Not a Good Sign

In view of the recent brouhaha between cyclists and motorists, it was a bit disquieting to realize that cyclists are now fair game, at least on this stretch of the 9 Springs E-Way bike trail.












My Sunday morning ride began, around 7, with high expectations: I planned to head out Old Sauk to Timberlane, then cut south to a place I'd seen only on the map, Old Sauk Pass, and past a lake, down to Highway 14, over to Cross Plains, and out KP until I came to Garfoot Road, which I would then conquer, and coast back to Madison, in glory and high dudgeon, down the Military Ridge/Capital City Trail.

Starting temp was in the very low 70s, the air was still; when I got onto the hills of west Old Sauk I came into thick fog; before long my glasses were coated, and even looking over the top I couldn't see far. More disquieting, perhaps, I wondered whether any motorists would see me from behind. Fortunately, though, traffic was almost nil, only joggers and an occasional cyclist emerging from the fog in the other direction. Still more disquieting, literally, was my bike -- though I had taken care of the twitter of my chain with cleaning and lubrication, Rocinante began to creak like an old rocking chair, with every push on the pedals, a condition that had begun to emerge on my only other post-Centurion ride. I had tried to fix it then by spraying lubricant into every orifice I could find, but within a few miles it all came to naught.

So there I was, alone with my thoughts and my bike, wrapped in fog, with what might otherwise have been a bit of glorious meditative silence, creaking along, the sound amplified by the otherwise heavy stillness. I decided that, not knowing for certain the source of the noise, that I might be better off staying on the more traveled tracks and ending up at good ol' Budget Bicycles. Don't want to be all alone halfway up Garfoot, I told myself, with no easy way to get home. So I turned north instead of south on Timberlane, and reached the Shoveler Sink lake just as the fog broke, as in the photo below.






From the Sink I headed further north on Timberlane, vaguely intending to intersect the Military Ridge trail (i have a map in my bag, but it always seems like too much trouble to dig it out, plus it's more of an adventure when I'm not quite sure). The sun had totally burned off the fog, the sky was bright blue, the cornfields and trees verdant against the pale gray roadway, birds and all the paraphernelia of a late Wisconsin country summer. Great to be out riding, as I creaked along at a good pace. I passed the cutoff for Maurer Road -- vaguely familiar -- and noted a handmade sign pointing west, "RileyFest." I flew past and down a steep hill. "Riley." I recalled the name and place, a small roadside community with a trailhead, so I decided to go out Maurer Road, after all.

Problem was, I was stopped at the bottom of that steep hill, a hill that made Mt. Nemesis look almost gentle. Ah well. I began the climb back up, and was in lowest gear before I'd gone more than a third of the way up. Damnation. Then determination. I pushed and pushed, then stood in the saddle, nearly losing my balance as I did so at such a slow pace. I pushed more, and it hurt. I've been re-reading C.S. Lewis's Screwtape Letters recently, and I recalled a passage in which old devil Screwtape had suggested one weakness of human souls was a tendency to give up just before the end. One last, desperate push and the hill began to moderate. I cleared it with hurting legs and no breath. A cyclist appeared from the other direction, and I momentarily -- and irrationally -- resented his evident happiness. But he passed, and so did my mood. I caught my wind again and followed the road to Riley, and onto the trail.

As I regained my cycling composure, it occurred to me -- no doubt again because of C.S. Lewis -- that I appear to regard cycling the same way that a committed Christian must regard church -- as a recurrent obligation freely undertaken, pleasant enough most of the time, sometimes a burden, but with sufficient intermittent bursts of emotional and spiritual energy. And a feeling of smug satisfaction when it's over. Carrying that metaphor a bit further, the cycling church is made up all sorts of congregants, from the quiet hardworking members through those boarding on zealotry, with all grades in between. Some seem to be born to cycle, saints maybe who can fly up hills with no apparent efforts, while others appear to struggle through. And to carry the metaphor a bit further (and this definitely a C.S. Lewis thing), just as appearances can be deceiving in a congregation, and that it is both improper and ineffective to judge anyone else by external appearances (who knows the inner struggles of anyone else?), it can be misleading to presume the abilities and dedication of other cyclists. Spandex does not make the man.

