The Wayning Days of Summer

Outside the cicadas' droning fills the evening with the suggestion that, despite the sunny days and hot breezes, summer is moving into its final, fatal, stage, preparing for its imminent end, sort of like the way stars flare brightest before dying. Public radio has a show on about barbecues "for these final days of summer," and commercial radio is filled with back-to-school ads. The calendar says August already. And that means the Centurion is approaching. This Sunday. 7 a.m.

As I anticipate Sunday's ride, I think about one of the old movies I've been watching as I walk the treadmill, John Wayne's Alamo. I recall the scene in the movie the night before Santa Ana's attack. Wayne (Davy Crockett) and his Tennesseans have opted to stay and fight, despite the overwhelming odds; that, Wayne had told them, was what they came for, not to cut and run when things got tight, not to let their fears get the best of them. He said something like, "A man's got to do what's right. If he doesn't, he's not really alive. He may be walking around, but he's not alive." So that night they all sit in the gathering gloom, some talking, some alone with their thoughts, all contemplating the approaching battle and their almost certain encounter with mortality. Some no doubt cursing Wayne/Crockett or themselves, but all still resolved to go through with it. Waiting.

I feel a bit like that. Common sense tells me that I ought to opt for the 50-mile ride, which would be a hard but managable choice; my heart tells me I need to go with the 100 as originally planned, that to try for less would be to fall short without really trying at all. Though my odds of survival are probably better than they were for the Alamo folks; I've completed a couple 50s already and finished with plenty of energy some more. The hills will be a challenge, but so long as I remember to hydrate and pace myself, I ought to be able to do them. My bike's in good shape. I've got a sherpa.

And it's what I came for.

The Duke would be proud.

Fixing a Hole in the Ocean

"Fixing a hole in the ocean
trying to make a dovetail joint
. . . .
here's a clue for you all
the Walrus was Paul."

John Lennon, Looking Through a Glass Onion

Early yesterday afternoon I decided to clean the chain on my bike, knock off the bike trail grit and do a general cleaning, in anticipation of the upcoming Centurion. Once that was done, I flicked through the shifts and was shocked -- shocked! -- to see that the chain was rubbing on the front derailleur cage when it was on both lowest sprockets. This meant, I decided, that when I was in lowest gear, I was not only risking damage, but also probably losing energy. Maybe, I thought with a touch of hope, that's why the last ride was so hard. Maybe, I fretted, the chain is stretched, or the derailleur hopelessly bent. Maybe there won't be time enough to get it fixed before Sunday.

I got out the old Richard's Bicycle Book and checked out derailleur repairs and adjustments, but no easy fix presented itself. I considered toying with it, but time is short and anyway the last thing I wanted was to mess things up and not find out until on the ride. So I talked son Daniel into a trip to the bike shop -- bribed him by promising to stop at the library -- and trundled off to good ol' Budget. We stood in line for about 10 minutes, when the mechanic came out, a young, lanky man with a wiry black beard, frame glasses, and a tall Cat-in-hat stocking cap. He listened and had us follow him back to a bikestand. When I explained my concern, he sounded a bit incredulous.

"No, really," I said. "I don't doubt you," he replied. Then he explained that the bike should "never" be ridden in that particular configuration. "We call that an 'angry' sprocket," he said, and showed me another combination that ended up with roughly the same effect.

I was confounded. "You mean I should never ride in lowest gear? I need that." I mentioned the upcoming Centurion.

Now the confoundation was his. Then the sun of comprehension rose in his eyes. He saw he was dealing with an idiot savant of the biking world. It occurred to me later that another bike shop might have seen the chance to make a buck. He saw it as a teaching moment. "In shifting it's a cross-gear thing," he explained, "the smallest front to the biggest back is your lowest gear."

"Oh, yeah," I said, momentarily glad that Daniel doesn't pay attention to such things. "I forgot." And I think I had; or at least, I had never really paid attention, since I shift by feel and never look at the back sprocket. Then I mentioned that I had thrown a chain on that last ride, too.

"Now that," he said, "is something we should look at." He put the sprockets through their paces, doing some hard shifts. "Works fine," he said. "You're keeping the chain clean and riding it. Brakes are good, wheels are true enough. It's a happy bike."

I asked him how much I owed him. "Just have a good ride and think of Budget as a good place, and come back when you have something that needs fixing," he said.

Trust me, I will. Had I gone to that other, unnamed bike shop, I'm sure they would have taken the bike in, done something, and maybe had it back for me in time for the ride. Maybe.

The Home Stretch

Rode 53 miles today, in company of neighbor Robb. The weather radio said fog, to burn off around 9 -- but when we left around 7:15 the sky was blue, and temps in the low 70s. We did the first part of the Centurion route, Airport Road out to Enchanted Valley; Robb pointed out an orange and black sign said to expect delays. "Great," I thought, "road work now." Then I realized the delays were because of the upcoming Centurion. The Airport hills were manageable, and my inner competitor was glad to be in and stay in the lead. The final Airport downhill, to the mouth of Enchanted Valley, was glorious -- I reached 40 mph. I found myself pleasantly surprised at the ride through the EV, the climbs were easier since I knew what to expect, still purty country, an occasional car, and some cyclists, no doubt also checking out the route.

