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.
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