My thoughts returned to the immediate world around me. The sky had grayed over and a cool breeze sprang up, stirring the living leaves and swirling a few fallen ones, offerig a hint of autumnal tang, reminding me that in two weeks it will be September. Already. The clouds passed, the sun returned, and so did summer. The trail alternated fields and forest, past waterways and highways, I passed or was passed by people of all sorts and categories, joggers, walkers, riders, recumbents, old geezers and spandexed studs; one pair of recumbent riders were pulling a burley in which sat a smug dog, who watched me indifferently. All fellow travelers on a journey to some mythical east.

I began to sink into tranquility -- and as I entered the city itself, Rocinante's creaking seemed less intrusive, or perhaps I simply had grown accustomed to it.





After about 2 and 1/2 hours and 40 miles I arrived at Budget just as the shop was opening. I explained the creaking and was told that it could be anything from the bottom bracket needing regreasing, to the hub, to the pedals, and made arrangements to bring Rocinante in later this week for a checkover. They squirted some more lube into the orifices, and I left -- the creaking resumed almost immediately.




When I wheeled Rocinante back into the bike shop the following day, the church analogy reappeared. This was a sort of high temple, a mix of magicians and mendicants, rituals and offerings, shared language and values, albeit with different levels of commitment and accomplishment. Affirming a common bond, despite the differences in age and other life experience.


And of course I'll have to leave an offering before I can redeem Rocinante in a few days, once his rear wheel hub is repacked, and our spirits renewed.

Climbing Hogback Mountain

Shortly before Centurion day I whined to someone about my doubts as to my ability to go the hundred miles, and was advised (tongue-in-cheek, I like to believe) that, oh well, it might be best if I didn't do it, since the blog was about a "century at 60" and if I actually did it, I'd have nothing more to write about.
I half-believed that. Or, rather, half-endorsed the excuse, finding it a solid rationalization for not reaching my goal. Maybe it's even more applicable now, since we didn't do the hundred, and it will take some dedicated effort to find and ride another century.
But upon further consideration, I hereby formally reject that rationalization as so much bunk. And here's why:


I spent a better (in terms of quality, not quantity) part of my misspent youth midst the bluffs and plains of the Nebraska panhandle, where I did a stint as general reporter for the Gering Courier (newspapering being, so far as I know, the only profession in which the word "stint" is used without pretension). The Courier, a weekly, went to bed on Wednesday nights, so my Thursdays were the most free day of the week. I spent many of them roaming those bluffs, in the early days alone or in the company of our German Shepherd-Husky mix, Julia. Long, wondrous, hours, midst the wind and brush and dirt and rocks, on hot dry summer days watching killdeer skittering along, vultures and hawks circling in the summer updrafts, or magpies screeching among the wooded breaks. Winters found me breaking through fresh snow on crisp winter days under sharp crystal-blue skies.

I spent much of that time on Scotts Bluff and its attendant rock formations, but one place I always meant to go was Hogback Mountain, the highest peak (used in the broadest sense of the word) in Nebraska. I'd been close to it, wandering around the Wildcat Hills, of which it is one, but never on it. On some of those Wildcat trips I was accompanied by Jim Prohs, the husky, red-headed, mustachioed heir to and managing executive of Prohs Furniture, a long-time Gering institution. Jim and I had become acquainted when he would show up at the paper to buy advertising. He had been away to college and had a liberal arts degree, and seemed to welcome the chance to talk with someone his age from outside the insularity and practicality that constituted Gering society.

