New Riding Buddy

Went for a short but sweet ride today, maybe five miles along Lake Monona. What made it special was that 13-year-old daughter Anna Mei accompanied me on her Trek hybrid. She's a bit like I had been, a reluctant rider, since it always seemed well, okay, but maybe not quite worth the effort. But, with mom's prodding, she went with me. Another glorious day, though the trail was crowded. We stopped at Willie Street Bikes, then turned around and went back, me riding wingman most of the way, making sure no one cut her off or otherwise messed up her somewhat uncertain ride. She stayed mostly in one gear, seeming at ease, and, she later begrudgingly admitted, having a good time. What with ducks and ducklings, geese and goslings, and a big soda at the end, what could go wrong?

Reminded me it can be good to ride with company. But not necessarily just any company. Which might explain my reluctance to follow through on any Bombay Bike Club rides. I have my own list of reasons for solitude, and have always preferred to make my own way rather than find it in company of polite strangers, plan my own route and pace. I also find it hard -- residual shyness? doubts as to my abilities? -- to commit to an already existing group, and to accede to group decisions. I much prefer the old days, riding with Mark and Paul, and perhaps one or two varying side riders. People I knew well who knew me, with whom I could relax and laugh. Not to be maudlin here, there are moments, especially toward the end of long days, in which their idiosyncracies can grate, and God knows what sort of tics and traits I exhibit and they tolerate. Still, it's good that both of them will be with me on the Centurion, and, I hope, we'll all finish together. The Three Amigos, once again.

In the meantime, I already have plans for Anna and my next ride.

Too Good to be True

Yesterday I wet out on my longest planned ride yet, through Pine Bluff and on to the village of Mount Horeb, Wisconsin's "Troll City." I took advantage of my map and growing experience, to head out on Old Sauk's rolling tree-line road instead of straight out busy Highway S. At the outset I found myself attacking hills and dashing down at speeds up to 29 MPH. Not so many cyclists out, but a bit of a breeze carrying with it patches of scents from wildflowers beside the road. After leaving Pine Bluff, the road swung around a big bend and then upward toward the village. After all, there's a reason it's called Mt. Horeb; because it is UP. Not overwhelmingly, but definitely. Still the weather was nice, albeit borderline hot and very sunny, and the countryside was vintage Wisconsin, save for the ever-spreading menance of subdivisions popping up between and along the hillsides. I stopped briefly at one farm entrance, with the above photographed "Life Is Good Ln" signpost. Indeed, I thought, it is.

I arrived in Mt. Horeb and settled briefly in front of a local bakery, to sip water and eat a Clif Bar -- and consult the map. When I went in to use the restroom, I was a bit startled at myself in the mirror, beads of sweat on my forehead, hair plastered flat, my skin looking every bit of my 60 years, and I even looked almost thin, since the mirror did not reach down to my ever-present gut. Like a biker, I guess.

My road home began with my first time on the Military Ridge trail, a hard-packed dirt old railroad bed, well-maintained, with trees arcing overhead, and an essentially downhill grade toward Madison. I cruised at about 15 miles an hour, over gentle streams, through patches of prairie, birds all around, and so on, whizzing over bridges. Only a few other users on the path. Two thoughts rose up simulataneously -- "This is what it's all about, innit?" and "I'm going to pay for this." After about eight miles I turned onto Highway J, a hilly, gray sunbaked concrete ribbon. Each hill loomed up, I thought, well just this one more -- and then another one. I thought about a comment friend Mark made one time, that when you're out on bike it becomes your world, nothing else matters for those few moments. And that was how I felt, each hill, each push of the pedal, was all in itself, since there were no options. Just on and on.

But I reached Mineral Point Road, finally, and Madison loomed in the visible distance, one more big hill away. And something happened. For the first time I can remember in lo these many years of cycling, I felt, not like dragging myself home, but like the proverbial old horse who senses the barn in the near distance; I found myself equally tired, but also found some inner strength to push harder to get home, rather than forcing myself to struggle on. A subtle difference, perhaps, but a real one. And a positive, I think.

38 more miles on the old odometer.

