, looking down into watersheds, feeling the rising breeze. One car parked in the lot, no other bikes, a turkey vulture circles, not for me this day. Yet anyway. As I pull out onto Old Sauk I pass a young man with his son, the boy about 5, both on bikes. I wonder where they came from and where they are going -- no car close by, they must live here.

No other riders until I reach Old Sauk Pass, one appears from the other direction,then another. We exchange nods. I marvel again about the Pass, this winding through tall trees and open land; the Ice Age Trail and a wildlife refuge. I reach Stagecoach Road and follow it into Cross Plains. I notice a shop here, combination coffee house and bike store, "The Uphill Grind." The red neon sign in the window says "Open," but the place is dark and locked. Opens at 9, and it's 8:40. Too long to wait, so I push on, up highway KP, toward Garfoot. I pass a few cows, and moo at them -- they stare at me, and I wonder who appears more stupid, them staring or me making noises at them.

As I move up Garfoot, a white horse watches me from a field, and a flock of turkeys lurches past. I stop to take a few photos -- Slow Movement -- and am amazed at the cacaphony around me, woodpeckers and jays and other bird calls, the soft whispers of wind and rustling leaves. A rider comes down the road, we exchange greetings. I move upward. As I reach the final climb -- my current nemesis -- a rider passes me. We agree the morning is beautiful, and he surges ahead. I try to match his spin for a while, but fall back. As we reach the difficult point in the climb, two riders descend. "You're doing it the hard way," one yells at the rider in front of me, who is standing and pushing and still climbing.

I stop, again, thwarted, but a bit higher this time, since I divided the climb into segments and tried to tick them off one by one. The two descending riders say nothing to me. I take a couple photos and look up the road. It doesn't look at all bad to me, so I mount up and start from stop, and climb it smooth and steady, all the way to the top. Not quite a solid climb, but I never walked it.

I follow Garfoot, then get off on some paved back roads, and make my way into Mt. Horeb -- that part of the ride was harder, I think, because I kept thinking I was finished and was mentally at the Mt. Horeb bakery, but hills kept appearing. Finally I did make it, and happily peeled off my gloves and headsweat. I went in and ordered green tea and blueberry coffee cake. The waitresses, two attractive high schoolers, smiled at me; when I stopped in the restroom I saw why -- my hair stood up in rows, having been plastered by the sweat and suddenly liberated. But I didn't care much, took the tea and cake outside on a nice little tray, and spent a good 20 minutes moving slowly.

The ride down the trail was uneventful but nice, especially passing by the fields of yellow flowers. The trail had grown crowded, but never overcrowded; the air had gotten much warmer but I kept putting off removing my inner shirt, and finally arrived home, quite sweaty but mostly content, feeling satisfied. Garfoot is nearly mine.

49 more miles on the odometer, totally 844 for the year. Next week, with any luck, the Omaha century and nearing the millenium mark.

Garfoot Agonistes -- or "A Short Walk Spoiled"

Old Sauk Pass








"A little onward lend thy guiding hand
To these dark steps, a little further on."

Milton, Samson Agonistes



Sunday a.m. dawned bright and clear, sharp contrast to the shrouded misty morning of a week earlier. Rocinante felt and sounded much better, with the repacked and regreased rear hub. I felt a bit loggy, hard to get myself into riding mode, despite the fact that I had done a lot of pre-ride imagery and had been looking forward to it. West Old Sauk Road was uncrowded; looked a lot different when one could actually see things. Near Pleasantview road a flock of turkeys crossed in front of me, a couple large ones and several nearly grown ones, with a smaller one bringing up the rear -- the involuntary image that arose in my mind was myself at the end of the Centurion. The sort of intrusive negative energy that can't be helpful. About there, too, a cyclist blew past me, gray-haired and lanky in dark blue, on a light blue bike; he stared at me unspeaking as he went by, perhaps wondering if I were someone worth speaking to; in any event he moved on ahead, shrinking into the distance.

I saw that he turned left at Timberlane; I turned right when I got there. After a pair of moderate hills Old Sauk Pass stretched out before me, long and black sinuity, mostly downhill and winding.



Once again I felt the twin sensations of discovery and disappointment -- where had this road been all my life, and why did I take so long to find it? Deep woods, no traffic, a crisp blue day. I passed a couple single cyclists going the other way. Eventually the road leveled out into to cornfields and farmsteads. As I neared the end I saw a white blur approaching from behind, and another cyclist soon flew by. Another flock of turkeys emerged, from one cornfield to another. I turned onto Stagecoach Road, a long flat cut-off that leads into Cross Plains. Down Hiway 14 a bit, and turned north, toward hiway KP and toward Garfoot.

I stopped briefly at Salmo Pond, to ask a young man I saw there with his toddler daughter how the fishing was; as soon as I got off the bike hordes of mosquioes descended on me. I pulled out my map and verified my route. As I replaced the map and tightened the pack, a bungee cord snapped. "Dammit to Hell," I said, immediately chagrined because of the infant ears nearby. But neither father nor daughter seemed to hear. So I tied a knot in the bungee, rolled on to KP and to the Garfoot cutoff.

Amazing the difference it makes, seeing a road in daylight as opposed to through a pouring rain. I had done a bit of online research, looking for photos of the road, but found none, though I did find a number of references to it, many from Ironman posts, invariably describing it as a delightful and challenging ride, though more than one bemoaned the fact that it had rained that particular day -- as it did for us; not, perhaps, a particulary benevolent road.

I have reached the conclusion that serious hills rarely are. Most, in my experience, are simply brutally honest -- they are there, indifferent to reason or rationalization, to be climbed or not. A few strike me as malevolent, either deceptive or simply relentless. A few are benign, with moderating stretches between steeper climbs. Garfoot, I think, is close to malevolent at the end -- its steepest climb is hidden by treeshrouded curves, and goes on and on and on.

That was my view, anyway, and neither my determination to climb it nor the much better weather made any difference; when I rounded that last curve, past the intersection, having ground upward in granny, I reached the point where I simply had no more to give. Again. A phrase from Oswald Chambers, albeit intended for a more profound context, came mockingly to mind: "On the mount it is easy to say -- 'Oh, yes, I believe God can do it' -- but you have to come down into the demon-possessed valley and meet with facts that laugh ironically . . . ." Not a particularly helpful frame of mind. I also remembered John Feinstein's book about the frustrations of golf, "A Good Walk Spoiled," and thought that, you know, hiking also has its appeal, as long as you don't have to be encumbered by pushing a two-wheeled hunk of metal beside one. Perhaps, I thought more, if I were to stash this infernal machine in the bushes I could have a good walk.

I didn't really think that, of course. And at about 30 miles in something kicked into my consciousness and body -- endorphins, perhaps? -- and I felt really good. Glancing down, I realized how often I have looked out over Rocinante's front wheel and the handlebars, how familiar and welcome the feel, how close the two of us have been melded, like, to borrow Mark's old expression, like a centaur.

In a more practical sense, come down from the metaphysical heights, I realized that I simply must lose more weight -- despite my stronger legs and heart, fact is I am pushing about 20 extra pounds up these hills. That ain't easy, but it is the necessary next step. A thought I need to keep in mind next time I crave an Oreo.

Anyway, once I passed the worst of the hill, I remounted and turned back north, to follow Mineral Point Road toward Madison. This one began much as Garfoot ended, one long hill, then another. But after that, it became another long winding wooded ride; I went down Ten-Mile hill into Pine Bluff, then out on more back roads (Old Military and "J"), back to Timberlane. At one point in there I was struggling up a hill when another cyclist passed me, smiling on the downhill. I wanted to shove my pump into his wheels -- I hate when downhill riders seem so happy when I'm miserable on the climb.

Fortunately for both of us I resisted the impulse, and rode on, past the Shoveler Sink, and took Old Sauk to Pleasant View, then back onto Mineral Point Road for a triumphant return to home, 45 more miles done. No knee pain, and feeling strong enough.

Just got to do better on those damned hills.