In any event, we became friends, and, in addition to daytime rambles, had a few interesting nights on the town, one of which involved a tour of the bowels of the furniture store, and the cobwebbed remains of what had been his grandfather's undertakering operation; another found us wandering the amphitheater and canyons of Wildcat Hills with a bottle of spirits in our respective hands.

After a year or so with the paper I decided, for reasons unclear to me then and unsubstantial to me now, to pack it up and move back to Omaha and "civilization." Jim didn't try to talk me out of it -- he even helped me move -- but I do think he'd rather I hadn't. In any event, I mentioned to him my disappointment at leaving before climbing Hogback, saying that "Climbing Hogback Mountain" would be an excellent title for an autobiography or book of essays. "Nonsense," he said, "it makes a much better story if you never get a chance to do it. More ironic."
I agreed, and, for the same reason, decided that the dollar I owed him would also make a better story if I never paid it, so I never did. Nor did I ever climb Hogback.

That was nearly 30 years ago. And, by golly, I think Jim was wrong. I should have climbed it. The hell with irony and literary conventions. At this point in my life I've decided it's the experiences and not the literary conceits -- or rationalizations -- that matter. He may have a better story, too, since I still owe him a dollar, but he'll never have the dollar to spend and, to some extent, is a poorer man because of it.

By golly, I still have a few months in which to do a Century in my 60th year, and, this time, I'm going to make every effort to reach my goal. Might make a better story, too.

Regarding Rocinante

"It had served as well as Don Quixote's nag, Rosinante, in carrying me through life's wars." Max Lerner, Wrestling With The Angel, p. 120.

"It's a clean machine." Paul McCartney, Penny Lane.

The fact that I have come this far with only scant mention of my trusty steed Rocinante is testament, I think, to his reliability. And, I suppose, also to the fact that I'm not much of a gearhead nor an afficiando of cycling technology. What I do know is he is a 1999/2000 version of the Trek 1200T, a lightweight aluminum-frame road bike, sparkly green with dark gold Trek decals, three front sprockets, 27 speeds (including the aforementioned, never to be used, "angry gear" of smallest front with smallest rear). Not the lightest bike on the road, nor the fastest, but well within acceptable parameters of both. Kind of as I like to regard myself, in the upper range of competence but not quite something to write home about.

I do know he has served me well, without complaint (especially now that I regularly cleaning and lubing his chain), with -- as I, non-gearhead that I am, recall as being only minor replacements or upgrades -- new handlebar tape, friendlier seat, new tires, a "Mity 3" computer, lights, and a rear extension rack. This year, with the 50+ miles of Centurion weekend behind us, I've put on 698 miles, with one flat tire. He goes where I want him to go, and our shortcomings on hills are, I think, essentially my own. As fast downhill as I let him go, as high as 40 once, often in the upper 20s. Steady and reliable, always ready to roll, sometimes, it seems, tugging at his traces.

I think I mentioned before that bicycling seems to me an inherently unfair sport, in that the strong get rested while the weaker ones struggle to catch up, and I think the same is true with the bikes. Better riders tend to buy better bikes, which ride faster and easier, and ride them more, and so it goes. Not that it accounts for the better riders themselves nor that it excuses those of us no quite there -- the real bottom line seems to be willingness to commit and just get out and ride.

I read part of Lance Armstrong's Every Second Counts, in which he stated what appears to be a summary of his philosophy: "Pain is temporary . . . . Quitting is forever," which seems to to be on the high end of a platitudinal continuum ranging from, "You never know until you try" through "No pain no gain" and ending up with "A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man dies but once."

I wish I'd had Lance's emblazoned in my consciousness on the longest hills of the Centurion, though I do believe I've kept it in my mind all spring, with the idea that going all out for once in my life might be a good and novel experience. I might have pushed somewhat harder on those couple hills, but I don't know. I do know that general idea kept me from seriously considering the sag wagon, and what let me charge up that last hill.

