Breaking Away -- Or Blowing It Off?

It's been a week since I've been on the bike, a busy week, what with a 3 day writer's workshop and the usual snares and toils of life. I did some heavy work on the treadmill, actually reached a level now where I break a sweat, and the Wii trainer is pleased with my weight loss, as is my doctor. Still, I need time in the saddle. And I really mean well.
I almost went out today, even put on the togs -- but decided I would be less "selfish" and do some yard work instead. So I unclad from the spandex and hauled several barrels of mulch and spread it about. Seemed a reasonable compromise, manual labor and outdoors, and all. Wonderful, breezy day, intermittent sunshine and clouds, upper 60s; birds singing, squirrels squabbling, power mowers grinding. The sounds of spring, welcome indeed after that long winter. Flower beds look better. All in all, good to be alive.
But lurking in the future, closing quickly, is the August 7 Centurion date. Yesterday I bought the latest Bicycling, because it has an article on the "Fondo" craze, which includes the Madison Centurion (fondo, as in fond of Italians and their traditional racing events, as typified, perhaps, in the movie Breaking Away). Which I watched lately, with mixed feelings. I'd hoped it would inspire me, but it mostly made me feel old, those clunky old bikes and helmets, all that 70s stuff, which was me -- and now it's old. As am I. The movie's not really much of a cycling event, either, the kid never sweats and never seems to struggle -- and he survives crashes like he was Gumby or something. But anyway, here I am, 30 years later, and waiting to meet the Italian team just like he was. Some things never change, even if they never really were.
The magazine also had an article on Madison, included several rides I've never done -- but a mention, too, of Mickie's Dairy Bar, which I have enjoyed several times.
Yesterday I spent my birthday money -- thanks Mom -- on an indoor trainer, so that I can work on my legs even when I can't get out; which seems to be the smarter course. With the kids and work and stuff, it's really hard to commit to a couple hours outside, with no way to get home immediately in case of crisis. The trainer should arrive in a few days. Stay tuned.

Just an Armchair Centurion?

In my youth I loved to read about mountain climbing, and when I lived midst the bluffs and buttes of western Nebraska I put myself at moderate risk on various limestone and clay outcroppings, including Chimney Rock. And I like to read about Arctic expeditions, though I'd rather eat worms than be cold. An armchair adventurer, I guess.

I sometimes wonder if that's the case with this upcoming century. As I set out on each ride I am struck by the difference between me the rider, with legs that hurt a bit until I get warmed up, and the pictures on the cover of Bicycling magazine -- those annoyingly-smily thin persons on expensive bikes, who look like they never suffer (though I read how that's their professional veneer, which doesn't reflect the hours of pain and struggle). Still, I invariably wonder what the H*ll I'm getting into. Especially when I read about the route with its rippling hills and demanding ascents. And I'm faced with the question of whether I'd just as soon read about it as do it. Should I really go through with this? Who am I fooling? Why not just go over to Mickie's Dairy Bar and have a plate of eggs and hashbrowns, read the paper, and age gracefully?

Today I resolved the question. I will go. I will do it or fail, but I will try; I will be one of 3,000 riders in a rare event. I will train religiously, even on Sundays, and maybe even work out on some of the actual route beforehand.

So I set out on a brisk 10-mile ride, aiming for hills, including another ascent of Mt. Nemesis. Not at first, though. This being the actual day I turned 60, I was faced with my first dilemma -- should I do something I like, or should I make myself ride (funny how unfun that becomes the moment it can be viewed as "training"). I convinced myself I wanted to ride, but the radio said it was 38 degrees. So I stalled -- first I cleaned my chain (recalling with a bit of chagrin the time Paul S. scolded me for the greasy buildup) and found the leak in the tube I had changed, then began to prepare to ride. Still too brisk. So I hauled some mulch for the front garden, watching the steam rise from the huge pile dumped by the city. Until the temp reached the upper 40s and I had no more excuse.

Even so, the air was brisk as I started. And my legs hurt. But I got better. Took a side road through the cemetery -- a good uphill -- and followed the bike trail back to Mt. Nemeis, who haunted the last, otherwise lovely spring day, part of my ride. And up I went, still sliding into granny halfway up, but never losing speed and never losing hope. Then to home, amazed at how easy the last half-mile seems now, even though a month earlier twas a bit of a challenge. There is hope.