Not a Good Sign

In view of the recent brouhaha between cyclists and motorists, it was a bit disquieting to realize that cyclists are now fair game, at least on this stretch of the 9 Springs E-Way bike trail.












My Sunday morning ride began, around 7, with high expectations: I planned to head out Old Sauk to Timberlane, then cut south to a place I'd seen only on the map, Old Sauk Pass, and past a lake, down to Highway 14, over to Cross Plains, and out KP until I came to Garfoot Road, which I would then conquer, and coast back to Madison, in glory and high dudgeon, down the Military Ridge/Capital City Trail.

Starting temp was in the very low 70s, the air was still; when I got onto the hills of west Old Sauk I came into thick fog; before long my glasses were coated, and even looking over the top I couldn't see far. More disquieting, perhaps, I wondered whether any motorists would see me from behind. Fortunately, though, traffic was almost nil, only joggers and an occasional cyclist emerging from the fog in the other direction. Still more disquieting, literally, was my bike -- though I had taken care of the twitter of my chain with cleaning and lubrication, Rocinante began to creak like an old rocking chair, with every push on the pedals, a condition that had begun to emerge on my only other post-Centurion ride. I had tried to fix it then by spraying lubricant into every orifice I could find, but within a few miles it all came to naught.

So there I was, alone with my thoughts and my bike, wrapped in fog, with what might otherwise have been a bit of glorious meditative silence, creaking along, the sound amplified by the otherwise heavy stillness. I decided that, not knowing for certain the source of the noise, that I might be better off staying on the more traveled tracks and ending up at good ol' Budget Bicycles. Don't want to be all alone halfway up Garfoot, I told myself, with no easy way to get home. So I turned north instead of south on Timberlane, and reached the Shoveler Sink lake just as the fog broke, as in the photo below.






From the Sink I headed further north on Timberlane, vaguely intending to intersect the Military Ridge trail (i have a map in my bag, but it always seems like too much trouble to dig it out, plus it's more of an adventure when I'm not quite sure). The sun had totally burned off the fog, the sky was bright blue, the cornfields and trees verdant against the pale gray roadway, birds and all the paraphernelia of a late Wisconsin country summer. Great to be out riding, as I creaked along at a good pace. I passed the cutoff for Maurer Road -- vaguely familiar -- and noted a handmade sign pointing west, "RileyFest." I flew past and down a steep hill. "Riley." I recalled the name and place, a small roadside community with a trailhead, so I decided to go out Maurer Road, after all.

Problem was, I was stopped at the bottom of that steep hill, a hill that made Mt. Nemesis look almost gentle. Ah well. I began the climb back up, and was in lowest gear before I'd gone more than a third of the way up. Damnation. Then determination. I pushed and pushed, then stood in the saddle, nearly losing my balance as I did so at such a slow pace. I pushed more, and it hurt. I've been re-reading C.S. Lewis's Screwtape Letters recently, and I recalled a passage in which old devil Screwtape had suggested one weakness of human souls was a tendency to give up just before the end. One last, desperate push and the hill began to moderate. I cleared it with hurting legs and no breath. A cyclist appeared from the other direction, and I momentarily -- and irrationally -- resented his evident happiness. But he passed, and so did my mood. I caught my wind again and followed the road to Riley, and onto the trail.

As I regained my cycling composure, it occurred to me -- no doubt again because of C.S. Lewis -- that I appear to regard cycling the same way that a committed Christian must regard church -- as a recurrent obligation freely undertaken, pleasant enough most of the time, sometimes a burden, but with sufficient intermittent bursts of emotional and spiritual energy. And a feeling of smug satisfaction when it's over. Carrying that metaphor a bit further, the cycling church is made up all sorts of congregants, from the quiet hardworking members through those boarding on zealotry, with all grades in between. Some seem to be born to cycle, saints maybe who can fly up hills with no apparent efforts, while others appear to struggle through. And to carry the metaphor a bit further (and this definitely a C.S. Lewis thing), just as appearances can be deceiving in a congregation, and that it is both improper and ineffective to judge anyone else by external appearances (who knows the inner struggles of anyone else?), it can be misleading to presume the abilities and dedication of other cyclists. Spandex does not make the man.

My thoughts returned to the immediate world around me. The sky had grayed over and a cool breeze sprang up, stirring the living leaves and swirling a few fallen ones, offerig a hint of autumnal tang, reminding me that in two weeks it will be September. Already. The clouds passed, the sun returned, and so did summer. The trail alternated fields and forest, past waterways and highways, I passed or was passed by people of all sorts and categories, joggers, walkers, riders, recumbents, old geezers and spandexed studs; one pair of recumbent riders were pulling a burley in which sat a smug dog, who watched me indifferently. All fellow travelers on a journey to some mythical east.

I began to sink into tranquility -- and as I entered the city itself, Rocinante's creaking seemed less intrusive, or perhaps I simply had grown accustomed to it.





After about 2 and 1/2 hours and 40 miles I arrived at Budget just as the shop was opening. I explained the creaking and was told that it could be anything from the bottom bracket needing regreasing, to the hub, to the pedals, and made arrangements to bring Rocinante in later this week for a checkover. They squirted some more lube into the orifices, and I left -- the creaking resumed almost immediately.




When I wheeled Rocinante back into the bike shop the following day, the church analogy reappeared. This was a sort of high temple, a mix of magicians and mendicants, rituals and offerings, shared language and values, albeit with different levels of commitment and accomplishment. Affirming a common bond, despite the differences in age and other life experience.


And of course I'll have to leave an offering before I can redeem Rocinante in a few days, once his rear wheel hub is repacked, and our spirits renewed.

Climbing Hogback Mountain

Shortly before Centurion day I whined to someone about my doubts as to my ability to go the hundred miles, and was advised (tongue-in-cheek, I like to believe) that, oh well, it might be best if I didn't do it, since the blog was about a "century at 60" and if I actually did it, I'd have nothing more to write about.
I half-believed that. Or, rather, half-endorsed the excuse, finding it a solid rationalization for not reaching my goal. Maybe it's even more applicable now, since we didn't do the hundred, and it will take some dedicated effort to find and ride another century.
But upon further consideration, I hereby formally reject that rationalization as so much bunk. And here's why:


I spent a better (in terms of quality, not quantity) part of my misspent youth midst the bluffs and plains of the Nebraska panhandle, where I did a stint as general reporter for the Gering Courier (newspapering being, so far as I know, the only profession in which the word "stint" is used without pretension). The Courier, a weekly, went to bed on Wednesday nights, so my Thursdays were the most free day of the week. I spent many of them roaming those bluffs, in the early days alone or in the company of our German Shepherd-Husky mix, Julia. Long, wondrous, hours, midst the wind and brush and dirt and rocks, on hot dry summer days watching killdeer skittering along, vultures and hawks circling in the summer updrafts, or magpies screeching among the wooded breaks. Winters found me breaking through fresh snow on crisp winter days under sharp crystal-blue skies.

I spent much of that time on Scotts Bluff and its attendant rock formations, but one place I always meant to go was Hogback Mountain, the highest peak (used in the broadest sense of the word) in Nebraska. I'd been close to it, wandering around the Wildcat Hills, of which it is one, but never on it. On some of those Wildcat trips I was accompanied by Jim Prohs, the husky, red-headed, mustachioed heir to and managing executive of Prohs Furniture, a long-time Gering institution. Jim and I had become acquainted when he would show up at the paper to buy advertising. He had been away to college and had a liberal arts degree, and seemed to welcome the chance to talk with someone his age from outside the insularity and practicality that constituted Gering society.

In any event, we became friends, and, in addition to daytime rambles, had a few interesting nights on the town, one of which involved a tour of the bowels of the furniture store, and the cobwebbed remains of what had been his grandfather's undertakering operation; another found us wandering the amphitheater and canyons of Wildcat Hills with a bottle of spirits in our respective hands.