Finding my way

Not Magellan, perhaps, but this morning I did circumnavigate Lake Monona, and a wonderful ride it was. Temp was about 70, and the air was redolent with the smells of lake, trees, and wild grasses. As I stood in the parking lot, unloading Rocinante, I felt it was right to be there, that this is what a bike ride ought to be. And as I rode beside the lake, the Capitol and the Terrace gleaming white in the distance, the sun reflecting off the lake, the gulls and ducks making their respective rackets, the whir of my tires on concrete, I knew it was right. So many times I'd driven past this part of the bike trail and watched the cyclists, and wanted to be there. This, I thought, is Madison biking, and this is the day to do it. And on I rolled, midst the cyclists, around the walkers and joggers, past the fishermen, all but oblivious to the workday world represented by the cars that hurried past.

The distance was not so much, about 13 miles, and mostly flat, but I kept the bike in higher gears all the way. The bike trails were nice, and so was the stretch along Willy Street, through Madison's little Haight-Ashbury. I saw several cyclists, including a couple gray-haired denizens, one of whom dashed out of a side trail right in front of me, never looking in my direction and, so far as I know, never saw me. Certainly never acknowledged me. I followed him for quite a distance, hoping to have a bit of conversation, but never caught up, and then he topped a hill and vanished into the side streets of Monona. Maybe poised to dash out in front of another unwitting cyclist. Or maybe he was just an illusion, a manifestation of an idea.

I'd bought a cyclist's map of Madison, water- and tear-proof, with the routes laid out, and had pored over it the day before, carefully plotting my course. But the map did me little ultimate good, except for general assurance. That's one thing I've learned about Madison and maps -- the city is always smaller than it seems on the map, and streets are never where they are supposed to be. The same was true with the bike trails, which started and stopped between winding streets and bike routes. The best I could do was stop once in awhile, check the map, and figure out where I was and I'd gone wrong, then plunge onward through the cartographical fog. I generally and simply kept the Lake on my right, and got back in fine fettle. Which, now that I think about it, is better than Magellan did on his circumnavigation.

I barely broke a sweat, and felt myself working steadily but not hard. Just right for my recovering heart. I had visited my cardiologist the day before, expecting to please him with my 5 pound weight loss, but his scale showed only a single pound gone. But he was very impressed with the fact that my cholesterol measurements were all well into the ideal range, when three months ago they were all high. "You," he told me, "are my role model." Well. He needs to get out more. He also encouraged me to go on with the Century -- "no reason why you shouldn't" -- but cautioned that I ought to be careful about overdoing it if the weather is hot and I am struggling. Thanks a lot, doc, as though I needed an excuse. and as for my heart, it felt good and strong and complete.