Probably the bottom line is one of degree and personality. The general idea is what I promised myself I would do this season, but haven't quite done. At least not yet. Bottom line is, even though I know the pain is temporary, it hurts like hell when I'm in it, and the fact that I can stop anytime makes it hard to move through it and tempting to quit, at least for a tad.

It might be, of course, that I am overthinking and overdramatizing all this. Maybe, as Mark says, you just climb the hill. Or, as Paul says, climb it if you can, walk if you must, it doesn't really matter.

It is, I think, a matter of refinement and degree. Certainly not even for Lance is all pain always tolerable, and, as a sherpa voice whispers in my ear, "sometimes pausing is not stopping much less quitting," to "it's a bike ride not a lifequest," to "is it really worth dying for?" I suppose it could be, and one could treat a ride as a microcosm of life, begging the question, of course, of the price one is willing to pay for it.

And, focusing on Lance's formulation, who knows what anyone else's pain is like? Is Lance's pain on an Alpine climb, on his ultimate Trek with his lifetime-trained legs, greater or equal to mine on a long Wisconsin hill, on Rocinante, with my sporadically-trained ones? Does he have a greater tolerance for pain, or maybe even a touch of masochism, or at maybe obsessive machismo? and how much does it matter?

I do know this, my 60th year is not yet over and I've not yet ridden a Century, though I have completed a hard 50-miler and a couple easier ones. I've switched my treadmill to a 10% grade interval route, to toughen those muscles for climbing. And maybe I've rethought my attitude a bit. We'll see in September, if I can get onto one of the centuries I'm considering.

Stalked by the Savage SAG Wagon

"You know, you have a bad time of
it, and you always have a friend who says 'Hey man, you
ain't got it that bad. Look at that guy.' And you at that
guy, and he's got it worse than you. And it makes you feel
better that there's somebody that's got it worse than you.

But think of the last guy. For one minute, think of the last
guy. Nobody's got it worse than that guy. Nobody in the
whole world." Arlo Guthrie

Centurion morning opened with a gray sky, soon laced with lightning and distant rolls of thunder. Drops spattered the windshield as we drove to the starting site, at Middleton Airport. By the time we'd unloaded the bikes a steady rain had begun. Once we had passed through the gates of the chain link fence we were asked to join our several hundred lycra-clad compadres inside a large hangar; no sooner had we, and most others, crowded inside, when a drenching rain burst out, with dark clouds and swirling winds, which we could barely see through one opened door, but which we could clearly hear as it drummed on and beat against the hangar roof.

The start was to be delayed for about half an hour, then longer, then longer. The 100-mile race was cancelled due to the late start time (and the impossibility of providing support late into the day, when the nonprofessional 100 milers would begin trickling in after the delayed start), a decision booed by some of the professionals and, no doubt, secretly welcomed by a few other 100-milers.

I was not especially chagrined by the change. Not necessarily happy, but glad to have my moral dilemma resolved: I knew that at the turnaround point for the 50 I would have had to guess if I had enough left in my tank to go a distance I'v never gone, on some of the hardest hills I've ever ridden. Suddenly that weight was lifted; there's no better way to demonstrate one's cojones than to volunteer to undertake a daunting task, and be excused from that rash commitment by an act of God. Almost made me want to convert to something.

After the announcement, Paul, Mark, and I stashed our bikes and drove out for coffee, where we watched the skies shift from gray to dark and back again, laced by lightning on occasion, with a steady background beat of rain. So easy to sit inside and watch while cradling a hot cup, so hard to decide to drag one's ass back into the rain, onto a bike, as all the pent-up energy and excitement dissipates. With collective sighs we pushed back our chairs and went back into the rain, half-convinced, and maybe half-hoping, that the event would be cancelled.

