Driving to work today I could, at times, barely see through the beating rain, despite my wipers going full blast. Made me glad I did a bit of riding yesterday afternoon, when the sky was blue and the temps in the low 80s. Basically my training route, though I went a bit further into the city; on the road back I took a road I'd seen but never followed, which climbed sharply up from the UW and vanished into trees. Eagle Heights, a campus housing development.
To get there I'd followed the trail along Lake Monona, past the Monona Terrace, past the shores lined with fishermen, mostly minority older men and kids, sitting on upturned buckets, watching lines that drifted with the faint breeze. I realized that shoreline fishing in Madison's lakes has become a, to use a socially-biased phrase, though I think appropriate, based on a cursory evaluation resting on appearances alone, a lower-class pursuit -- it's pretty clear that anyone with the wherewhithal goes "up north" to fish, or at least out on a boat. The same, I think, with swimming, at least to judge by the few people in the water or on the beaches at James Madison Park; those with money are in private pools or, again, out on their boats. Nothing like the Madison in the 1950 Life magazine story of idyllic middle-class bucolia. No more lakeside cabins or general store/bait shops.
A couple rants about people on that trail. First was the rider ambling slowly ahead of me, shirtless and helmetless, riding in the center of our lane, with a pair of dismantled fishing rods horizontal on his lap, sticking several inches out on either side. As I prepared to pass I tried to warn him, but he had earphones and didn't respond. Then I caught up with a middle-aged woman on a unicycle, with one kid on either side of her, both of them on unicycles, covering the entire lane and weaving across the center. I barely got past them. Once I had worked over to the Lake Mendota side of the isthmus, I rode past the Union Terrace and headed into the shaded Temin Lake Trail. At that point a young woman rider suddenly swooped past me on my left, so close that I nearly brushed into her. I thought about complaining, or maybe just commenting, but I gave it up when I saw that not only was she not wearing helmet, she was barely wearing anything but a long blonde ponytail, and had a tiny purse dangling from one wrist. Obviously the physical risks of cycling were the least of her interests.
Still, it reminded me of the vulnerability of cycling, in which one has no protection save a helmet. I recalled a few days earlier, when we had dropped off Anna at Northwestern U. in Evanston Ill. A cycling grand prix was taking place nearby, maybe 30 garishly-clad muscular cyclists of both genders circling a .9 mile route at high speed, bunching at the turns. As we came out of a restaurant, I saw a young woman limping along the sidewalk, stiff in her racing gear, one arm wrapped in an Ace bandage, ribbons of blood along one leg -- she had been in a pile-up a few moments before; and this, an obviously experienced young well-conditioned rider. She knew the risks, and knew, first-hand, the pain of miscalculation or dumb bad luck. It showed in her rigid walk and her mask of stoic indifference.
But I let it go, and concentrated on the smells of the lake, the warm shade, the breeze on my face, the irritated geese glaring as I rode by, the catttails and wildflowers, all the blessings that biking brings back into focus. One thing about cycling, it is all-encompassing while I do it; that can be pleasant, when things are going well, and a bit less than pleasant when I'm struggling to keep going, but the end is always the same, I am there and there only while I'm cycling. And that's a good thing, in either case.
I had planned to stop when I got to the base of the Eagle Heights hill, a la Sherpa Paul's advice, and refresh and reload, but I arrived too soon for that. So I charged ahead and was pleasantly surprised by the way it fell beneath me, the ease of which convincing me that, perhaps, I am getting stronger after all. I did pause at the top, relieved myself behind the trees, drank deep, and ate a tube of Gu. When I remounted I followed a sweeping blacktop along a ridge that paralled the lake. Once I got past the UW property, I found myself between a manicured golf course and a long line of fancy homes, many almost hidden behind huge trees and hillocks, all overlooking Lake Mendota. One house was for sale, and the realtor's sign said it all, "Historic and Luxury Lake Homes, LLC." This was the heart of Shorewood, the queen of NIMBY municipalities, where Volvos and Subarus sit in winding driveways, faded Gore and Kerrey bumper stickers, careful compost collections, immaculate lawns, strategically planned flower beds and rain gardens, wonderful views, the same place that refused to allow low-income housing within village limits. Social considerations aside, the road was wonderful, sweeping hills, no traffic, and ample shade. I ended up a lot further west than I had intended, and had to work my way back along busy University Avenue to where, as always, Mt. Nemesis lurked in sinister repose. I climbed it in the usual manner, dropping soon into lowest gear, pushing my hardest, gasping a bit, cursing it, but making it, and enjoying the fact that the few subsequent hills were of no consequence. And home, to see my sweat-drenched visage in the bathroom mirror, then to let the luxurious shower wash away the grime and stiffness.
While standing in the shower, I wondered about the upcoming Centurion. I didn't feel overly tired, but I was hot and glad to be done; and it had been only 18 miles. The hills had been manageable but still obstacles to be overcome (I recalled, with a self-directed smirk, how early on I had expected to climb Mt. Nemesis two or three times in succession once I "had my legs under me" -- but that's not likely to happen). I had hoped to lose about 20 pounds, but that didn't happen. I'd tried to pin my enthusiasm on Lance's comeback, but that didn't happen. And it probably didn't help that I watched the old movie, The Alamo, while on the treadmill, with its message that even the most gallant effort, even by Davy Crockett, even by John Wayne, is sometimes not enough to overcome the odds.
And so I find myself wondering if I'm up to this ride after all, still trying to determine which is the better part of valor, discretion or unheeding gallantry. Whether that's really a light at the end of the tunnel, or the flickering fade of an unreachable dream.
Stay tuned.
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