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.
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