Calling My Bluff

Saturday a.m. opened sunny and chilly. I set out on a ride I'd done not long after moving up here, a straight south shot, following Mineral Point Road out past Menard's and the Trek shop, under the Beltline overpass, and into the ragged remnants of southwest Madison's rural edge, through the township of Middleton. Past the old cemetery -- "Where Middleton Began" (and, I suspect, where a lot of old Middleton ended up) -- up and over a few hills to the small community of Pine Bluff. About 17 miles roundtrip. The wind was intense on the way out, mostly from the west (my side) but also a bit in my face. The hills were long but doable; shortly past Shoveler's Sink -- an odd name for a lake, IMHO -- I stood on top of a long decline, with Pine Bluff shimmering in the distance. My first thought was to stop there, on high ground, rest a bit, and head for home; the devil in my ear told me to keep going. With the wind more or less behind me if I turned toward home, I decided to take the plunge and let the wind help me back.

It was a glorious descent. I stopped about a mile from town, beside a rocky bluff (there's not much in Pine Bluff, just a couple bars basically); I lay the bike on its side, climbed up the bluff, sat and and relaxed a bit. At which point two old biking axioms came into play. The first is this -- if you need to take a leak, and the only reasonable site to do so is reasonably concealed (that is, if cars can only see you from a certain angle), the moment you decide to do your business a line of cars will appear and, even if they don't really slow down to gawk, they will seem to do so. The effect is exacerbated if, as I did, one wears brightly-colored cycling clothing to draw attention.

The other axiom is, if you want the wind to change, count on it to help you. I shed my windbreaker and pointed old Rocinante up the hill. Once I got out of the flat, the wind actually did kick in behind me, this time proving the axiom by its exception. The wind stayed at my back, and the ride home was one glorious ride, in the higher gears the whole time, the hills slid by and I merrily came home, on time and well-rested.

The next day I opted not to go with the group ride, and instead set out to ride from my home to my work-site, in case I decide to do so on bike to Work day next month. The ride out was unremarkable, save for the fact that my legs hurt some until I got warmed up -- I wanted it to be, again, effortless, and was again disappointed. But I did warm up, and things rolled nicely. As I neared downtown, I noticed a few folks riding bicycles in a markedly pedestrian manner; that is, not for exercise as I was, but to get around. And it seemed to me that they were having an easier time of it than I, because, I think, they didn't have the luxury of an alternative. Clunky bikes, blue jeans, no helmets, nothing nonfunctional. And I was reminded of how fortunate I am that I don't have to ride -- I get to ride, and I have the leisure and lifestyle to do it, or not do it, as I choose.

The ride home began, 15 miles out, easily enough. I stopped at the eastside EVP coffee house, to use the facilities and to sip a bit of green tea. Then set back out. A few blocks later I felt a sickeningly familiar loss of velocity and heard the flapping of a deflating tire. The rear one had gone, of my new, allegedly puncture-averse Gatorskin tires. Here I have a confession to make. I know how to change a tire, I've done it, but I have a phobia about the rear one -- that derailleur always intimidates me.

I had the passing notion of calling for a ride, but let it go. This was me and my problem. So I hunkered down at the deserted edge of a cheap used-car lot, and wrestled with my problem and my phobia. The sun shone, birds were singing, and I heard the increasingly-consistent slam of car doors as the post-church crowd began arriving at the nearby Avenue Restaurant. I cursed (silently) and struggled (mightily) until I got the tube and tire replaced, put in a semblance of the proper air pressure with my frame pump, and took off toward home, greasy but smug in knowing I could do it after all. I stopped at the Budget Bicycle Shop and got the tire topped off, then rolled toward home. I somehow missed the turn from the bike trail and ended up crossing over the Beltline, past the world headquarters of Schwinn bikes (sort of completing a circle, since my first multispeed bike was a Schwinn, and now it's a Trek), found another trail, and rolled on home, totalling another 30 miles under my belt.

Changing that tire meant more to me than I realized; one of the bike magazine articles talks about the satisfaction of mastering the "silent skills" of cycling, meaning, essentially, basic competence. Now I understand.

