"You really like cycling, don't you Dad?"

Went out Sunday for a good one-hour ride, tackled a few hills at first, then worked back on the bike trails. As I was getting ready to leave, Anna asked the above question. This is all kind of new to her, since I gave up serious riding maybe nine years ago, when she was about four; like I all but gave up neckties when she was about eight.

My answer, after some consideration, is that I really like the idea of bicycling. Whether I like the fact and act depends on the time of asking. If I reflect back on all my rides, it seems that my positive memories are all psychological, usually reflecting a sense of accomplishment at having survived a long ride; there are a few vague recollections of the wind in one's face and the exhiliration of being out on the road, the sounds of nature, etc. The camraderie. And a good meal at the end of long ride.

Nearly all my unpleasant memories are physical ones -- the pain of a long hill on a hot day, the realization that miles remain to be ridden, unremitting headwinds. Borderline despair. At this point the image of biking buddy Mark rises up, and what I see as his zestful embrace of the darker moments of riding. Riders like him, as far as I can understand it, view the worst parts as challenges to be overcome, whereas I've always seen them as matters to be avoided if possible, and, if not, ended as quickly as possible.

It has occurred to me that it may be my attitude that needs changing. I don't know if I've ever reached the point of all-out effort, and maybe it's something worth trying at this point in my life, ideally this summer in the century ride. I've been reading a book on procrastination and psychological coaching, in which the author suggests an analogy between a demanding physical challenge (in his example a marathon) and success in daily life. Maybe I can do that this summer, take the hills as challenges and accept them for what they are, rather than dreaming of life after the peak; maybe accepting the ride for what it is, and not counting down the miles until I can get off the damned bike. We'll see.

Now I remember

You know how odors are said to trigger the strongest memories? Today I dug out my old summer cycling gloves and as I put them on the smell of sunblock rose up around me. Reminded me of long summer rides back in Nebraska, nearly ten years back. The smell spoke of winding gray highways, green weeds and scattered trees, hot headwinds and gentle breezes, the stiffness of starting out in the morning, the pleasant rhythm of a steady ride, the tedium of long hills and the fun of good conversation, both while riding and at the tavern at the end of the day. The simple joy of a ride well done.

Yesterday I got a book on bicycle conditioning, and one of the author's big points is the need to build up one's power, the ability handle hills without fading to the bottom gear. He talked about the need to attack hills on training rides, cautioning that doing it right "will hurt" as the muscles are forced to work.

I understood that, intellectually, but "knew" I could handle it. So today I eschewed the bike trails and took the direct route, with four long rolling hills. Not so bad I thought on one, two, and three. Hill Four began after a long wait at a red light, and demanded a lot more of me. But I did it, and went several more miles of general riding. I noticed my legs hurt a tad, from the past couple days, and my butt was less than happy. Still I rolled on, and the ride was good.

Then it was time to turn for home, maybe 8 miles out. I followed the bike trail around, then ended up at the base of one long hill before the home stretch (Note to self: someday buy a house in a depression surrounded by hills, so that every ride from every direction will end up downhill). I was hot and tired, and tempted to turn away and find the easier way home. But I went for it. Gradually I shifted into lower and lower gears, ending up in granny about a quarter from the top -- someplace I never want to be on a "real" ride. I shifted my focus to one push at a time, and promised myself a cool relaxing smoothie and hot bath, and maybe a day off from riding, anything, if I could just get it done. I shut out the tempting image of stopping and walking. I told myself it shouldn't be this hard, but I didn't believe it. I remembered those long hot highway hills of Nebraska, the pain of raw determination, and the simple fact of survival. I reminded myself this is why I'm training, to hurt now in a controlled setting, so that I can do more, later, when things are less forgiving.

And I got it done, felt the warm sun and gentle breeze, heard the birds again, and coasted the last quarter mile home. I'd done it, and I was done for today.

Reelin' in the Years

Well, not really. The years are gone. The song was running through my head today as I put about 14 miles on the old odometer. A beautiful spring day and my first time on one of Madison's many bike trails, the South West. I followed the trail downtown, past the stadium and capitol. The sun shining, birds being birds, little breeze; it's an old railway, and at one point it follows a high berm, from which I looked down into backyards filled with the deitritus of winter -- brown gardens, covered grills, dead Christmas trees, and a few hardy gardener types already at work. Quite a few people on the trail too, walkers, joggers, cyclists.

Too bad it's going to snow again Saturday.

The song came to me, I think, because old cycling buddy Paul used to talk about reeling in riders in the distance -- the apt image that every turn of the crank drew us that much closer to the target, as though actually drawing in a line. A good psychological ploy for highway riding. But I also felt as though maybe some of the time was coming back too, just so damned good to be out there again, wondering why I put it aside as easily as I did. As for the years themselves, I know that those that are gone, are gone, no matter how much I'd like to have a few of them back. And change a few decisions, undo a few choices, as probably we all would. But not all. I was also missing some of the good times, too -- we all have, paraphrasing James Thurber, a few things in life we'd like to live over if we could. But we can't.

