"You know, when you're kind of tired. . . ."

Sunday morning Anna insisted on our weekly morning ride, which is what I needed to get myself off my proverbial butt and onto my cycling saddle. Too easy to find excuses not to go, but she would have none of it. Besides, as Mei pointed out -- accurately -- these are the sort of experiences that both Anna and I will recall with pleasure.

We stopped first at her friend's house, to care for a gerbil while said friend was on vacation. while she was inside I sat on the front porch, rocking on a chair; the old phrase, "rocking chair's got me" came to mind, as I listened to the breeze through the branches and the chittering of birds, thinking how nice it would be to have a cup of coffee and a newspaper, and no further plans than that. After all, I told myself, there's no inherent virtue in getting hot and tired on a bicycle; didn't Buddha spend years doing nothing more than sitting? I don't think he found enlightenment through saddle sores and long climbs.

But Anna came out and brought me back to the present. We went on down to Middleton, through old downtown and out along Highway 12 for a bit; it was Anna's first taste of highway riding and, even though it was still mid-morning, and fairly cool at that, and the road was four-lanes with a pretty wide shoulder, the cars whizzing past came a bit too close for her. Also, after the shaded streets of town, the sun reflecting off the flat asphalt was not exactly soothing. But some things are necessary to build character, I suppose, maybe a few steps toward enlightenment.

After a couple miles of this we turned off the highway -- a left turn which had its own share of drama for the uninitiated -- and went up Pleasant View Road. Sort of pleasant for a bit, then we had a long winding uphill past an old quarry, past a tiny little cemetery (three graves, but well-maintained) and up toward the old First German Lutheran Church (pictured; a tranquil bit of the 19th century more and more surrounded and hidden by the encroaching 20th and 21st century developments).

I'd thought the climb was further west, so this was a bit of a disappointment to me. I couldn't quite get us all the way up the hill, despite the lowest gears. So close, and she was working so hard, but I was beginning to get wobbly and felt a sense of parental responsibility; I like to think on Rocinante I'd've made it, I know that I have before). Anyway, we walked the last few feet to the top, paused, and partook of refreshments. That's when Anna said, "You know, when you're kind of tired, you feel really alive." Has a sort of Watsonian ring to it, that sense of wringing pleasure from discomfort. I have to admit it made sense, too -- as I've said before, to me the most seductive part of riding -- when I get out there -- is that it becomes its own self-contained universe. So when we were paused there, admiring the view (and it is pleasant on Pleasant View Road, at least in spots) the sensation was that of being one with that universe, alive in the sense of being here in the now.

A few moments later and we were on our way, down a long downhill, and up again -- made it this time -- across the 4-lanes of Old Sauk Road, and over to Mineral Point Road, and back toward Madison. There we got caught in a long line of cars, I think heading home from the Blackhawk Christian mega-church further south on Mineral Point (definitely neither tranquil nor 19th century). The road was two lanes wide,with a narrow shoulder/bike path, so we cruised along past the crawling cars, sometimes fairly closely; I was fine but Anna, again, was a bit nervous. The only time it bothered me was when we approached the Belt Line on ramp, right after the road became 4 lanes, and divided. We were along the edge of the right lane, with the BeltLine access ramp beginning on our own right. I didn't mind the cars creeping past, but this large SUV came past towing a pontoon boat; the boat was as wide as the lane, and one pontoon -- ominously pointed like a torpedo -- came awfully close alongside, threatening to harpoon us. But it went by and we were back into town, on a wide safe bike lane and uneventfully home. Another chapter, or at least another paragraph.

The Dead Spot

This photo may not look like much, but if so, it's a clear case of how a camera can lie. This is what I have named "the Dead Spot," the point on the long climb on Garfoot Road, where I literally feel the energy and hope dropping from me; I must have stopped at that point half a dozen times, the first when I was riding with Robb up this road for the first time, the last about amonth after the Centurion ride (on which I had also come up short). And I'm not sure which was the harder of the two; on the first I had no idea what was coming up, and had convinced myself that the earlier, long and gentle climb, was the guts of it. I remember rounding the corner, thinking I had peaked, when I saw the road turning upward again. All my resolutions about giving the last and deepest effort, mind over matter, persistence over pain, all disappeared into the simple sensation of being overwhelmed.

I could not make it, and simply wishing or wanting, even "deserving" to make it was not enough. One did it, or one did not. I stopped, walked a ways, got on and ground my way up.