From Lake to Shining Lake

Yesterday was a shining, sunny, breezy day and I had the good fortune of a couple hours to ride. I sayed mostly on the internal bike trails, like the one pictured above. I started out in high spirits, but was quickly reminded of what I like to call the "illusion of achievement." In light of my successful 30-mile ride of Sunday last, I had assumed the mindset of having arrived at cycling perfection. My legs quickly reminded me not to confuse good cycling with effortless cycling -- the roads are not all downhill. But as I warmed up I felt good. Nearer downtown the trail began to acquire other riders, and the chatter of children soon joined the whir of tires on pavement and the birdsongs. One tyke blew past me on a small single-speed bike -- it was downhill, in my defense, and I was not in any hurry. Occasional pedestrians, bikers in all sorts of gear, a few hardcores whizzed past, others in suits on their way to work. Whenever I passed anyone, I tried to courteously announce myself -- but more times than not, the other person was insulated in a world of earbuds.
Amazing, I thought, how quickly the grass has greened and trees have sprouted leaves again -- the trail toward downtown is an old rail-line, so it's arched over with tall old trees.
Once downtown I worked my way over to Lake Monona, and past the Terrace, where I stopped a while, ate a Clif bar, and watched a pair of squabbling Mallard drakes. I thought, briefly, how funny and self-important they seemed in their little world; then I looked over to the street and watched the stream of cars filled with serious-looking faces, and realized we're all relevant primarly to ourselves, and probably a bit ridiculous to any consciousness outside our immediate concerns. From Monona I worked around the Capitol hill, over to the University and Lake Mendota, following that lakeside trail into the insular litle burg of Shorewood Hills. The day was summerlike, and I cruised easily. This, I thought, is what it's about. I whizzed past a pair of geese who stood next to the trail, mostly involved in their own thoughts, having, it appeared, accepted cyclists as an incomprehensible but mostly harmless aberration.
Then it was time to turn for home, which meant back to the big hill on Old Sauk Road, which, from now on, I shall deem Mt. Nemesis. Again, not an especially long hill, but steep, and coming as it does just before the final run to home, it haunts my ride, looming larger the nearer I get. Always, there is the temptation to turn away earlier, take some of the longer but less daunting alternate routes. But I didn't, and soon charged up it, having convinced myself I was ready now. Before long I had slipped back into granny gear, but continued grinding upward, bluejays seeming to jeer at me as I trundled past those mocking signs, "Slow down for our children." But I made it -- again -- took a celebratory toke of water, and headed home. 17 miles more on my chart, and now more than 100 miles of training this spring.
Maybe I can actually do it.

Seduction

Well, the alleged 9:00 gathering time for the Bombay ride came and went. I found one car in the lot, with a bike rack, but no riders anywhere. I got on the bike and wandered a bit. A commotion to my left -- I glanced over and saw a large hawk, spread-winged and fierce, glaring at me from a patch of grass; slowly and defiantly he rose from the weeds, an unfortunate and fat field mouse hanging haplessly and helplessly from his claws.
Probably a sign, I thought, though unclear -- I didn't get to verify the entrails -- the hawk made it clear he was not sharing. Anyway, I ambled around for a few minutes, then decided to strike out on my own. Checked the odomoter, did a few calculations, and headed north on Highway 12, from Middleton.
When we moved here in 2001 Highway 12 north was a winding, hilly, 2-lane; in some places it gave the appearane of a mountain road, pretty but probably pretty dangerous. A couple years and some heated argument later, the highway department converted it into a Roman road, wide, 4-lanes, medianated, and moderately graded. A lot of scenery went, and a lot of trees. As a sop to the environmental crowd (allegedly) they put in a long bike trail parallel thereto. I'd seen it while driving past, but never ridden out there. This seemed to be the day.
The path was empty, save for two joggers near Middleton. the sun shone -- and because there were no trees, it shone pretty solidly. I soon shed my windbreaker, and kept riding. I heard red-winged blackbirds and smelled grass and water. I also heard the water -- or rather a steady cacaphony of frogs from nearly every pond and puddle. I also smelled cattle, and decided that, from an olfactory point of view, there's little difference between Nebraska's feed lots and Wisconsin's dairy farms.
Except for the lack of trees, the trail was nice; the crossings over side roads were well laid out, and it's always pleasant to feel like a respected denizen of the road, instead of an intrusive, slow nuisance (on the shoulder of a highway, midst the debris and glass fragments). I considered taking a side road, for scenery's sake -- but without a map (memo to self, pack a damned map) I was concerned about getting lost or into a seriously hilly and unforgiving area. So I stayed with the trail. But after several miles I came to a T-intersection, where stood a post with a handwritten sign -- "Bike Trail Ends." Well, I guess so; I mean, there was no room for interpretation. So I was back on the shoulder, with cars whizzing past, and the sun beating down. I soon crested a hill, and found myself looking down into thw Wisconsin River valley.
And this is where the seduction comes in.
I knew it would be wonderful ride down that long descent, and only few miles more to Sauk City. I also recalled on of my basic tenets of riding: never willingly give up high ground -- because you will probably have to regain it later -- especially when you are going back the same route.
But part of the wonder of seduction is a willingness to suspend common sense, and I did so. It was indeed a glorious ride down. And I did retain enough self-control to stop at precisely 15 miles out, not quite to Sauk City. I chewed a Clif bar, rested and rehydrated a bit, and turned around. Which meant pushing back up that descent, at which time I discovered -- no surprise really -- that I had also been riding with a tailwind. So it was a bit of grind back up, but a manageable one; I did notice decaying banana peels from time to time as I climbed, indicators of bicyclists gone by, remnants of their passing, the way that the skulls of oxen marked the passage of pioneers on the Oregon Trail. On a couple occasions a passing car honked, whether in encouragement or to be nasty, I don't know.
I did crest the hill, and felt good about it. I made it back in pretty good time, back to the car, and home for lunch, 30 miles under my belt, my legs feeling not so bad, and all being well. Another step forward toward century time.
And the Bombay ride? A re-check of the old schedule showed that the ride left at 10:00, not 9. Next time I'll read more carefully. (Memo to self --pay attention).

