Oh the Irony

One day last week I drove down to pick up Mei at the University, and arrived at University Avenue exactly at noon, when hordes of students were changing classes or going to lunch. Going through the intersection (I had to turn left) was tedious and slow, owing to the long lines of humanity streaming to God knows where. I inched forward, tailing the car in front. As the light turned red he went through, but the rush of oncoming traffic left me stuck where I was. In the middle of the bike lane. A steady stream of bicycles approached from either side, veering around my car, like a mountain stream rushing past a boulder. More than one cyclist glared at me. As I would, too, were I in those cleats. I was very glad when the light changed and I inched out of there, chastened and apologetic.

Reminded me of how much difference perspective makes. Also on the way to Mei's work, a residential street we used to go through has been converted to a "bicycle boulevard" -- cars are allowed, but only from one direction, which happens to be the opposite of the way we are going. I have to admit it irritates me sometimes, this new swerve in my path. Almost makes me want to flout the law. Biker bastards.

Speaking of scofflaws, Sunday I went on the new stretch of the Badger State Trail, eight miles that link Madison's trails to parts south. I wasn't sure exactly where the trails joined, and was concerned I might miss the intersection. Fat chance -- it turned out to be the first bicycle path cloverleaf I've ever encountered. But when I got about a mile in, I found a "Path Closed" sign, because it was not yet officially completed. But so far as I could tell, all that remained was signage and maybe a few access points to road crossings. Beyond the sign a long black ribbon of virgin asphalt beckoned, I weakened, and on I went. A beautiful ride, past numerous closed path signs (at every highway crossing) and no catastrophe followed. Later on more riders showed up, so I didn't feel quite as sinful. I think maybe I was disappointed.

What I didn't like was the cold. It was about 45 degrees, just warm enough that I got sweaty under the windbreaker, but cold enough that I was cold without it. I toughed it out, though a few miles from home I stopped at the EVP coffee house, and had a cup of green tea and a bearclaw, and toasted to the Slow Bicycle Movement. Kind of funny -- my total ride was only about 25 miles, but as I neared the end I was glad to stop. Perhaps, like the Nebraska Cornhuskers, I played down to my competition, knowing that I didn't have to tough it out for a long haul.

Though I'm still considering taking the Badger trail south for 50 miles, then turning around to make my century. If the wind is right and everything else is aligned. Stay tuned.

498=900.04

What a difference a few days make. I've been spoiled by almost idyllic weather this summer (save the downpour on Centurion day), so that today's gray, chilly, and damp conditions took a tad of getting used to. I had planned to do a fairly long ride, but domestic issues raised up, especially Daniel, so I didn't get out until nearly 9 a.m. Temp in the low 60s but the rain had stopped, at least for the moment. I felt surprisingly good when I began, sort of like Rocinante was raring to go, but quickly noticed a click from the front wheel -- the brake was a bit off, and ticking with every revolution. Not serious but seriously annoying. I decided I'd make a visit to Budget for an adjustment.

The Southwest Trail was uncrowded, mostly walkers, the only cyclists I saw were against me, heading up the trail as I rode down. I came out at Regent Street, where I saw a line of students waiting their turn to go into Mickie's Dairy Bar, for a stiff breakfast and shot of caffeine to help recover from their Saturday night shenanigans. Still a good half hour until the bike shop opened, so I took the trail all the way to Lake Monona, rode along the short, past the Terrace, where a few other cyclists appeared, midst the fisherfolk and joggers. I crossed East Wash, to Mifflin Street, which is now a bicycle boulevard, meaning bikes have primary status and can use the entire lane; cars must yield. That's kind of fun, and I wished a car would drive by so I could exert my authority. None did; it's obvious the city won't turn any busy streets over to the bikes. It was a residential street, and the windows were still dark. Smart people, sleeping in.

I rode up to the Capitol -- as I drew near I passed a recessed doorway to a closed business, and saw two people huddled there against the rain and cold, dirty sleeping bags and grubby clothing. Obviously homeless. I considered Rocinante and my gear and felt a bit guilty. Not that we are high-end or high-maintanence, but still, the $30 I casually spent on my Nashbar jersey, bought on clearance, would go along way to those folks. But I reminded myself the equation is much more complex and rode on, down State Street, where the shops and restaurants were pretty much deserted, debris from Saturday night still littering the road.