The second time I thought I'd do it. I'd seen that the remainder of the hill from the point was not so bad, and I understood it was a matter of mind and not body, that if I kept the discouragement under control, the ride would go on, and, once the spot was conquered, like I had conquered Mt. Nemesis (who had never succeeded in stopping me despite his fearsomely official 11% grade), the next rides would be easier. I still don't know if that's true, because as I neared the spot, and saw the side road thrusting out, like a taunting arrow or maybe middlefinger, it all went away again. Every damned time. The last time was the worst -- I stopped just beyond the side road, rested a few moments, got back on without walking, and made it. If only I'd had the conviction to keep going past that deepest, deadest, spot. . . .

Then came Daniel's surgery, and winter, and the seductive thought of taking a few weeks' hard earned recovery time. Time that stretched out, like Garfoot Hill, until it began to seem unconquerable. The pounds came back and the desire melted. A few desultory spins on the trainer, some treadmill time, but not much. A glimmer of hope, perhaps, with Mark's simple advice, "just go out and ride, and write about it."

Then Racer came along. Suddenly I had a reason to ride, to get Daniel out. And it would not be easy to push him around on it, but it could be done. So it began. Then the real new incentive: his twin Anna, my sometimes reluctant biking buddy, who never really liked riding. Suddenly she liked being on Racer, covering ground like she'd never covered it, at speeds she'd never attained. Suddenly she's asking me to go for a long ride; and I'm experiencing a taste of fresh riding and fresh joy.

And there's Mei, who'd never been on a bike before, discovering the pleasure of it. I recall friend Mark's comment that he never would have believed one could have so much pleasure from two wheels. Now that's at least two of them.

And so on I go, and we go. I may be moving again off the dead spot, but in my mind The Dead Spot lurks, as I know it will until I conquer it. It would be an amazing thing if I climbed it on Racer, but Rocinante would be as good. I do know I just need to do it.

Of Geese and Men

Sunday was another 3 Ride Day on Racer the tandem. First, we got Daniel on with minimal effort. We tightened the cages and he actually tried to pedal. For a bit, till his right ankle turned and his heel started hitting the side; then he pulled his feet out altogether and declared that he quit. So we stayed on mostly level ground for a few blocks. We stopped, he got off, and announced "that's it for the week!"

Then Mei got on, with her new helmet. And she did pedal. So we did a long downhill, followed by the inevitable ascent. It was her first climb ever, and she was a bit surprised that cycling is not all beer and skittles, or even flat and easy. But she stuck with it, and is really getting into it.

Speaking of getting into it, Anna insisted on another long ride, around the Capitol. So I pulled on my old Camelback hydration pack; Mei asked how I could stand that stale vinyl taste, while Anna asked if I could possibly look any dorkier. I ignored them as I sucked down my Gu and luxuriated in the warm glow of my Chamois Butt'r (though I did tell Anna she could pretend she wasn't with me). Thing was, I had realized that part of my problem on the last couple long tandem rides was that I didn't take them seriously and got dehydrated. It's really hard for me -- almost impossible --to get the bottle out of the cage while riding, due I guess to the upright handle bars, so the Camelbak is a necessity.

And it worked. I never did get overwhelmed, overpowered, or overheated. Anna and I took a roundabout swing toward downtown; at one point we heard a soft honking as we waited for a light to change -- we looked over and saw a Madison city bus, its signature gray-bearded driver smiling at us and giving us a thumbs-up; Racer the tandem certainly does stand out. Ultimately we went down the Southwest Bike Trail, and over to Lake Monona. Twas a hot morning, but not unbearable, and the sun gleaming over the lake was a beautiful sight. We went past a few fishermen, who greeted our arrival with pure indifference, and a few geese, who murmured greetings. The idyllic air was a bit tarnished, though, by the not unusual sight of some bearded men sprawled along the lake in grimy sleeping bags; a reminder that not everything is as it should be. I've never really understood the draw of Madison for homeless folks, unless maybe it's a lingering aura from the 70s or Willy Street. Maybe it's because the cops here are generally laid-back and tolerant -- at least until Walker gets around to enlisting a Gestapo approach.

We also had a near collision, too, as a young woman at the tail end of pod of cyclists wasn't paying attention and nearly veered in front of us. I yelled, she swerved and stopped, a woman behind her nearly rammed her. But nothing significant happened. "Well," Anna said, as we resumed our trip. "That was interesting." Indeed.

So we headed on along the Lake, down the afore-mentioned Willy Street for a bit, then back up to the Capitol, past the anti-Walker hunger striker --"Day 43" -- although as Anna noted, "he doesn't look like he's missed that many meals; I don't think you can live more than 30 days without food." Such a cynic we are raising.

We rolled home along the SW Bicycle trail, past Mickie's, through and around various pedestians, perambulators, and poodles, accompanied by a cacophony of cardinals and crows. I was impressed by the clip with which we sailed up that gentle grade. -- I've noticed that the tandem really flies on flats and gentle uphills; steep climbs are slow and steady and hard, but doable.

I wonder what it would like to be paired with a hardcore.