The Night Before

Tomorrow I'm planning to head out on my first "long" ride of the season -- and actually the first one of any real length in the past 10 years. A 30-mile ride, with the local Bombay Bicycle club.
I've done what I can to prepare, put on my front handle bar bag and thrown in a pair of Clif bars, bought some electrolyte-mainaining powder to mix with my water, dug out my insulated water bottle, so I'll have two of them. I even put the extra bike rack in Mei's car, in case I need to call for a ride to get me back to mine. The weather should be nice, the ride is described as "moderately hilly," and I think I'm raring to go. Should get a good feel of my status when it's over.
I'd of gone out for a test ride today -- planned on it in fact -- but Mei and I got involved with "finalizing" the taxes I had prepared. I put the quotation marks there on purpose -- I meant well, but the usual film of imperception descended over my eyes and mind as soon as I had begun working on them, and what I had were several hours of by guess and by golly. And only off by a couple thousand bucks; fortunately, all the errors were agin us, so Mei did good by catching them. But by the time we got things straightened out, the afternoon had mostly gone, and other chores beckoned. But at least I walked the treadmill today.

Memories of Rides Past -- with apologies to Msr. Proust.

"We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full." Marcel Proust

No riding the past few days -- cold winds, rain, and even snow made it far too easy to find reasons or excuses to stay inside, though I have been regularly on the treadmill.
I have spent some of the time trying to recall particulars of my best and worst rides. The worst seems easy enough. June or early July, 1983, northeast of Omaha. A windy Sunday, Mark and I and his brother John rode from Omaha to Underwood, where we stopped and had a hearty breakfast. A big stack of pancakes as I recall. The ride up had been unremarkable. But on leaving the truckstop restaurant the highway crossed the interstate on a long uphill bridge, onto a hilly two-lane, into a strong headwind. Immediately I recalled and regretted the pancakes, which had been so tempting. As the ride progressed, I fell further and further back, and felt my energy level plummetting. Eventually I realized the wind was such that I was having to downshift even on the downhills, and any turnaround for home was probably miles away. Mark and John had vanished over the hilly horizon.
I reluctantly -- but gratefully -- stopped the bike, sat a few moments midst the wild grasses, listened to the wind and the occasional bird song. I watched the empty horizon for several minutes. Then I said the Hell with it, turned the bike around, and let the wind help me ride back, until I reached a roadside convenience store. I chained the bike to a post, where it would be visible should my erstwhile friends come back looking for me, and I called for a ride home. About 30 minutes later Mark and John appeared, having -- they said -- watched for me from time to time, believing I was probably just a hill or two behind. My ride evenually showed up, and I chalked it all up to the elements.
That, I believe, was the only time I truly "bonked" on a ride, though there have been other times when the end came with a sense of great relief. A few memories well up, of gray cold winds and broiling summer afternoons.
As I believe I have already written, I can find no particular ride that stands out as wonderful, though the two Tour de Nebraska rides (300 or so miles over a few days) shine in my memory. I recall one of them up in Northeastern Nebraska, a beautiful prairie summer morning, the road steel gray and shining under a not-yet-hot sun, dew still beside the road, the wind still sleeping, the birds happy to see me pass by, my bike buddies Mark and Paul nearby but not immediately beside me. I recall a long sweep of road leading to the town of Bancroft and John Neihardt's old domain. Memories of green and gray, smells of grass and wildflowers, the bike-generated wind gentle on my face, warm sunshine. Good to be alive.
I also remember the long last downhill on the old GORP ride (Greater Omaha Ride to Pisgah), an annual ride for several years with Mark and Paul, some 38 miles from Omaha to mom and dad's farmstead. That ride was moderately challenging in spots, but mostly manageable -- and it was pleasant indeed to top the last hill and see the turnoff below that led to the small green farmhouse, with its decrepit barn and two towering cottonwoods, and the fields all around, knowing that mom was waiting with her ox-tail stew, and the bikes could be left around the yard to fend for themselves. That, for me, is the essence of bicycing, a reasonable effort well-rewarded.
But I can't close here with recalling some summer rides in the 1970s, usually with Mark, when we would get on our bikes, sometimes wearing blue jeans, and ride the 15 or so miles to Elkhorn, where we would hang out in the saloon for a couple hours and drink beer -- then climb back on the bikes, the hot afternoon sun sneering at us, and weave our way home. No helmets, no water, no sense. From this vantage point that was all wrong, from the clothing to the beer, but we were too young and impetuous, and dare I say idealistic, to know or care better. And those were wonderful times.