I followed Gorham Street back to downtown, past the university, along the pewter gray lake under a dark gray sky. The sky spit a bit, but nothing serious, and soon sun burst through for a few moments, replaced by a dingier sheet of solid, pale, cloud. Got to the bike shop just after it opened at 10. Adjusting the front brake was simple (and free); the guy pointed out that my wheel was a bit out of true (I knew that) and showed me how to adjust the brakes again, when the sound inevitably returned, as it would until I got a new wheel someday. I had noticed lots of noise from the rear brakes, more than usual even on a wet day. Turned out the pads were hardened and all but gone, so we replaced them. $31 total, not much to me, relatively speaking, but I again thought about those folks in the doorway. Thought about them, shrugged, and went on my way. Followed the lakeside trail, then up to Mendota Drive, past the University residential housing, and through Shorewood Hills, past the golf course and the upscale houses, all still mostly green, but definite hints of the approaching autumn.

My front brake began ticking again, but I figured I'll try to again adjust it myself -- after all, I didn't pay for the work I had done on it.

The bike route took me back to Old Middleton Road, and my good buddy, Mt. Nemesis. My nose had begun to run, and the idea of the climb bothered me, since I couldn't breathe easily. A classic mind battle, and I reminded myself that it's all psycholigical now, me and that particular climb. I also reminded myself that the next step in cycling savvy is being able to do rides when I'm not necessarily at my peak. And so the dialogue went, as the familiar sights rolled by leading toward my inevitable encounter.

I arrived and started up. I remained seated while I climbed this time, and did so steadily. He's still due respect, but with all due respect, Nemesis is mine, now. The rest of the ride was inconsequential, some neighborhood streets, watching the odometer until it clicked over to 900 miles for the year. Then home, where I parked good old number 498 (Rocinante's Centurion number) in the garage, his odometer at 900.04.

If It Ain't Burroak, Don't Fix It

An intersection off Highway M, north of Madison and Lake Mendota.


Thursday night I was all but ready to depart for Omaha and the renewed attempt at a Century; Rocinante was clean and primed, the car all but packed (knowing my propensity for forgetting, I had already stashed my helmet, gloves, and other gear). The weather forecast for Omaha was ideal. CDs at the ready, books and music for the 7 hour drive. Little remained but to put the kids to bed and get some sleep myself.

Then, "Kaboom." Literally. A noise from the family room. "I can't walk," Daniel said in his usual businesslike tone. His voice was calm but his face white. Mei and I helped him to the couch. Before long his leg began to swell and it was time to visit the ER. Six or so hours later he came home with a bright red cast, and my trip was over -- it had all rested on the presumption of healthy kids, in school all day Friday.

Instead, the only spoked wheels rolling within my ken were those of Daniel's wheelchair.

This is not a complaint, just an observation. Daniel, the one with the right to complain because of his myriad injuries and other issues, is unfazed by it all, taking everything in stride -- or at least with a dignified limp. After all, the reason we had the wheelchair in the house was because of his hip surgery two years ago and resulting full-body cast. And he has another skull surgery set for early November. Makes any whine of mine seem pretty cheesy.

Still, as Mark pointed out, my century quest appears to be as cursed as baseball's Cubs, doomed to fail for reasons unexpected. A freak storm at the start of the Centurion, and then a freak fall by my son. Perhaps we could sacrifice a goat, but neither Anna nor Madison's ordinances would allow that.

Ah well. I haven't heard yet, but I like to think Mark and Paul went on the ride without me, towing along a riderless bicycle in memory of me, cleated shoes backward in the pedals, bound in black bunting. Probably though they went without ceremony and had pie and beer and fun. Bastards.

I did get in a short ride Sunday after noon, circumnavigation of Lake Mendota, about 30 miles in all. Balmy weather and I felt strong. Coulda done 100, I know it. I came up alongside a guy about in his 40s, and we chatted a bit; he was on his way home from downtown, a quiet morning jaunt.

I left him at Allen Boulevard, and charged down the hill, past the wetlands conservancy and back east along Highway M. Few cars, and I was reminded as I passed a few tall stands of trees, and caught glimpses of the lake shimmering in the sun, that this area is close to paradise for biking and outdoors, and it's been far too easy for me to take it for granted. In honor of the Slow Biking Movement, I stopped frequently, at Governor Dodge State Park, in Maple Bluffs (wide and quiet tree-lined boulevards with huge houses and boathouses), and finally at the UW Union, where I had a brat and a coke and watched the lake and the boats, and the mermaids.


"I have heard the mermaids singing each to each/I do not think they will sing to me." T.S. Eliot.

