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.
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