After a year or so with the paper I decided, for reasons unclear to me then and unsubstantial to me now, to pack it up and move back to Omaha and "civilization." Jim didn't try to talk me out of it -- he even helped me move -- but I do think he'd rather I hadn't. In any event, I mentioned to him my disappointment at leaving before climbing Hogback, saying that "Climbing Hogback Mountain" would be an excellent title for an autobiography or book of essays. "Nonsense," he said, "it makes a much better story if you never get a chance to do it. More ironic."
I agreed, and, for the same reason, decided that the dollar I owed him would also make a better story if I never paid it, so I never did. Nor did I ever climb Hogback.

That was nearly 30 years ago. And, by golly, I think Jim was wrong. I should have climbed it. The hell with irony and literary conventions. At this point in my life I've decided it's the experiences and not the literary conceits -- or rationalizations -- that matter. He may have a better story, too, since I still owe him a dollar, but he'll never have the dollar to spend and, to some extent, is a poorer man because of it.

By golly, I still have a few months in which to do a Century in my 60th year, and, this time, I'm going to make every effort to reach my goal. Might make a better story, too.

Regarding Rocinante

"It had served as well as Don Quixote's nag, Rosinante, in carrying me through life's wars." Max Lerner, Wrestling With The Angel, p. 120.

"It's a clean machine." Paul McCartney, Penny Lane.

The fact that I have come this far with only scant mention of my trusty steed Rocinante is testament, I think, to his reliability. And, I suppose, also to the fact that I'm not much of a gearhead nor an afficiando of cycling technology. What I do know is he is a 1999/2000 version of the Trek 1200T, a lightweight aluminum-frame road bike, sparkly green with dark gold Trek decals, three front sprockets, 27 speeds (including the aforementioned, never to be used, "angry gear" of smallest front with smallest rear). Not the lightest bike on the road, nor the fastest, but well within acceptable parameters of both. Kind of as I like to regard myself, in the upper range of competence but not quite something to write home about.

I do know he has served me well, without complaint (especially now that I regularly cleaning and lubing his chain), with -- as I, non-gearhead that I am, recall as being only minor replacements or upgrades -- new handlebar tape, friendlier seat, new tires, a "Mity 3" computer, lights, and a rear extension rack. This year, with the 50+ miles of Centurion weekend behind us, I've put on 698 miles, with one flat tire. He goes where I want him to go, and our shortcomings on hills are, I think, essentially my own. As fast downhill as I let him go, as high as 40 once, often in the upper 20s. Steady and reliable, always ready to roll, sometimes, it seems, tugging at his traces.

I think I mentioned before that bicycling seems to me an inherently unfair sport, in that the strong get rested while the weaker ones struggle to catch up, and I think the same is true with the bikes. Better riders tend to buy better bikes, which ride faster and easier, and ride them more, and so it goes. Not that it accounts for the better riders themselves nor that it excuses those of us no quite there -- the real bottom line seems to be willingness to commit and just get out and ride.

I read part of Lance Armstrong's Every Second Counts, in which he stated what appears to be a summary of his philosophy: "Pain is temporary . . . . Quitting is forever," which seems to to be on the high end of a platitudinal continuum ranging from, "You never know until you try" through "No pain no gain" and ending up with "A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man dies but once."

I wish I'd had Lance's emblazoned in my consciousness on the longest hills of the Centurion, though I do believe I've kept it in my mind all spring, with the idea that going all out for once in my life might be a good and novel experience. I might have pushed somewhat harder on those couple hills, but I don't know. I do know that general idea kept me from seriously considering the sag wagon, and what let me charge up that last hill.

Probably the bottom line is one of degree and personality. The general idea is what I promised myself I would do this season, but haven't quite done. At least not yet. Bottom line is, even though I know the pain is temporary, it hurts like hell when I'm in it, and the fact that I can stop anytime makes it hard to move through it and tempting to quit, at least for a tad.

It might be, of course, that I am overthinking and overdramatizing all this. Maybe, as Mark says, you just climb the hill. Or, as Paul says, climb it if you can, walk if you must, it doesn't really matter.

It is, I think, a matter of refinement and degree. Certainly not even for Lance is all pain always tolerable, and, as a sherpa voice whispers in my ear, "sometimes pausing is not stopping much less quitting," to "it's a bike ride not a lifequest," to "is it really worth dying for?" I suppose it could be, and one could treat a ride as a microcosm of life, begging the question, of course, of the price one is willing to pay for it.

And, focusing on Lance's formulation, who knows what anyone else's pain is like? Is Lance's pain on an Alpine climb, on his ultimate Trek with his lifetime-trained legs, greater or equal to mine on a long Wisconsin hill, on Rocinante, with my sporadically-trained ones? Does he have a greater tolerance for pain, or maybe even a touch of masochism, or at maybe obsessive machismo? and how much does it matter?

I do know this, my 60th year is not yet over and I've not yet ridden a Century, though I have completed a hard 50-miler and a couple easier ones. I've switched my treadmill to a 10% grade interval route, to toughen those muscles for climbing. And maybe I've rethought my attitude a bit. We'll see in September, if I can get onto one of the centuries I'm considering.

Stalked by the Savage SAG Wagon

"You know, you have a bad time of
it, and you always have a friend who says 'Hey man, you
ain't got it that bad. Look at that guy.' And you at that
guy, and he's got it worse than you. And it makes you feel
better that there's somebody that's got it worse than you.

But think of the last guy. For one minute, think of the last
guy. Nobody's got it worse than that guy. Nobody in the
whole world." Arlo Guthrie

Centurion morning opened with a gray sky, soon laced with lightning and distant rolls of thunder. Drops spattered the windshield as we drove to the starting site, at Middleton Airport. By the time we'd unloaded the bikes a steady rain had begun. Once we had passed through the gates of the chain link fence we were asked to join our several hundred lycra-clad compadres inside a large hangar; no sooner had we, and most others, crowded inside, when a drenching rain burst out, with dark clouds and swirling winds, which we could barely see through one opened door, but which we could clearly hear as it drummed on and beat against the hangar roof.

The start was to be delayed for about half an hour, then longer, then longer. The 100-mile race was cancelled due to the late start time (and the impossibility of providing support late into the day, when the nonprofessional 100 milers would begin trickling in after the delayed start), a decision booed by some of the professionals and, no doubt, secretly welcomed by a few other 100-milers.

I was not especially chagrined by the change. Not necessarily happy, but glad to have my moral dilemma resolved: I knew that at the turnaround point for the 50 I would have had to guess if I had enough left in my tank to go a distance I'v never gone, on some of the hardest hills I've ever ridden. Suddenly that weight was lifted; there's no better way to demonstrate one's cojones than to volunteer to undertake a daunting task, and be excused from that rash commitment by an act of God. Almost made me want to convert to something.

After the announcement, Paul, Mark, and I stashed our bikes and drove out for coffee, where we watched the skies shift from gray to dark and back again, laced by lightning on occasion, with a steady background beat of rain. So easy to sit inside and watch while cradling a hot cup, so hard to decide to drag one's ass back into the rain, onto a bike, as all the pent-up energy and excitement dissipates. With collective sighs we pushed back our chairs and went back into the rain, half-convinced, and maybe half-hoping, that the event would be cancelled.

Twas not. Around 9:30 the rain had all but stopped and we were told a new storm cell would arrive in Middleton shortly, but if we left on the 50, we would probably "miss it." So the most hearty or foolish of the original 700 or so lined up and were off, a slow roll through the starting gates, a packed beginning, as the we began sorting outselves out into a long line, like toothpaste from a tube. Things were a bit tense at times, riders squeezing by on both sides, a crowded snorting bunch accompanied by the clicks of derailleurs and shoes, punctuated by comments between team members, and the occasional spatter of a raindrop on one's helmet. Then up those first two big hills on Airport Road, past a few enduring spectators, who sat on lawn chairs or stood beneath umbrellas, clapping and yelling, some ringing bells. Atop the first hill Paul and I stopped and put away our rainjackets -- the rain seemed finished, and the humidity was climbing. After all the jackets could be put on again.