Twas not. Around 9:30 the rain had all but stopped and we were told a new storm cell would arrive in Middleton shortly, but if we left on the 50, we would probably "miss it." So the most hearty or foolish of the original 700 or so lined up and were off, a slow roll through the starting gates, a packed beginning, as the we began sorting outselves out into a long line, like toothpaste from a tube. Things were a bit tense at times, riders squeezing by on both sides, a crowded snorting bunch accompanied by the clicks of derailleurs and shoes, punctuated by comments between team members, and the occasional spatter of a raindrop on one's helmet. Then up those first two big hills on Airport Road, past a few enduring spectators, who sat on lawn chairs or stood beneath umbrellas, clapping and yelling, some ringing bells. Atop the first hill Paul and I stopped and put away our rainjackets -- the rain seemed finished, and the humidity was climbing. After all the jackets could be put on again.

Mark, who had spurned a rainjacket, met us atop the next hill, and the three of us went down the luxurious descent to Enchanted Valley Road, exuberance tempered by the realization that the road was slick and the tires narrow, and, at 30 or so MPH, the consequences could be severe. But no one went down, so far as I know. Then the winding road, a few more spectators, a deceptively hard climb (which I knew from previous rides), and out onto the highway, where our emergence was protected by Sheriff's officers blocking traffic. On into Cross Plains, and a quick bathroom stop, then back to side roads. Past a sign announcing we were 10 miles in, which seemed wrong -- my legs told me it was closer to 20.

As we approached Garfoot Road, which winds back toward and ultimately into the hills, the rain returned, tentatively at first, and then with a vengeance. Too late to don the jackets again, we were resigned to getting wet. And we did, big time, eyeglasses impossible to see through, water stinging eyes and pelting faces, the surprising roar of the water beating on the leaves and in the cornfields, keeping eyes on the road as much as possible, watching for depressions and cracks in a roadway slick with water. The gutty, gritty, glory of cycling, the point at which nothing exists beyond the ride itself, the outside world not gone, not resolved, just not accessible by mind or body for the foreseeable future; the universe bounded by impeded vision and hearing, all prayers just to stay upright and moving.

The rain let up and my glasses cleared enough for me to see gray skies, bent-over green roadside weeds, and brown rivulets winding beside the road. And beside me, cycling buddy Mark, as he has been, off and on, for more than 30 years now (though this was the first time in 10 years). I appreciated his stalwart and sincere presence, almost enough to tell him so. But not quite.

As my vision improved I saw thatGarfoot Road had begun its long winding climb. I thought I was prepared for it because I knew it, but all I could remember was that I knew it had beaten me before. I had to stop and walk the final steps to the top, just as before. "Ought to" and "want to" were not enough to get me there -- "have to" prevailed. As soon as the road began to level I remounted and rejoined Paul and Mark a few road turns and intersections down, and took the lead as we moved onto a winding hilltop terrain. The gray curtain began to tear, soon patched with bright blue sky. And then the sun broke through.

The path turned down into the verdant valley of Vermont township, deep woods and small farmsteads carved into the hillsides, down and down some more, and then we were in and riding along a broad valley, miles clicking by, the sun acting more and more as though it meant to stay, despite the gray around the edges and occasional menacing shadows of rain. A rest stop 26 miles in, and the ride seemed doable and sane again. Until we turned again into the hills.

The road became a narrow winding ribbon bordered by tall trees and shrouded in humidity. Apparent small rises became naggingly long inclines, gears got lower on a regular basis. Then came KOM hill -- the "King of the Mountain" climb for the gearheads and hardcores to measure their merit; as for me, I just wanted to survive it, and soon dropped into lowest gear, and saw the hill unwind and climb before me, in snakelike menace and malignancy. Again I simply ran out of steam, got to the point where reality as I saw it overcame ideality as I wanted it. I stopped, and again walked the hill. Remounted when it began to level and rejoined Paul, who had patiently waited for me, in sherapesque style. And we rode on.