But I digress. Fourteen more miles and my legs are but moderately tired; my seat is fine. The bike worked wonderfully, and I remembered, again, why I like this sport -- everything seems so different and more real than when glimpsed from a speeding car. There is indeed hope.

Rollin'

Took Rocinante out today for a ride of 8.46 miles, on a west Madison bike trail. Starting out was a breeze, the first 3 miles more or less flew by; my only minor crisis was trying to plow across a patch of half-melted ice. I didn't crash, but considered it for a moment. Then I turned back in the direction I had come, and realized I had fallen for one of the most basic tricks cycling can lay for one: I had been riding with a tail wind, and presuming the results were all due to my suddenly-sound cycling legs. Once I went into the wind, I remembered it all, the times it was so damned hard. Which also inspired me to try harder; better to bonk here, in sight of home, than 40 miles out.

But it wasn't that bad, no real risk of bonking, just tiredness, and I did my 8+ miles in 49 minutes, which means a 12-hour century if there are no hills. Still I walked into the house on only slightly rubbery legs. So there's a lot of hope -- with four months+ to go. If I ride everyday . . . . Or mostly every day. It is encouraging that my butt doesn't hurt at all. I attribute that to the good saddle on my bike and the padded shorts -- though that meant I had to endure the laughter of my 13-year old daughter Anna as I prepared to depart; of course, she usually tries to find things to taunt me about, so the spandex shorts, cleated shoes, and helmet were simple gimmes.



The Wii fitness machine was very impressed with me yesterday, and my loss of 4 pounds in the past couple days. Of course, this is all the easy stuff now.

Not as easy as "remembered"

Yesterday I was reading Bicycling magazine and inspired; today I got back on the bike and remembered. This can be hard -- muscles I haven't called on for more than a year were not happy about being awakened. And it came back to me. Thirty-eight years ago this month that I bought my first multi-speed bike,a 10 speed Schwinn SuperSport, lemon-yellow. With a heavy steel frame and aluminium fenders. I went into the bike shop and rode it out, inspired by the brochures and their promise of easy riding; my roommates and I had unofficial plans to ride to Canada that summer. On that early spring day, gray and spotted with bursts of sunshine -- like today -- I ran into my first real hill and realized that low gear still meant effort -- despite the glossy brochures, the machine didn't power itself. I did get accustomed to it; that first bike, Parnassus, gave way to a 12-speed, Adastratus, which gave way to the current Rocinante, with his 27-speeds.

Today, too, inspired by the pics in the biking mags, I wanted to fly and ended up chugging. But I completed a decent ride, maybe 7 miles, surprised to find my legs rubbery. After the ride I drove to the Bike Expo, and bought some miscellaney at a discount -- and caught a bit more of the sense of enthusiasm generated by any gathering of cyclists.

And anyway, I've now got the bike rack affixed to my car, which seems de rigeuer for Madison. I can project the hardcore image already; it remains to be seen when I can believe it.

Almost ready to roll

Picked up Rocinante from the bike shop today, all shined up and with that good bike shop smell of grease and polish. Tomorrow we'll go out for the first time in more than a year. Presuming I can find my gloves and my cleated shoes -- the ones that make me walk like a duck; and I need to make sure the cleats are clean and still in working order. Nothing worse or more embarassing than falling over because one's feet get stuck. I know -- I've done it.

I don't think I'll dig out the spandex shorts yet, till I get to a point where I won't look like an overstuffed sausage. For the record, I seem to have lost about two pounds in the last few days, not enough to really count. Still, I've been walking the treadmill the past few days, and remembering that exercise is not a pretty thing -- though I'd rather be tired in my basement, where I can simply step aside, than 40 miles out on the highway. At least that's what I'm telling myself. So I walk the treadmill and read the biking magazines.

I'm actually beginning to recall why it was I used to like this so much.

Snowmelt

I bicycled 95 miles one hot August day in the year 2000, the farthest I have ever cycled, before or since. When my cycling buddy Mark suggested we go another five miles and "make it a century," I scoffed. Or would have scoffed, if I'd had the energy. I just wanted to go home.

On August 8, 2010, one decade later, I intend to ride a century in the Madison Centurion. Four months after my 60th birthday, seven years after a major heart attack. Why? To show that I can, I suppose. And that I'm not yet ready to go quiet into that good night.

Last night I sent in my registration money, so it's official. Now there are a few things to do. Like get my trusty steed into shape. Rocinante (Don Quixote's horse, with apologies to John Steinbeck in Travels With Charley) is a Trek 1200 road bike, about 12 years old. The bike shop says he has dry rot, so he gets new tires; I have to make due with legs I have, but have a few months to put some muscle back. His shifters are clogged, so he gets 'em cleaned out; I get to change my diet. He gets new grease and oil; I get to change my diet. I've already started back on the treadmill, and next week he comes home from the shop, and we'll hit the road again.

The ride seems doable today, as I set in my den, looking out at the snowmelt on a cool March day. I wonder how I'll feel on that hot August afternoon. Check back if you want to know.