Mark, who had spurned a rainjacket, met us atop the next hill, and the three of us went down the luxurious descent to Enchanted Valley Road, exuberance tempered by the realization that the road was slick and the tires narrow, and, at 30 or so MPH, the consequences could be severe. But no one went down, so far as I know. Then the winding road, a few more spectators, a deceptively hard climb (which I knew from previous rides), and out onto the highway, where our emergence was protected by Sheriff's officers blocking traffic. On into Cross Plains, and a quick bathroom stop, then back to side roads. Past a sign announcing we were 10 miles in, which seemed wrong -- my legs told me it was closer to 20.

As we approached Garfoot Road, which winds back toward and ultimately into the hills, the rain returned, tentatively at first, and then with a vengeance. Too late to don the jackets again, we were resigned to getting wet. And we did, big time, eyeglasses impossible to see through, water stinging eyes and pelting faces, the surprising roar of the water beating on the leaves and in the cornfields, keeping eyes on the road as much as possible, watching for depressions and cracks in a roadway slick with water. The gutty, gritty, glory of cycling, the point at which nothing exists beyond the ride itself, the outside world not gone, not resolved, just not accessible by mind or body for the foreseeable future; the universe bounded by impeded vision and hearing, all prayers just to stay upright and moving.

The rain let up and my glasses cleared enough for me to see gray skies, bent-over green roadside weeds, and brown rivulets winding beside the road. And beside me, cycling buddy Mark, as he has been, off and on, for more than 30 years now (though this was the first time in 10 years). I appreciated his stalwart and sincere presence, almost enough to tell him so. But not quite.

As my vision improved I saw thatGarfoot Road had begun its long winding climb. I thought I was prepared for it because I knew it, but all I could remember was that I knew it had beaten me before. I had to stop and walk the final steps to the top, just as before. "Ought to" and "want to" were not enough to get me there -- "have to" prevailed. As soon as the road began to level I remounted and rejoined Paul and Mark a few road turns and intersections down, and took the lead as we moved onto a winding hilltop terrain. The gray curtain began to tear, soon patched with bright blue sky. And then the sun broke through.

The path turned down into the verdant valley of Vermont township, deep woods and small farmsteads carved into the hillsides, down and down some more, and then we were in and riding along a broad valley, miles clicking by, the sun acting more and more as though it meant to stay, despite the gray around the edges and occasional menacing shadows of rain. A rest stop 26 miles in, and the ride seemed doable and sane again. Until we turned again into the hills.

The road became a narrow winding ribbon bordered by tall trees and shrouded in humidity. Apparent small rises became naggingly long inclines, gears got lower on a regular basis. Then came KOM hill -- the "King of the Mountain" climb for the gearheads and hardcores to measure their merit; as for me, I just wanted to survive it, and soon dropped into lowest gear, and saw the hill unwind and climb before me, in snakelike menace and malignancy. Again I simply ran out of steam, got to the point where reality as I saw it overcame ideality as I wanted it. I stopped, and again walked the hill. Remounted when it began to level and rejoined Paul, who had patiently waited for me, in sherapesque style. And we rode on.

At that point my chain began to chitter, as the silicon spray I used to lubricate it vanished, either washed or worn out of links. My legs told me they were fine with the remaining road, but my head reminded me of the final hills on Airport Road. An impasse threatened, with the promise of failure looming, so close to the end, after so much training; and my mind reminded me -- "This is only the 50-miler; you were going to do 100? Ha." My response was simply, "I will not fail here, the details can wait." A rest stop appeared; watermelon and water and a few moments rest. The sun shone bright and hot now; 14 miles to go. Spectators again, but their cheering had different tone to it, as though offered in encouragement rather than as expressions of appreciation or even admirations. Pity claps, and they burned.

The sag wagon driver had told us at the last rest stop that we were the last three out there, and that she had to follow us in. So, shortly after we left, she did, too, keeping a discreet distance behind, but nonetheless lurking, at or just beyond my mirror vision, for the rest of the ride.

The rest stop was followed by nice ride along a new mildly rolling two-lane blacktop, drafting sometimes with Mark and Paul, feeling again like myself, but with images those two damned hills nagging at me. I trundled along, the chain chirping more regularly, the wind a bit too much in my face. Paul rode beside for a bit, doing his best Sherpa work, telling jokes and sharing stories, until he realized, as good Sherpas do, that the last of the ride was on me and Rocinante, my trusty steed, and he slowly pulled ahead, around a curve, and out of sight. Just me and the road and my thoughts.

Then same the final turn toward home, the slight rise in the road seeming to taunt me, as did the signs, five miles to go, then three. And that damned sag wagon relentless following, as though waiting to fulfill its final mission. The first Airport hill appeared and, try as I wanted, I had to walk part of it, half-expecting the wagon to pull up beside me, looking forward to rejecting it -- "Hell, I can walk in from here and I will if I have to." The wagon stayed back, and I moved on, remounting and finishing the hill. One more hill loomed ahead, across a narrow valley, a hill slightly lower than this one, with Paul and Mark waiting there, that damned Sag wagon lurching and lurking behind.

I flew down the second hill and charged up the last. As I neared the top, I saw a rider walking a bike up the last hundred or so feet. I toyed with the idea of stopping beside him and walking with him. It would have been a noble gesture -- "Let's walk in together, so neither of us is the last guy." But as I drew closer, and my legs caught up with a final burst of energy, my inner, mostly latent, hardcore rider burst through. "The Hell with it; at least someone will be behind me." And I passed him without looking back. As I approached, Paul told me to keep going and lead the three of us in. I accepted, and flew that final mile, down a long flat, and past the finish line. A Centurion rep appeared and asked if he could remove the chip from my front wheel. I said to take it, I never wanted to see it again.

Hung up the bike on rack, doffed the helmet and gloves, and visited the food tent, and got a Capital Amber beer. Sat in the afternoon warmth, basked in the aura of accomplishment, and listened half-heartedly to the awards. I knew I wouldn't hear my name and I was fine with that. I was glad to have done it, and glad to be done.

And I wasn't the last guy.

The Wayning Days of Summer

Outside the cicadas' droning fills the evening with the suggestion that, despite the sunny days and hot breezes, summer is moving into its final, fatal, stage, preparing for its imminent end, sort of like the way stars flare brightest before dying. Public radio has a show on about barbecues "for these final days of summer," and commercial radio is filled with back-to-school ads. The calendar says August already. And that means the Centurion is approaching. This Sunday. 7 a.m.

As I anticipate Sunday's ride, I think about one of the old movies I've been watching as I walk the treadmill, John Wayne's Alamo. I recall the scene in the movie the night before Santa Ana's attack. Wayne (Davy Crockett) and his Tennesseans have opted to stay and fight, despite the overwhelming odds; that, Wayne had told them, was what they came for, not to cut and run when things got tight, not to let their fears get the best of them. He said something like, "A man's got to do what's right. If he doesn't, he's not really alive. He may be walking around, but he's not alive." So that night they all sit in the gathering gloom, some talking, some alone with their thoughts, all contemplating the approaching battle and their almost certain encounter with mortality. Some no doubt cursing Wayne/Crockett or themselves, but all still resolved to go through with it. Waiting.

I feel a bit like that. Common sense tells me that I ought to opt for the 50-mile ride, which would be a hard but managable choice; my heart tells me I need to go with the 100 as originally planned, that to try for less would be to fall short without really trying at all. Though my odds of survival are probably better than they were for the Alamo folks; I've completed a couple 50s already and finished with plenty of energy some more. The hills will be a challenge, but so long as I remember to hydrate and pace myself, I ought to be able to do them. My bike's in good shape. I've got a sherpa.

And it's what I came for.

The Duke would be proud.

Fixing a Hole in the Ocean

"Fixing a hole in the ocean
trying to make a dovetail joint
. . . .
here's a clue for you all
the Walrus was Paul."