At that point my chain began to chitter, as the silicon spray I used to lubricate it vanished, either washed or worn out of links. My legs told me they were fine with the remaining road, but my head reminded me of the final hills on Airport Road. An impasse threatened, with the promise of failure looming, so close to the end, after so much training; and my mind reminded me -- "This is only the 50-miler; you were going to do 100? Ha." My response was simply, "I will not fail here, the details can wait." A rest stop appeared; watermelon and water and a few moments rest. The sun shone bright and hot now; 14 miles to go. Spectators again, but their cheering had different tone to it, as though offered in encouragement rather than as expressions of appreciation or even admirations. Pity claps, and they burned.

The sag wagon driver had told us at the last rest stop that we were the last three out there, and that she had to follow us in. So, shortly after we left, she did, too, keeping a discreet distance behind, but nonetheless lurking, at or just beyond my mirror vision, for the rest of the ride.

The rest stop was followed by nice ride along a new mildly rolling two-lane blacktop, drafting sometimes with Mark and Paul, feeling again like myself, but with images those two damned hills nagging at me. I trundled along, the chain chirping more regularly, the wind a bit too much in my face. Paul rode beside for a bit, doing his best Sherpa work, telling jokes and sharing stories, until he realized, as good Sherpas do, that the last of the ride was on me and Rocinante, my trusty steed, and he slowly pulled ahead, around a curve, and out of sight. Just me and the road and my thoughts.

Then same the final turn toward home, the slight rise in the road seeming to taunt me, as did the signs, five miles to go, then three. And that damned sag wagon relentless following, as though waiting to fulfill its final mission. The first Airport hill appeared and, try as I wanted, I had to walk part of it, half-expecting the wagon to pull up beside me, looking forward to rejecting it -- "Hell, I can walk in from here and I will if I have to." The wagon stayed back, and I moved on, remounting and finishing the hill. One more hill loomed ahead, across a narrow valley, a hill slightly lower than this one, with Paul and Mark waiting there, that damned Sag wagon lurching and lurking behind.

I flew down the second hill and charged up the last. As I neared the top, I saw a rider walking a bike up the last hundred or so feet. I toyed with the idea of stopping beside him and walking with him. It would have been a noble gesture -- "Let's walk in together, so neither of us is the last guy." But as I drew closer, and my legs caught up with a final burst of energy, my inner, mostly latent, hardcore rider burst through. "The Hell with it; at least someone will be behind me." And I passed him without looking back. As I approached, Paul told me to keep going and lead the three of us in. I accepted, and flew that final mile, down a long flat, and past the finish line. A Centurion rep appeared and asked if he could remove the chip from my front wheel. I said to take it, I never wanted to see it again.

Hung up the bike on rack, doffed the helmet and gloves, and visited the food tent, and got a Capital Amber beer. Sat in the afternoon warmth, basked in the aura of accomplishment, and listened half-heartedly to the awards. I knew I wouldn't hear my name and I was fine with that. I was glad to have done it, and glad to be done.

And I wasn't the last guy.

The Wayning Days of Summer

Outside the cicadas' droning fills the evening with the suggestion that, despite the sunny days and hot breezes, summer is moving into its final, fatal, stage, preparing for its imminent end, sort of like the way stars flare brightest before dying. Public radio has a show on about barbecues "for these final days of summer," and commercial radio is filled with back-to-school ads. The calendar says August already. And that means the Centurion is approaching. This Sunday. 7 a.m.

As I anticipate Sunday's ride, I think about one of the old movies I've been watching as I walk the treadmill, John Wayne's Alamo. I recall the scene in the movie the night before Santa Ana's attack. Wayne (Davy Crockett) and his Tennesseans have opted to stay and fight, despite the overwhelming odds; that, Wayne had told them, was what they came for, not to cut and run when things got tight, not to let their fears get the best of them. He said something like, "A man's got to do what's right. If he doesn't, he's not really alive. He may be walking around, but he's not alive." So that night they all sit in the gathering gloom, some talking, some alone with their thoughts, all contemplating the approaching battle and their almost certain encounter with mortality. Some no doubt cursing Wayne/Crockett or themselves, but all still resolved to go through with it. Waiting.

