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.