The homeward stretch involved riding along the University trail beside the lake, which was being set up for the final stages of Madison's Ironman event being held that day; the lead riders had been, in fact, at or about mile 63 of the 112 mile bike run as I gorged myself on bratwurst. I climbed up to Lake Mendota Drive, through upper crust Shorewood Village, and ended up back at Nemesis. I charged up him with all the determination and irritation I could muster, standing in the saddle, and cleared the first summit in third gear, far better and faster than I had done before. Far ahead I saw a white-shirted rider walking his bike up the second summit; I charged onward, but the by the time I got there he had remounted and disappeared down Old Sauk Road, too far ahead for me to condescendingly comment that "this hill can be a bitch, right?".

Then home, 30 miles more on the odometer, which now sits as 875 for the year.

Garfoot and Friends

Garfoot beginning the long ascent.



Old Sauk Pass

Sunday morning, 7:15, blue sky, crisp still air. 46 degrees, and I have my longer shorts on, with a long-sleeved shirt under my jersey. Off to Garfoot via Old Sauk. As happens so often, the beginning is slow and stiff, like riding in molasses. I wonder why I'm doing it -- sort of -- and visions of coffee and Sunday morning paper rise unbidden. But I push on, and feel the day beginning to warm.

I'm thinking about Paul's comments about the Slow Bike Movement, and resolve to keep it in mind. I pull off Old Sauk into Pope Farm Park, ride up to the parking lot, and walk to the top, looking down into watersheds, feeling the rising breeze. One car parked in the lot, no other bikes, a turkey vulture circles, not for me this day. Yet anyway. As I pull out onto Old Sauk I pass a young man with his son, the boy about 5, both on bikes. I wonder where they came from and where they are going -- no car close by, they must live here.

No other riders until I reach Old Sauk Pass, one appears from the other direction,then another. We exchange nods. I marvel again about the Pass, this winding through tall trees and open land; the Ice Age Trail and a wildlife refuge. I reach Stagecoach Road and follow it into Cross Plains. I notice a shop here, combination coffee house and bike store, "The Uphill Grind." The red neon sign in the window says "Open," but the place is dark and locked. Opens at 9, and it's 8:40. Too long to wait, so I push on, up highway KP, toward Garfoot. I pass a few cows, and moo at them -- they stare at me, and I wonder who appears more stupid, them staring or me making noises at them.

As I move up Garfoot, a white horse watches me from a field, and a flock of turkeys lurches past. I stop to take a few photos -- Slow Movement -- and am amazed at the cacaphony around me, woodpeckers and jays and other bird calls, the soft whispers of wind and rustling leaves. A rider comes down the road, we exchange greetings. I move upward. As I reach the final climb -- my current nemesis -- a rider passes me. We agree the morning is beautiful, and he surges ahead. I try to match his spin for a while, but fall back. As we reach the difficult point in the climb, two riders descend. "You're doing it the hard way," one yells at the rider in front of me, who is standing and pushing and still climbing.

I stop, again, thwarted, but a bit higher this time, since I divided the climb into segments and tried to tick them off one by one. The two descending riders say nothing to me. I take a couple photos and look up the road. It doesn't look at all bad to me, so I mount up and start from stop, and climb it smooth and steady, all the way to the top. Not quite a solid climb, but I never walked it.

I follow Garfoot, then get off on some paved back roads, and make my way into Mt. Horeb -- that part of the ride was harder, I think, because I kept thinking I was finished and was mentally at the Mt. Horeb bakery, but hills kept appearing. Finally I did make it, and happily peeled off my gloves and headsweat. I went in and ordered green tea and blueberry coffee cake. The waitresses, two attractive high schoolers, smiled at me; when I stopped in the restroom I saw why -- my hair stood up in rows, having been plastered by the sweat and suddenly liberated. But I didn't care much, took the tea and cake outside on a nice little tray, and spent a good 20 minutes moving slowly.

The ride down the trail was uneventful but nice, especially passing by the fields of yellow flowers. The trail had grown crowded, but never overcrowded; the air had gotten much warmer but I kept putting off removing my inner shirt, and finally arrived home, quite sweaty but mostly content, feeling satisfied. Garfoot is nearly mine.

49 more miles on the odometer, totally 844 for the year. Next week, with any luck, the Omaha century and nearing the millenium mark.

Garfoot Agonistes -- or "A Short Walk Spoiled"

Old Sauk Pass








"A little onward lend thy guiding hand
To these dark steps, a little further on."