I feel a bit like that. Common sense tells me that I ought to opt for the 50-mile ride, which would be a hard but managable choice; my heart tells me I need to go with the 100 as originally planned, that to try for less would be to fall short without really trying at all. Though my odds of survival are probably better than they were for the Alamo folks; I've completed a couple 50s already and finished with plenty of energy some more. The hills will be a challenge, but so long as I remember to hydrate and pace myself, I ought to be able to do them. My bike's in good shape. I've got a sherpa.

And it's what I came for.

The Duke would be proud.

Fixing a Hole in the Ocean

"Fixing a hole in the ocean
trying to make a dovetail joint
. . . .
here's a clue for you all
the Walrus was Paul."

John Lennon, Looking Through a Glass Onion

Early yesterday afternoon I decided to clean the chain on my bike, knock off the bike trail grit and do a general cleaning, in anticipation of the upcoming Centurion. Once that was done, I flicked through the shifts and was shocked -- shocked! -- to see that the chain was rubbing on the front derailleur cage when it was on both lowest sprockets. This meant, I decided, that when I was in lowest gear, I was not only risking damage, but also probably losing energy. Maybe, I thought with a touch of hope, that's why the last ride was so hard. Maybe, I fretted, the chain is stretched, or the derailleur hopelessly bent. Maybe there won't be time enough to get it fixed before Sunday.

I got out the old Richard's Bicycle Book and checked out derailleur repairs and adjustments, but no easy fix presented itself. I considered toying with it, but time is short and anyway the last thing I wanted was to mess things up and not find out until on the ride. So I talked son Daniel into a trip to the bike shop -- bribed him by promising to stop at the library -- and trundled off to good ol' Budget. We stood in line for about 10 minutes, when the mechanic came out, a young, lanky man with a wiry black beard, frame glasses, and a tall Cat-in-hat stocking cap. He listened and had us follow him back to a bikestand. When I explained my concern, he sounded a bit incredulous.

"No, really," I said. "I don't doubt you," he replied. Then he explained that the bike should "never" be ridden in that particular configuration. "We call that an 'angry' sprocket," he said, and showed me another combination that ended up with roughly the same effect.

I was confounded. "You mean I should never ride in lowest gear? I need that." I mentioned the upcoming Centurion.

Now the confoundation was his. Then the sun of comprehension rose in his eyes. He saw he was dealing with an idiot savant of the biking world. It occurred to me later that another bike shop might have seen the chance to make a buck. He saw it as a teaching moment. "In shifting it's a cross-gear thing," he explained, "the smallest front to the biggest back is your lowest gear."

"Oh, yeah," I said, momentarily glad that Daniel doesn't pay attention to such things. "I forgot." And I think I had; or at least, I had never really paid attention, since I shift by feel and never look at the back sprocket. Then I mentioned that I had thrown a chain on that last ride, too.

"Now that," he said, "is something we should look at." He put the sprockets through their paces, doing some hard shifts. "Works fine," he said. "You're keeping the chain clean and riding it. Brakes are good, wheels are true enough. It's a happy bike."

I asked him how much I owed him. "Just have a good ride and think of Budget as a good place, and come back when you have something that needs fixing," he said.

Trust me, I will. Had I gone to that other, unnamed bike shop, I'm sure they would have taken the bike in, done something, and maybe had it back for me in time for the ride. Maybe.

The Home Stretch

Rode 53 miles today, in company of neighbor Robb. The weather radio said fog, to burn off around 9 -- but when we left around 7:15 the sky was blue, and temps in the low 70s. We did the first part of the Centurion route, Airport Road out to Enchanted Valley; Robb pointed out an orange and black sign said to expect delays. "Great," I thought, "road work now." Then I realized the delays were because of the upcoming Centurion. The Airport hills were manageable, and my inner competitor was glad to be in and stay in the lead. The final Airport downhill, to the mouth of Enchanted Valley, was glorious -- I reached 40 mph. I found myself pleasantly surprised at the ride through the EV, the climbs were easier since I knew what to expect, still purty country, an occasional car, and some cyclists, no doubt also checking out the route.