Climbing into the Triple Century

Today the bike odometer turned over 200 miles for the season, after a 20-mile ride out Mineral Point Road to Pine Bluff; yesterday the treadmill odomoter turned over 100 miles for the season, meaning more than 40 days of grinding in the basement at 2.5 miles per day. Three centuries in one day, albeit nothing like the one century in one day for which I am training. And the wii machine was pleased, since my weight is now down to 175, from 183 back in March. Not so dramatically fast as it was after my heart attack, when I plunged from 180 to 150 in about two months; at that time I attributed it to diet (radical change) and exercise. But the other day my GP reminded me there had been a lot more going on then, and "we don't usually advocate life-threatening conditions as a technique of weight loss." So I'll take this slow and steady change. Anyway, Tuesday I see my cardiologist and, with childlike enthusiasm, I'm looking forward to impressing him.
Today's ride was a good one, though more summer than spring. It was about 70 -- and rising -- while I was out, and sunny, and I realized I'd forgotten sunblock. I charged up the hills, mostly in the middle sprocket. I did nearly wipe out, once -- like most asphalt highways the roadway has regular cracks in the roadbed, but most cross the road, so it's a simple matter of enduring a small bump. But I unexpectedly came upon a long crack running lengthwise, which grabbed my tire and threatened to toss me to one side. I wobbled and my foot came off the pedal, but I kept control and kept going. Visions of roadrash or worse danced momentarily in my head, reinforcing my sensations of vulnerability -- but I ignored them and rolled on.
This time I went all the way into the town of Pine Bluff and the intersection at its heart -- one can turn right toward Cross Plains, or left toward Mt. Horeb. Or one can go straight ahead, up a long steep hill, one that had loomed over my view ever since I cleared the last hill, after Shoveler's Sink. I had promised myself I'd climb that hill, and decide what to do after that -- and take a break, with banana and energy drink. Of course, as the hill drew closer it looked steeper, and I was at war with myself -- "I don't have to go up there, this is my ride, yada," vs. "We made a deal [whoever this "we" might be] so let's not wimp out now -- part of the training is the struggle, no pain no gain, yada."
The second yada prevailed, and I climbed the hill. It was hard. Point of clarification here -- I hate steep hills, every grinding second of them. Given the choice, I'd rather plunge into ice-cold water than climb, and that's not an easy thing for me to say. Hills are inexorable and nonnegotiable, merciless. You either keep going or you stop, and they call on muscles that would rather (at least in my case) be left to their own devices.
Needless to say then, I rather regretted choosing the hill until I peaked, but then I was glad. Not that there was much up there, the road simply went on, offering another steep decline and steep climb. But I was there, and a bit more confident in my abilities. A few minutes later I went back down the hill and towasrd the Sink. But because I had checked the map -- a remarkably prescient act for me -- I turned left when I reached the Sink, onto Timber Lane, past the Sink, and picked up West Old Sauk, which out that far is a two-lane moderately hilly, tree-lined blacktop, for which the trees are allowed to arch across; something I hadn't realized until I plunged into the shady stretches was how nice it is to have shade and little traffic, since Mineral Point Road itself is purely functional,treeless and relatively busy. I also found myself encountering other cyclists on Old Sauk, mostly lone riders like myself, appearing to be in the shape I want to be. Then a right turn onto the misnamed Pleasant View Road, a flat and treeless two-lane amidst flat fields and some ominous-looking "No Trespassing" festooned gates. Even before development had begun, this couldn't have been much to look at, simply flat fields and an unremarkable glimpse of then-distant Madison. Though the word "Pleasant" is a vague and innocuous-enough word, and looks better on a map than "Unremarkable." In any event, I was there, heading into a brisk headwind with the sun beating down. Then home. Albeit a bit slowly, since I arrived back at Mineral Point the same time one of the local megachurches got out, so I was caught for a time in a traffic jam; but I could and did slip along the shoulder and into town.
And still not sure where I stand vis a vis being ready for the Century. 200 miles of saddle time definitely helps, but is it going to be enough? I know I was glad enough to get home today, but not exhausted, and I did ride harder and faster than I did two months ago. I had planned to ride in the Tour de Cure yesterday, a 35 mile supported ride, but, because I raised exactly $0 of the required $175, I let it pass. Then I was going to ride a 36-mile hilly ride with the local Bombay Bicycle Club, but I let that pass so I could take Anna to the pet store and buy her a pair of fancy rats. Either I'm a great dad or a tremendous rationalizer -- or maybe both. So I settled for today's 21 miles. At least I was out there and there were hills. Really. And I didn't get sunburned, and I did feel some burn.
Stay tuned.

The Price Per Pound

I've been watching early Perry Mason shows while walking the treadmill and riding the exercise. The other day a miserly old man was complaining to his neice about how she was spending all his money: "Steak again? At $1.34 a pound? I can't afford this." How much things have changed since the '50s; even the pseudo-steak at Ponderosa is in another dimension now.

And of course I've changed, too. Not the least of which is the fact that I had ballooned up to 183 pounds during my last visit to my cardiologist, when I made the Century-at-60 committment. As of now I am down to 176 or so, hoping at least some of that is regained muscle. Which made me wonder how much I'm paying, cycling energy-wise, for every extra pound. I did a bit of research, and came up with this from Cycling Performance Tips, at cptips.com.:

If I lost 10 lbs (about 5%), I would be able to go about 5% faster on the steepest hills, 0.4% faster on the level, and about 2% slower on the downhills. Over a simulated 20-mile closed-circuit ride with a variety of grades, a 10-lb difference produced a 33 second difference. This may or may not seem significant in the context of a time trial. On the other hand, there are two hills on this simulated route where the heavier rider falls back 14 seconds. That is, about 200 feet back and well-dropped. A two-lb difference that you can buy at a bike shop for $500 amounts to only 7 seconds on this circuit, but again, this could mean cresting a hill 50 feet behind your better-sponsored buddies.