Milton, Samson Agonistes



Sunday a.m. dawned bright and clear, sharp contrast to the shrouded misty morning of a week earlier. Rocinante felt and sounded much better, with the repacked and regreased rear hub. I felt a bit loggy, hard to get myself into riding mode, despite the fact that I had done a lot of pre-ride imagery and had been looking forward to it. West Old Sauk Road was uncrowded; looked a lot different when one could actually see things. Near Pleasantview road a flock of turkeys crossed in front of me, a couple large ones and several nearly grown ones, with a smaller one bringing up the rear -- the involuntary image that arose in my mind was myself at the end of the Centurion. The sort of intrusive negative energy that can't be helpful. About there, too, a cyclist blew past me, gray-haired and lanky in dark blue, on a light blue bike; he stared at me unspeaking as he went by, perhaps wondering if I were someone worth speaking to; in any event he moved on ahead, shrinking into the distance.

I saw that he turned left at Timberlane; I turned right when I got there. After a pair of moderate hills Old Sauk Pass stretched out before me, long and black sinuity, mostly downhill and winding.



Once again I felt the twin sensations of discovery and disappointment -- where had this road been all my life, and why did I take so long to find it? Deep woods, no traffic, a crisp blue day. I passed a couple single cyclists going the other way. Eventually the road leveled out into to cornfields and farmsteads. As I neared the end I saw a white blur approaching from behind, and another cyclist soon flew by. Another flock of turkeys emerged, from one cornfield to another. I turned onto Stagecoach Road, a long flat cut-off that leads into Cross Plains. Down Hiway 14 a bit, and turned north, toward hiway KP and toward Garfoot.

I stopped briefly at Salmo Pond, to ask a young man I saw there with his toddler daughter how the fishing was; as soon as I got off the bike hordes of mosquioes descended on me. I pulled out my map and verified my route. As I replaced the map and tightened the pack, a bungee cord snapped. "Dammit to Hell," I said, immediately chagrined because of the infant ears nearby. But neither father nor daughter seemed to hear. So I tied a knot in the bungee, rolled on to KP and to the Garfoot cutoff.

Amazing the difference it makes, seeing a road in daylight as opposed to through a pouring rain. I had done a bit of online research, looking for photos of the road, but found none, though I did find a number of references to it, many from Ironman posts, invariably describing it as a delightful and challenging ride, though more than one bemoaned the fact that it had rained that particular day -- as it did for us; not, perhaps, a particulary benevolent road.

I have reached the conclusion that serious hills rarely are. Most, in my experience, are simply brutally honest -- they are there, indifferent to reason or rationalization, to be climbed or not. A few strike me as malevolent, either deceptive or simply relentless. A few are benign, with moderating stretches between steeper climbs. Garfoot, I think, is close to malevolent at the end -- its steepest climb is hidden by treeshrouded curves, and goes on and on and on.

That was my view, anyway, and neither my determination to climb it nor the much better weather made any difference; when I rounded that last curve, past the intersection, having ground upward in granny, I reached the point where I simply had no more to give. Again. A phrase from Oswald Chambers, albeit intended for a more profound context, came mockingly to mind: "On the mount it is easy to say -- 'Oh, yes, I believe God can do it' -- but you have to come down into the demon-possessed valley and meet with facts that laugh ironically . . . ." Not a particularly helpful frame of mind. I also remembered John Feinstein's book about the frustrations of golf, "A Good Walk Spoiled," and thought that, you know, hiking also has its appeal, as long as you don't have to be encumbered by pushing a two-wheeled hunk of metal beside one. Perhaps, I thought more, if I were to stash this infernal machine in the bushes I could have a good walk.

I didn't really think that, of course. And at about 30 miles in something kicked into my consciousness and body -- endorphins, perhaps? -- and I felt really good. Glancing down, I realized how often I have looked out over Rocinante's front wheel and the handlebars, how familiar and welcome the feel, how close the two of us have been melded, like, to borrow Mark's old expression, like a centaur.

In a more practical sense, come down from the metaphysical heights, I realized that I simply must lose more weight -- despite my stronger legs and heart, fact is I am pushing about 20 extra pounds up these hills. That ain't easy, but it is the necessary next step. A thought I need to keep in mind next time I crave an Oreo.

Anyway, once I passed the worst of the hill, I remounted and turned back north, to follow Mineral Point Road toward Madison. This one began much as Garfoot ended, one long hill, then another. But after that, it became another long winding wooded ride; I went down Ten-Mile hill into Pine Bluff, then out on more back roads (Old Military and "J"), back to Timberlane. At one point in there I was struggling up a hill when another cyclist passed me, smiling on the downhill. I wanted to shove my pump into his wheels -- I hate when downhill riders seem so happy when I'm miserable on the climb.

Fortunately for both of us I resisted the impulse, and rode on, past the Shoveler Sink, and took Old Sauk to Pleasant View, then back onto Mineral Point Road for a triumphant return to home, 45 more miles done. No knee pain, and feeling strong enough.

Just got to do better on those damned hills.