The ride into Cross Plains was uneventful, but almost not: at one point a white car whizzed past me -- I had seen it in the mirror, so was prepared. What I didn't know, and couldn't really expect, was that another white car was tailgating it, neither visible nor audible -- so when the first car went by, I began to move back into the roadway from the shoulder; no encounter, but I felt the breeze and my heart jumped.

After Cross Plains we found Garfoot Road, another one of those beautiful, hidden away, two-lanes. The road began innocuously, moderate climbs, long flats, past farms and homes, fields and forests. I threw my chain on one hill, nearly dumped as I struggled to get my foot unclipped while momentum dropped to zero. But it fixed easily and we went on. Toward the road's end it began to climb, then dipped then turned ominous. I got concerned when a cyclist flew past us going the other way, with obvious downhill momentum and a dumb look of ecstasy on his face. Around and around curves we went, ever upward, and me in lowest gear. I reached a point, within site of the top, when I simply could not keep up any speed, and stopped. Robb joined me, and we walked the final hundred yards or so to the top. Not my proudest moment. I sucked down a tube of Gu, and we remounted, and finished the road, taking Mineral Point Road down -- and I mean down -- to its intersection with Hiway 78, then up a long haul into Mt. Horeb (I had ridden this Hiway 78 stretch before); the hill was long, and offered one of those gut-check moments: I told myself I knew I could climb it, because I had done it before, and I resented myself for sound condescending. Man it was long, and the Garfoot debacle had sapped a bit of my confidence. I resolved, though, to do it, and did it, shifting up and down from granny, to keep the lower gear option alive. I got a bit of a boost as a chunky terrier-type dog charged out at me. I kept riding, and gestured downhill, toward Robb; I couldn't help but think of the old saying, "if you're being chased by a lion, you needn't be faster than the lion, simply faster then the next person." I crested the hill and waited for Robb, who asked me if I'd had to deal with the three dogs. I was startled by the sudden increase in number, but figured he had perhaps multiplied them for effect or in wild imaginings. In any event, I said no, I had left them for him.

We stopped at a bakery in Mt. Horeb, emptied bladders and got water, and split a scone. Robb said he wanted no more hills, and I gladly complied, so we took the bike trail back into Madison. To my surprise, since this was fairly unchallenging, Robb began to fade; my legs were still strong, though the idea of more hills had no appeal to me. When I got too far ahead I stopped and waited for him to catch up; that sort of rendevous is always awkward, since in cycling the strong get stronger --the one who's not worn down gets rested (and stronger) as he waits. But there's not much else to do, not much of value to say. Which I say as a veteran of being the worn-down recipient of well-intentioned words.

At one point a ranger stopped us to check for trail passes; I smugly showed mine, knowing, from earlier conversation, that Robb had opted to "chance it." I tried to commisserate as he paid his $5 fine.

By the time we reached Verona he wanted to stop and stretch, and I got him to take my last tube of Gu, which seemed to revive him some. And so we went -- I was glad he knew the twists and turns and options of the bike trails, because he showed me how to get almost home without going out onto those hot city streets -- temps were probably around 80. And so home, Robb wishing me luck "on a hundred miles of those hills."

And so here I sit, still uncertain. One good thing, I had lowered my seat a tad a week earlier and suddenly the throbbing kneecap that had, for the past 10 years, appeared around 20 miles in, vanished. No pain the entire ride nor afterward.

But as for the ride itself, the realistic bottom line appears to be this: fifty miles of them will be a manageable challenge, 100 will be soul-sapping. I confess to getting a confidence boost by finishing strong while Robb, who is 20 years younger but hasn't ridden much, faded badly -- but the struggle on Garfoot reminded me of just demanding and unyielding this route could be.