John Lennon, Looking Through a Glass Onion

Early yesterday afternoon I decided to clean the chain on my bike, knock off the bike trail grit and do a general cleaning, in anticipation of the upcoming Centurion. Once that was done, I flicked through the shifts and was shocked -- shocked! -- to see that the chain was rubbing on the front derailleur cage when it was on both lowest sprockets. This meant, I decided, that when I was in lowest gear, I was not only risking damage, but also probably losing energy. Maybe, I thought with a touch of hope, that's why the last ride was so hard. Maybe, I fretted, the chain is stretched, or the derailleur hopelessly bent. Maybe there won't be time enough to get it fixed before Sunday.

I got out the old Richard's Bicycle Book and checked out derailleur repairs and adjustments, but no easy fix presented itself. I considered toying with it, but time is short and anyway the last thing I wanted was to mess things up and not find out until on the ride. So I talked son Daniel into a trip to the bike shop -- bribed him by promising to stop at the library -- and trundled off to good ol' Budget. We stood in line for about 10 minutes, when the mechanic came out, a young, lanky man with a wiry black beard, frame glasses, and a tall Cat-in-hat stocking cap. He listened and had us follow him back to a bikestand. When I explained my concern, he sounded a bit incredulous.

"No, really," I said. "I don't doubt you," he replied. Then he explained that the bike should "never" be ridden in that particular configuration. "We call that an 'angry' sprocket," he said, and showed me another combination that ended up with roughly the same effect.

I was confounded. "You mean I should never ride in lowest gear? I need that." I mentioned the upcoming Centurion.

Now the confoundation was his. Then the sun of comprehension rose in his eyes. He saw he was dealing with an idiot savant of the biking world. It occurred to me later that another bike shop might have seen the chance to make a buck. He saw it as a teaching moment. "In shifting it's a cross-gear thing," he explained, "the smallest front to the biggest back is your lowest gear."

"Oh, yeah," I said, momentarily glad that Daniel doesn't pay attention to such things. "I forgot." And I think I had; or at least, I had never really paid attention, since I shift by feel and never look at the back sprocket. Then I mentioned that I had thrown a chain on that last ride, too.

"Now that," he said, "is something we should look at." He put the sprockets through their paces, doing some hard shifts. "Works fine," he said. "You're keeping the chain clean and riding it. Brakes are good, wheels are true enough. It's a happy bike."

I asked him how much I owed him. "Just have a good ride and think of Budget as a good place, and come back when you have something that needs fixing," he said.

Trust me, I will. Had I gone to that other, unnamed bike shop, I'm sure they would have taken the bike in, done something, and maybe had it back for me in time for the ride. Maybe.

The Home Stretch

Rode 53 miles today, in company of neighbor Robb. The weather radio said fog, to burn off around 9 -- but when we left around 7:15 the sky was blue, and temps in the low 70s. We did the first part of the Centurion route, Airport Road out to Enchanted Valley; Robb pointed out an orange and black sign said to expect delays. "Great," I thought, "road work now." Then I realized the delays were because of the upcoming Centurion. The Airport hills were manageable, and my inner competitor was glad to be in and stay in the lead. The final Airport downhill, to the mouth of Enchanted Valley, was glorious -- I reached 40 mph. I found myself pleasantly surprised at the ride through the EV, the climbs were easier since I knew what to expect, still purty country, an occasional car, and some cyclists, no doubt also checking out the route.

The ride into Cross Plains was uneventful, but almost not: at one point a white car whizzed past me -- I had seen it in the mirror, so was prepared. What I didn't know, and couldn't really expect, was that another white car was tailgating it, neither visible nor audible -- so when the first car went by, I began to move back into the roadway from the shoulder; no encounter, but I felt the breeze and my heart jumped.

After Cross Plains we found Garfoot Road, another one of those beautiful, hidden away, two-lanes. The road began innocuously, moderate climbs, long flats, past farms and homes, fields and forests. I threw my chain on one hill, nearly dumped as I struggled to get my foot unclipped while momentum dropped to zero. But it fixed easily and we went on. Toward the road's end it began to climb, then dipped then turned ominous. I got concerned when a cyclist flew past us going the other way, with obvious downhill momentum and a dumb look of ecstasy on his face. Around and around curves we went, ever upward, and me in lowest gear. I reached a point, within site of the top, when I simply could not keep up any speed, and stopped. Robb joined me, and we walked the final hundred yards or so to the top. Not my proudest moment. I sucked down a tube of Gu, and we remounted, and finished the road, taking Mineral Point Road down -- and I mean down -- to its intersection with Hiway 78, then up a long haul into Mt. Horeb (I had ridden this Hiway 78 stretch before); the hill was long, and offered one of those gut-check moments: I told myself I knew I could climb it, because I had done it before, and I resented myself for sound condescending. Man it was long, and the Garfoot debacle had sapped a bit of my confidence. I resolved, though, to do it, and did it, shifting up and down from granny, to keep the lower gear option alive. I got a bit of a boost as a chunky terrier-type dog charged out at me. I kept riding, and gestured downhill, toward Robb; I couldn't help but think of the old saying, "if you're being chased by a lion, you needn't be faster than the lion, simply faster then the next person." I crested the hill and waited for Robb, who asked me if I'd had to deal with the three dogs. I was startled by the sudden increase in number, but figured he had perhaps multiplied them for effect or in wild imaginings. In any event, I said no, I had left them for him.

We stopped at a bakery in Mt. Horeb, emptied bladders and got water, and split a scone. Robb said he wanted no more hills, and I gladly complied, so we took the bike trail back into Madison. To my surprise, since this was fairly unchallenging, Robb began to fade; my legs were still strong, though the idea of more hills had no appeal to me. When I got too far ahead I stopped and waited for him to catch up; that sort of rendevous is always awkward, since in cycling the strong get stronger --the one who's not worn down gets rested (and stronger) as he waits. But there's not much else to do, not much of value to say. Which I say as a veteran of being the worn-down recipient of well-intentioned words.

At one point a ranger stopped us to check for trail passes; I smugly showed mine, knowing, from earlier conversation, that Robb had opted to "chance it." I tried to commisserate as he paid his $5 fine.

By the time we reached Verona he wanted to stop and stretch, and I got him to take my last tube of Gu, which seemed to revive him some. And so we went -- I was glad he knew the twists and turns and options of the bike trails, because he showed me how to get almost home without going out onto those hot city streets -- temps were probably around 80. And so home, Robb wishing me luck "on a hundred miles of those hills."

And so here I sit, still uncertain. One good thing, I had lowered my seat a tad a week earlier and suddenly the throbbing kneecap that had, for the past 10 years, appeared around 20 miles in, vanished. No pain the entire ride nor afterward.

But as for the ride itself, the realistic bottom line appears to be this: fifty miles of them will be a manageable challenge, 100 will be soul-sapping. I confess to getting a confidence boost by finishing strong while Robb, who is 20 years younger but hasn't ridden much, faded badly -- but the struggle on Garfoot reminded me of just demanding and unyielding this route could be.

What's Ahead

"Switchback

turn, turn,
and again, hard-
scrabble
steep travel a-
head."

Gary Snyder, from Hitch Haiku.

I've made two relatively short rides since the last post. A few days back, late afternoon, rode to Middleton and out Airport Road to test out the start of the ride. But I didn't have a map or recall the course, so I simply rode out Airport for awhile, crested two good-sized hills, admired the view, and turned back toward town. I caught the tail end of good ol' Pleasant View Road, a part I'd never seen before (so many discoveries), so I followed that, a remnant country two-lane, still hanging onto its old nature, but with signs of civilization creeping ever in on it, mostly on the backside of urbanization.

The road rounded up toward a junction with Old Sauk Road, and an ancient white and tiny Lutheran Church, used, I understand, only for ceremonies now, not regularly. As I climbed the hill toward the junction, I noticed a tiny cemetery, maybe six or eight tombstones, off the side of the road. Someone is caring for it, but I couldn't help wonder about the souls there, no doubt placed when it was isolated lonely countryside, now more or less an urban afterthought. Anyway, I took Old Sauk into town, and back home, maybe 15 miles, but it was dinnertime after all.