Making the Grade -- and my first half-century

Yes, 50 miles. Of course, that's the total for the season thus far, actually reaching 65 today.
Today's ride was mostly on bike trails and bike routes. It concluded with this pictured climb, an 11% grade. Maybe not the biggest, longest, or steepest hill in the city, but the only one I know of with its own warning sign. Interestingly, it's on a designated bike route, suggesting perhaps a sense of humor in the mapmaker.
The climb was in fact challenging; about halfway up, I realized I was in "granny" gear, with no lower options. So I ground on. Ironically, the hill passes a school, and I had several long seconds to study a "slow down for children" sign as I ambled by. I'm not sure I could have gone much slower.
But I did make it, and ambled home with a bit more confidence. The ride was nice, the trails here are pretty well-maintained, not crowded but not deserted. I began overclad, as I often do, since I despise being cold, wearing a long sleeved T under a cycling jersey, with a windbreaker over that. Halfway through I began getting seriously warm, so I jammed the breaker in the back pocket.
As I approached the 11% hill I recalled when I was in junior high and decided to bike to school. The morning ride was a breeze, thanks in part to a long, steep downhill. Which made the afternoon ride a challenge, especially on a heavy single-speed bike. But I eventually did it, and after that first one, the rest were easier and easier. The next summer I went back to my hometown for a visit, and when we biked downtown, I was able to leave all my companions in the dust on the long uphill back home. So I had hope, and was not disappointed.
As I write about today's ride it occurs to me, and not for the first time, that most of my thinking has dealt with avoiding pain rather than finding pleasure. That's partially fear talking, the image of the impending century. But I'm sure it's also because so far I've been riding solo, which means I have only my thoughts and observations for distractions -- that will, I hope, change when I begin joining in the Sunday rides of the local cycling club (Bombay Bicycling).
The journey continues.

Intervals -- and perspective

I haven't gotten back on the bike since the last post -- weather and various distractions, including a welcome visit from my 84-year-old mother -- but I've been reading back issues of Bicycling magazine as I walk the treadmill -- two miles a morning, interval speeds, at a 5 percent incline. A good cardio workout, my doc says, and one I hope helps translate into some biking strength. I'm also planning to do some core exercises, again courtesy of Bicycling. I think the reading is helping me get into the proper frame of mind, though I'm getting tired of all the Lance stuff. But now I'm recognizing bikes on the street again, noticing whose riding what, and recalling the difference between a driving commute and the wind in one's hair.
Still, speaking of Lance, he did do a comeback, and that's sort of what I'm up to, in my own small way, though I'm neither coming back as far or trying to reach as high. The other day I read an interview with Burke Swindlehurst, a "veteran and aging" bicyclist, in which he talked about acknowledging his age and making adaptations. Called himself "an older athlete" and learning to ride wiser. I was uh-huhing along until I realized he is turning all of 35 -- an age 25 years into my rearview mirror. I've got cycling shorts older than him. They no longer fit, but I remember when they did. I'm not sure he and I have much in common after all. That was a bit of a downer, sort of like stopping at a red light in high gear at the foot of a hill.
Then, in a later issue, I read Selene Yeager's column (already some of these writers are becoming old friends) about resolving to, and then completing, her first Ironman competition. Reminded me that what I'm trying to do -- my first century, at age 60 -- is not an unreachable goal. The interval is not so great, depends on one's perspective. I've got five months, a training plan, a good bike, and every reason to believe I can ride 100 miles in a day. I did 95 once, after all. And that was only ten years ago.
Back to the bike, boy.