And I'd love to leave my "buddies" behind me on a hill once in awhile, even the allegedly non-hardcores (and you know who you are).

So it was with great anticipation that I set out yesterday on my first ride in nearly two weeks -- rain, cold, and family obligations having relegated me to the basement. The day was beautiful, and I meandered downtown Madison, main roads at first. I stopped into Budget Bicycle to pick up a couple Clif bars; I really enjoyed wandering about the scruffy aisles of the place, for once not feeling out of place in my cycling apparrel -- and, when I caught sight of myself in a fly-specked mirror, realizing that I was not quite the "stuffed sausage in spandex" I had been, that I really have lost a part of my gut. Though that may no longer be the standard -- I see by today's paper that this June 19 will be "Naked Cycling Day" in Madison, and I shudder to think of some possible sights there -- I don't think the human body was designed to look good on a bike al fresco, and the possibilities of injury boggle the mind.

Anyway, I rode home on the bike trails, keeping the bike in generally higher gears than before, and spinning more. Feeling like perhaps the weight loss might really make a difference. As I was cranking along, I remembered another bike adventure. Summer of 1978. Afghanistan, when it was still a country and an exotic one at that. Myself and the other five American exchange students with whom I shared an apartment were provided bikes by AFAMEC -- the Afghan-American Exchange Center -- big heavy black single-speed Chinese made machines. Clumsy and cumbersome, but perfect for the mostly flat and barely-maintained streets of Kabul. On that machine I felt nearly invincible; which is odd, really, since it was no more safe than contempoary bikes, which always leave me feeling vulnerable -- no seatbelts, airbags, or protecive shell, merely a lightweight helmet; it didn't help that I recently read about the owner of Brennan's Cheese markets, who had been a marathoner and a veteran bicyclist, who one day hit a patch of gravel and flew into a culvert, ending up a quadraplegic (he was wearing a helmet, for all the good it did him).

And then,having been lost in thought and memory, I arrived at Mt. Nemesis. I had hoped I would be able to fly up it this time, with legs of iron, but had my doubts. Whether self-fulfilling or not, I don't know, but it was hard as ever, perhaps partially because it was at the end, and partially because I still tend to psych myself out. But I did climb it again, albeit still dropping to granny about halfway up. And not so spent that I couldn't spend a few more minutes wandering neighborhood streets before packing it in for the day.

And so the cycling cycle continues.

The Great Indoors

It came. My Ascent bike trainer. So now instead of roaming the streets and bikeways of Madison, I can sit in my basement and crank away. Talk about your mixed blessing. Still, it seems the realistic way to go -- it's hard to find blocks of time away, but there are always half-hours in the gloom. Besides, 40 minutes of hard treadmill walking -- at a 4% grade -- plus a half-hour of spinning is a pretty good workout, to judge by the sweat and my legs. And I get a cool gym-type setup, with even a couple couches to collapse upon And the Wii machine is pleased with my slow but steady loss of weight.

Besides, I've taken to watching early episodes of Gunsmoke, which bring back shadowy memories of my childhood, undefined recollections, and the definite memory of having to get ready for bed as the closing theme song played. Good to see Matt and Kitty and Chester, all in their young primes, and good ol' Doc Adams, cranky even then If I can't go back in time, or even hold it still, at least I can try to reconstruct some that's gone by. One thing I had forgotten, or never realized -- there's a lot of gunplay in every episode, and someone always bites the dust, silently and complacently, no blood, no whining, no moans. Just nice clean dead. That reminds me of the Breaking Away movie, in the sense that the riders there showed no sign of strain or effort, just smoothly rolling along, or crashing and getting up again, all glory and no pain.

And as long as I'm into lousy seques, awhile back I talked about "quiet competencies," the ability to do unspectacular but necessary things. Today I replaced the flush valve in the basement toilet, a project that had been on my to-do list for God knows how long. A bit of a challenge, but manageable and now its done and I feel damned good about it.