That night I checked the map and the route. Next day, after dropping Daniel off at camp, I drove a detour and followed Airport out to the aptly named Enchanged Valley Road, a few more miles and hills out from Middleton. A remarkable little road, winding two-lane blacktop, past farms and country retreats and the slightest hint of an exclusive development, which appears to have been stalled by the economy. I drove past a herd of goats, and past a pair of horsewomen trotting along the highway, and caught Hiway P, which I followed to Cross Plains, then home on 14. Once again, a delightful discovery, and I determined to ride it soon. But weather and obligations kept rising up, and it got put off.

Until this morning.

I set out in a breezeless sunny dawn, got one mile out, just before the point of safe return, and realized I'd forgotten my ID and money; I debated briefly, then turned back -- if I'm going to have an accident while alone on country roads on my bicycle, I think I'd like whoever comes across my broken body to know who I am without undue delay; besides, I was envisioning breakfast or brunch in Cross Plains. Another couple miles added to the start. I deliberately rode down Mt. Nemesis, a delightful descent, and followed the bike trail under University Avenue and then parallel to it. The route then turned away from University, and I followed, past nice old lakefront houses, some really little more than gussied up cabins. I liked the new route, a back way across town, behind the busy streets. I was delighted to come upon "Baker Avenue", which I took as an omen. I knew I'd seen it before, from University, and thought I'd found its other end; but I was wrong.

Turns out the bike route was simply meant to move bikes away from the Avenue for a bit, and then I was dumped right back there, a few blocks further west after several blocks north, then south. Purty much a waste of time and energy, but I reminded myself I was in this for the ride, not the accomplishment, and there was no hurry. Then to Century Avenue, up a long hill, and out Airport, over those hills again, sweat dripping in my eyes (forgot the bandana, too). Stopped shortly after beginning Enchanted Valley Road, at a large isolated tree, where I stood and ate Gu and a few bites of a Clif bar, hearing Sherpa words in my ear, "take it easy, do it right, no hurry, at your own pace." I tipped my water bottle toward the image of Paul, and set out again. Pure country, almost heaven, as Mr. Denver might have sung. Past goats, cows, horses, cattails, a murky green-capped pond, sun warm but not hot, grasses and trees and wildflowers, a bit of strain, and gentling into a glorious long descent into calm flatness. As in Theodore Roethke, "The hill becomes the valley, and is still" (from The Right Thing).

Suddenly there was County Highway P, and the road to Cross Plains. And then, sooner than seemed right, I was in Cross Plains, a fairly unlovely little settlement, at least what I saw, gas stations and fast food, convenience stores; a school and houses; and then I was on Highway 14. I'd meant to continue on P, but what the hay. I went where I was headed.

And that was down 14, a busy undivided highway, cars and trucks whizzing past, the sun beginning to get hot, no shade, blotches of deceased wildlife marking the roadway, gravel and debris on the shoulder, mostly flat. Not pleasant, but tolerable and I averaged in the upper teens all the way into Middleton. I toyed with the idea of closing out the ride by climbing Nemesis but said the Hell with it, let him triumph for once, and rolled on home, 30 miles in about two and a half-hours, and feeling pretty damn good. A quick shower, and to the office to do some official work.

So, the dilemma remains. Can I do this Century? 30 to 50 miles I'm good, I handled the hills, but 100? Who knows? Neighbor Rob and I are planning a 50 miler this Sunday. Maybe then I'll know. Stay tuned.

The Light Ahead

Driving to work today I could, at times, barely see through the beating rain, despite my wipers going full blast. Made me glad I did a bit of riding yesterday afternoon, when the sky was blue and the temps in the low 80s. Basically my training route, though I went a bit further into the city; on the road back I took a road I'd seen but never followed, which climbed sharply up from the UW and vanished into trees. Eagle Heights, a campus housing development.

To get there I'd followed the trail along Lake Monona, past the Monona Terrace, past the shores lined with fishermen, mostly minority older men and kids, sitting on upturned buckets, watching lines that drifted with the faint breeze. I realized that shoreline fishing in Madison's lakes has become a, to use a socially-biased phrase, though I think appropriate, based on a cursory evaluation resting on appearances alone, a lower-class pursuit -- it's pretty clear that anyone with the wherewhithal goes "up north" to fish, or at least out on a boat. The same, I think, with swimming, at least to judge by the few people in the water or on the beaches at James Madison Park; those with money are in private pools or, again, out on their boats. Nothing like the Madison in the 1950 Life magazine story of idyllic middle-class bucolia. No more lakeside cabins or general store/bait shops.

A couple rants about people on that trail. First was the rider ambling slowly ahead of me, shirtless and helmetless, riding in the center of our lane, with a pair of dismantled fishing rods horizontal on his lap, sticking several inches out on either side. As I prepared to pass I tried to warn him, but he had earphones and didn't respond. Then I caught up with a middle-aged woman on a unicycle, with one kid on either side of her, both of them on unicycles, covering the entire lane and weaving across the center. I barely got past them. Once I had worked over to the Lake Mendota side of the isthmus, I rode past the Union Terrace and headed into the shaded Temin Lake Trail. At that point a young woman rider suddenly swooped past me on my left, so close that I nearly brushed into her. I thought about complaining, or maybe just commenting, but I gave it up when I saw that not only was she not wearing helmet, she was barely wearing anything but a long blonde ponytail, and had a tiny purse dangling from one wrist. Obviously the physical risks of cycling were the least of her interests.

Still, it reminded me of the vulnerability of cycling, in which one has no protection save a helmet. I recalled a few days earlier, when we had dropped off Anna at Northwestern U. in Evanston Ill. A cycling grand prix was taking place nearby, maybe 30 garishly-clad muscular cyclists of both genders circling a .9 mile route at high speed, bunching at the turns. As we came out of a restaurant, I saw a young woman limping along the sidewalk, stiff in her racing gear, one arm wrapped in an Ace bandage, ribbons of blood along one leg -- she had been in a pile-up a few moments before; and this, an obviously experienced young well-conditioned rider. She knew the risks, and knew, first-hand, the pain of miscalculation or dumb bad luck. It showed in her rigid walk and her mask of stoic indifference.

But I let it go, and concentrated on the smells of the lake, the warm shade, the breeze on my face, the irritated geese glaring as I rode by, the catttails and wildflowers, all the blessings that biking brings back into focus. One thing about cycling, it is all-encompassing while I do it; that can be pleasant, when things are going well, and a bit less than pleasant when I'm struggling to keep going, but the end is always the same, I am there and there only while I'm cycling. And that's a good thing, in either case.

I had planned to stop when I got to the base of the Eagle Heights hill, a la Sherpa Paul's advice, and refresh and reload, but I arrived too soon for that. So I charged ahead and was pleasantly surprised by the way it fell beneath me, the ease of which convincing me that, perhaps, I am getting stronger after all. I did pause at the top, relieved myself behind the trees, drank deep, and ate a tube of Gu. When I remounted I followed a sweeping blacktop along a ridge that paralled the lake. Once I got past the UW property, I found myself between a manicured golf course and a long line of fancy homes, many almost hidden behind huge trees and hillocks, all overlooking Lake Mendota. One house was for sale, and the realtor's sign said it all, "Historic and Luxury Lake Homes, LLC." This was the heart of Shorewood, the queen of NIMBY municipalities, where Volvos and Subarus sit in winding driveways, faded Gore and Kerrey bumper stickers, careful compost collections, immaculate lawns, strategically planned flower beds and rain gardens, wonderful views, the same place that refused to allow low-income housing within village limits. Social considerations aside, the road was wonderful, sweeping hills, no traffic, and ample shade. I ended up a lot further west than I had intended, and had to work my way back along busy University Avenue to where, as always, Mt. Nemesis lurked in sinister repose. I climbed it in the usual manner, dropping soon into lowest gear, pushing my hardest, gasping a bit, cursing it, but making it, and enjoying the fact that the few subsequent hills were of no consequence. And home, to see my sweat-drenched visage in the bathroom mirror, then to let the luxurious shower wash away the grime and stiffness.

