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.