While standing in the shower, I wondered about the upcoming Centurion. I didn't feel overly tired, but I was hot and glad to be done; and it had been only 18 miles. The hills had been manageable but still obstacles to be overcome (I recalled, with a self-directed smirk, how early on I had expected to climb Mt. Nemesis two or three times in succession once I "had my legs under me" -- but that's not likely to happen). I had hoped to lose about 20 pounds, but that didn't happen. I'd tried to pin my enthusiasm on Lance's comeback, but that didn't happen. And it probably didn't help that I watched the old movie, The Alamo, while on the treadmill, with its message that even the most gallant effort, even by Davy Crockett, even by John Wayne, is sometimes not enough to overcome the odds.

And so I find myself wondering if I'm up to this ride after all, still trying to determine which is the better part of valor, discretion or unheeding gallantry. Whether that's really a light at the end of the tunnel, or the flickering fade of an unreachable dream.

Stay tuned.

The Photo Not Shown

As I prepared to leave for my ride Saturday a.m., I had Anna take a photo of me, helmet at my side, lance Armstrong buzz covered with a red bandana, holding Rocinante and looking, I presumed, like I was ready to roll, with the bandana lending an air of piractical renegade attitude. I came across, instead, looking lumpy and dumpy, a guy at his garage door on a Summer Saturday morning, smiling moronically. So I lead with this photo of koi scrimmaging in a pond at the Omaha Zoo -- their bright colors and eager eyes suggesting, perhaps, the ambitious convergence of riders at the upcoming Centurion. And, perhaps equally reflecting oblivion to the travails that lie ahead.

The ride was nice, about 26 miles of local trails; I broke the 500 mile mark for the year. My comrade was my cross-the-street neighbor Rob, with whom I'd never ridden before -- I didn't even know he rode. He showed up with a fairly new Trek Hybrid, and assured me he hadn't ridden much and didn't yet feel hillworthy. We maintained a pretty good pace, rode down to Lake Monona, then backtracked to the Capital City trail, dumping off eventually on the streets of SW Madison. We had a pleasant ride, the day was sunny and not yet warm, we talked when we wanted and respected the silence when appropriate. Good companionship, and will probably do it again.

Robb was in better shape than he had let on, and I found myself keeping up comfortably, and even trailing a bit on a couple of the steeper grades. He showed me a back route that I'd never seen, a long and wondrous descent that ended up in a park and onto a trail, which led us effortlessly home. As we rode up one fairly long and steep hill, he led, and I found myself recalling the old adage that "unless you're the lead dog, the view never changes." I also recalled a recent discussion in Bicycling magazine, by a member of cycling group. It seems that one member of the group, always a middle-to-trailing member of the pack, had set out on a master conditioning program and was suddenly surging into the lead. The letter writer didn't resent that, but he did resent the resurgent rider's sudden hardcore/consescending attitude. The magazine editor tsk-tsked along with the writer, saying that some people are just jerks, especially after spending years of being taken less than seriously.

I tsked, too, but I must confess I also thought, however briefly and uncomfortably, that just once I want to be that guy, though of course a much more magnanimous and modest version, and I had entertained some delusions that my regular treadmill and riding regimen had put near that point. So, at some deep level, I wanted to leave Robb in the dust from time to time and magnanimously wait for him once in awhile, as I recall others doing for me on other rides. It didn't happen, of course, and the better part of me is glad it didn't, but still . . . . I'll have to settle for what I am, moderately good shape for 60 after 10 years of neglect, and filled with hope, as did the fish at the pond, that the heavens will smile on me and that succor will fall unbidden and undeserved, about me.

Let's Hope Beauty Is but Skin Deep

The picture represents how I feel sometimes at the end of a long ride, wrinkled and Gollum-like, with my ass dragging. Note the Lance Armstrong haircut.

I haven't been on a bike in more than a week; our recent trip to Omaha messed up my schedule, though I found it psychologically invigorating to talk with Mark and Paul about the upcoming Century. Not surprisingly, Paul, Sherpa-like, had studied the route map and could tell me far more about the roads in my neck of the woods than I know, even though I've ridden many of them and own a biking map. He also offered sound advice about pacing and the need to keep it all in perspective.

Mark and I had discussed riding in more general terms the night before, over beers, and came to the same general conclusion, though it was ironic indeed to hear him disparage the hardcore riders and their "$1500 bikes," when I know that his, too, is in that category. But I know what both meant -- all our rides together have been made with the intent of riding, not of accomplishment, which will probably be different than the goals of most riders in the Centurion. Again, I'm glad both are coming along, my yin and yang compatriots.

My last ride had been a good one, out Old Sauk Road to the Shoveler Sink, and then up to Mt. Horeb, returning primarily along the bike route. The ride began slowly, so slowly that I began to wonder if I were developing some sort of health condition that sapped my strength. But as I warmed up I got better. As I approached Mt. Horeb a number of riders, usually in pairs, passed going back toward Madison. A couple returned my half-waves, but most ignored me. I wondered why then, and, after my talk with Mark, I could presume it was because I was not sufficiently hard-core looking. Though I did have my new Cannondale gloves (black with white stripes along the fingers) and Specialized shoes and a serviceable Bell helmet; my jersey was Pearl Izumi, though simple solid green. It might have been my new mail-order Nashbar shorts, unstylish though luxuriously padded. Or because I had just completed a long climb and no doubt showed an unhip air of windedness. Or maybe they were just absorbed in their own shared experience. Or maybe I was simply expecting more. Or maybe Mark is making me paranoid.

Though not on the bike recently, I have been on the treadmill quite a bit. That's been an interesting experience -- I can tell I'm getting stronger because the same routine is less tiring everytime, though I sweat more. And I've experienced the same phenomenon as when I ride -- it's always harder at the beginning, and to look too far ahead is to intimidate myself. I've never really gotten over the notion that at some point riding will get "easy", as in nondemanding. But that will never happen, short of getting a motorcycle, and I realize now it never should -- bicycling without effort would be like watching a movie, interesting but nonengaging. And that's not why I'v chosen to do it.

A sidenote -- in scheduling an MRI for my left shoulder (apparently a noncycling related muscle tear that won't heal) I had to verify the status of the stent I had inserted after my heart attack. Turns out the attack was seven years ago this month, July 26, 2003. My near-death experience, which, as I recall, seemed quite mundane at the time, only annoying. No life pictures flashing before my eyes, no regrets, no last-second conversion, just the welcome relief from the crushing pain as the meds kicked in. "You understand what's happening?" the doctor asked, "you're having a major heart attack and we have to act now." "Yeah," I had replied, "just go ahead." And then a 24-hour blur. I guess I knew, to the extent any of us can know, that my time hadn't come yet.

The first year after the attack I worked hard on diet and exercise, but spent the next six years falling slowly off the wagon. Till this spring, when the cholesterol tests all came in bad, and I grew the wild hair that caused me to sign up for this Centurion ride.

But I am planning a ride this weekend, with my neighbor Rob, who, I discovered, has also been training for an upcoming century, albeit an informal, mostly flat, ride up north with a couple buddies. We've set aside 7 to 9:30 this Saturday morning, though Mei says, with a voice of experience, it will no doubt be longer. It'll be the first time I've had ride-long companionship since the last time the Three Amigos rode, sometime back in 2000, and therefore the first chance I've had to compare my conditioning with another. Stay tuned.

I never thought I'd end up smuggling rats

Here I sit on the deck of our third-story room, looking through leafy oaks and sharp-edged pines at the pale waters of Lake Minoqua, watching the morning sun trying to poke through the solid clouds, hoping for it to succeed. A monster rainstrom moved through about 8 p.m, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching the wind whipping the trees as sheets of water flew by -- all while I was beneath a secure roof. I could only wonder what it would be like to be camping out there, or maybe an early settler or Native American. Or on a bike. Cold and wet. Not my cup of tea.

I didn't bring the bike with us, having reserved the rack for Daniel's walker -- and reluctant to spend chunks of family vacation time away from family. But I did put in ten miles on the exercise bike downstairs, enough, I hope, for maintenance purposes. I certainly worked up a sweat, though much of it might have been due to watching the morning news. Of course I followed it with two waffles loaded with syrup, to nullify any possible calorie loss. But I hope fishing and wandering around will burn off some more. If the rain backs off, and we can get the kids away from their TV fix (since we have neither cable nor satellite at home, they are gorging on the stuff).

As for the rat-smuggling: Anna's two adult rats were never apparently never well socialized and have tendency to bite hard. Making them useless as pets -- and impossible to place. But because Anna especially is reluctant to convert them to snake food or have them put down, we've been desperate. My jokes about using them for "Muskie bait" fell on deaf and hostile ears. Enter Rhinelander Rat Rescue, a lady up there who takes in homeless, troubled rats. So via the wonders of the internet we set up an exchange this morning -- we smuggled the rats into this "pet-free" establishment and she is driving down this morning to pick them up. It all has a sort of clandestine feel to it, especially for Anna, who tends to feel guilty at any thing that even smacks of nefarious. In her code, "Aunt Bess" is coming to pick up "the cousins."

So keep all our fingers crossed. And if any law enforcement is monitoring this frequency, please be assured that "the package" is all legal.

Another Morning Run

It's been three days since I last rode, or walked the treadmill for that matter. Tomorrow we leave for a few days at a condo up at Lake Minocqua, sans bicycle. So it was imperative I get out this morning, before work. August 8 is not that far off, and will arrive whether I am ready or no.

Did the short version of my basic route, Mineral Point to Am Fam Children's Hospital, a brief sojourn through Shorewood Hills (Columbia Road), along Locust Drive to the trail, and along Old Middleton to it's intersection with Old Sauk -- and Mt. Nemesis. Then Ozark Ridge, Yellowstone, and home.

Nice beginning, by the time I got the bike going the sun had come up, and traffic was still very light. Smells of flowers and greenery, sound of the birds of course. My new shorts and gloves had arrived from Bike Nashbar, and all worked accoring to promise -- the shorts are nicely padded, and I didn't realize how nice that would be -- my old Trek shorts were never well padded, and what there was had seemed to thin over the years, in the same proportion, I think, of my personal thickening. The old gloves, also Trek, are old friends, nicely darkened palms, scented with sweat and sunscreen from years of riding, but the right palm has torn open. So their time has come.

As I drew closer to Nemesis, I could almost feel a heaviness growing in my legs, as though the hill were emanating its own gravitation -- or, more appropriately, I was generating my own psychological weight. I was reminded of what I see as a basic truth -- the external world is indifferent to my thoughts about it; the hill is the hill, whether I want to climb it or not, my resolution or determination is simply irrelevant, no matter how much I convince myself that I can define my relationship to it.

Anyway, I charged up it as best I could, did end up shifting to the lowest gear, but did it probably the fastest yet.

A sidenote about Nemesis. The city is widening Old Middleton Road, tearing out a lot of old trees to do so, and, irony of irony, largely doing so to put in a bike path. A lot of neighborhood squawking, of course, Madison being the queen of the NIMBY cities -- "bike trails are great, but NOT IN MY BACKYARD, I like the trees." I agree with both sides, the road as is is beautiful, but dangerous.

In any event, it's a done deal, and when it is a done path, Nemesis will probably lose its role as dominatrix of the bike route; I'm sure the route will extend past it, and it will be a side route rather than the main one. As George Harrison sang, "All things must pass away."

Not What I Expected

What I expected, was
Thunder, fighting,
Long Struggles with men
And climbing,
After continual straining
I should grow strong;
Then the rocks would shake,
And I rest long.

Stephen Spender, "What I Expected"



I found some of this this past weekend, especially the "climbing;" Sunday I went back to the Mt. Horeb area. I set out to do the Blue Mounds loop, a series of hills that will be in the August ride. The weather was pleasantly gray, promising to reach only the 70s. As I headed down Hiway 78 toward Black Earth, past farms and a roadside repair shop, I found myself on a long smooth, winding, sometimes steep, descent, including a sign warning trucks of the steep incline; I recalled that the ride will go up this road and decided I should maybe do it myself, that day. So I changed my plans and rode on to Black Earth, reaching up to 30 mph at times,turning over the 400 mile mark on my way there. The ride was pleasant and fast, the road wide, cutting between rock-ribbed hills, past a shetland pony farm and a side road with a sign pointing to the Vermon Lutheran church, somewhere in the hills. Black Earth was just beginning to stir, though the VFW park was busy, with folks preparing for their annual Father's Day BBQ. One young man greeted me with "Beautiful day, hey? Perfect for Father's Day." "Yeah," I replied, "Good day to get away from the kids." He chuckled uneasily, but another, older, man laughed, with shared, good-natured, cynicism. But no one offered me a sample of the feast.

So I settled back with a Clif bar and some rehydration, and soon set back on my climb.

The first part of the return went remarkably smoothly, I clipped along, admiring the green hills against the sky, which had become pale blue with specks of cloud. No other cyclists, just spotty jetsam -- a few remnant route markers from the previous day's Horribly Hilly Hundreds event; a sign announcing an impending barn dance; a spot of unindentifable roadkill; flecks of gravel and chips of asphalt, the sort of things one never sees from a car.

I decided to stop at the church cut-off to take my last tube of Gu, in preparation for the final ascent. The cut-off road was gray, narrow, pocked, and steep, lined with woodlands on both sides. Seemed an invitation to explore, so I went thataway. And I expected that the churchyard might be a place of spiritual rejuvenation and recharge before the charge to the summit.

Things were not as I expected.

That portion of the trip began with an incredibly steep hill, and, despite my desperate thrust on the pedals, for the first time this spring, I had to stop. Either that or fall over, since I'd lost all momentum. I told myself it was a matter of overoptimism and underestimation, but I found myself doubting. I checked the tires in hopes that a flat would excuse this -- but they were firm. So I walked the last hundred or so feet to the crest, remounted, and visited the churchyard, which turned out to be under constuction, all dirt and equipment, no easily accessible green spot, not even a handy bench. Not what I expected. So I stood and refreshed, and turned back toward the main road. A cyclist appeared from that direction, moving at a good clip; I refrained from asking him if he found that first hill daunting, but I didn't. Because I didn't want to know the answer.

Then back to the road and upward. The grade steepened, a turkey vulture circled ominiously over the nearby hills. A small dead fawn stared blank-eyed from the verge. As I climbed the sweat built up on my brow, and began trickling into my eyes. Back to Spender's poem, I was beginning to find, I feared, "the gradual day/Weakening the will."

A sidenote here. The day before I had gone to my barbershop with a photo of Lance Armstrong, and told her to cut my hair just like that. And she did (you'd think maybe she'd have tried to talk me out of it). I'm not sure what I expected. I know I was tired of having my hair plastered to my forehead after a hot ride, and tired of trying to keep it reasonably under control at other times, only to end up like Einstein on a bad day.

One thing certain, I didn't come out looking like Lance, I looked like me with a buzz, maybe what Lance might look like if he were 30 years older, shorter and pudgier and with different ancestry. I also didn't expect that the lack of hair would mean less to hold back the beads of sweat. But that was what I got with, I feared, none of his iron-will. I wanted, I confess, to look a bit like Lance; I ended up looking like his maternal grandfather. And my eyes burned.

But something good did happen on this ride -- before I realized it, I had reached the top, and had energy to spare after all. Maybe I am "growing strong," after all. At least a bit. I rolled on into town, and added another ten miles of spinning at high speed, through Mt. Horeb and nearly to Blue Mounds, then back to the Mt. on the bike trail, mostly alone on the hard-packed dirt, with just an occasional chipmunk dashing in front of me, and one angry-looking woodchuck who glared as I rolled by. Thirty more miles. Not sure what I accomplished, though the lingering images of the previous two hours did provide me with, Spender once again, "[s]ome brightness to hold in trust."

Note, by the way, that Spender's hair is nothing like Lance's, but then I bet he never did the Tour.