The ride into Cross Plains was uneventful, but almost not: at one point a white car whizzed past me -- I had seen it in the mirror, so was prepared. What I didn't know, and couldn't really expect, was that another white car was tailgating it, neither visible nor audible -- so when the first car went by, I began to move back into the roadway from the shoulder; no encounter, but I felt the breeze and my heart jumped.

After Cross Plains we found Garfoot Road, another one of those beautiful, hidden away, two-lanes. The road began innocuously, moderate climbs, long flats, past farms and homes, fields and forests. I threw my chain on one hill, nearly dumped as I struggled to get my foot unclipped while momentum dropped to zero. But it fixed easily and we went on. Toward the road's end it began to climb, then dipped then turned ominous. I got concerned when a cyclist flew past us going the other way, with obvious downhill momentum and a dumb look of ecstasy on his face. Around and around curves we went, ever upward, and me in lowest gear. I reached a point, within site of the top, when I simply could not keep up any speed, and stopped. Robb joined me, and we walked the final hundred yards or so to the top. Not my proudest moment. I sucked down a tube of Gu, and we remounted, and finished the road, taking Mineral Point Road down -- and I mean down -- to its intersection with Hiway 78, then up a long haul into Mt. Horeb (I had ridden this Hiway 78 stretch before); the hill was long, and offered one of those gut-check moments: I told myself I knew I could climb it, because I had done it before, and I resented myself for sound condescending. Man it was long, and the Garfoot debacle had sapped a bit of my confidence. I resolved, though, to do it, and did it, shifting up and down from granny, to keep the lower gear option alive. I got a bit of a boost as a chunky terrier-type dog charged out at me. I kept riding, and gestured downhill, toward Robb; I couldn't help but think of the old saying, "if you're being chased by a lion, you needn't be faster than the lion, simply faster then the next person." I crested the hill and waited for Robb, who asked me if I'd had to deal with the three dogs. I was startled by the sudden increase in number, but figured he had perhaps multiplied them for effect or in wild imaginings. In any event, I said no, I had left them for him.

We stopped at a bakery in Mt. Horeb, emptied bladders and got water, and split a scone. Robb said he wanted no more hills, and I gladly complied, so we took the bike trail back into Madison. To my surprise, since this was fairly unchallenging, Robb began to fade; my legs were still strong, though the idea of more hills had no appeal to me. When I got too far ahead I stopped and waited for him to catch up; that sort of rendevous is always awkward, since in cycling the strong get stronger --the one who's not worn down gets rested (and stronger) as he waits. But there's not much else to do, not much of value to say. Which I say as a veteran of being the worn-down recipient of well-intentioned words.

At one point a ranger stopped us to check for trail passes; I smugly showed mine, knowing, from earlier conversation, that Robb had opted to "chance it." I tried to commisserate as he paid his $5 fine.

By the time we reached Verona he wanted to stop and stretch, and I got him to take my last tube of Gu, which seemed to revive him some. And so we went -- I was glad he knew the twists and turns and options of the bike trails, because he showed me how to get almost home without going out onto those hot city streets -- temps were probably around 80. And so home, Robb wishing me luck "on a hundred miles of those hills."

And so here I sit, still uncertain. One good thing, I had lowered my seat a tad a week earlier and suddenly the throbbing kneecap that had, for the past 10 years, appeared around 20 miles in, vanished. No pain the entire ride nor afterward.

But as for the ride itself, the realistic bottom line appears to be this: fifty miles of them will be a manageable challenge, 100 will be soul-sapping. I confess to getting a confidence boost by finishing strong while Robb, who is 20 years younger but hasn't ridden much, faded badly -- but the struggle on Garfoot reminded me of just demanding and unyielding this route could be.

What's Ahead

"Switchback

turn, turn,
and again, hard-
scrabble
steep travel a-
head."

Gary Snyder, from Hitch Haiku.

I've made two relatively short rides since the last post. A few days back, late afternoon, rode to Middleton and out Airport Road to test out the start of the ride. But I didn't have a map or recall the course, so I simply rode out Airport for awhile, crested two good-sized hills, admired the view, and turned back toward town. I caught the tail end of good ol' Pleasant View Road, a part I'd never seen before (so many discoveries), so I followed that, a remnant country two-lane, still hanging onto its old nature, but with signs of civilization creeping ever in on it, mostly on the backside of urbanization.

The road rounded up toward a junction with Old Sauk Road, and an ancient white and tiny Lutheran Church, used, I understand, only for ceremonies now, not regularly. As I climbed the hill toward the junction, I noticed a tiny cemetery, maybe six or eight tombstones, off the side of the road. Someone is caring for it, but I couldn't help wonder about the souls there, no doubt placed when it was isolated lonely countryside, now more or less an urban afterthought. Anyway, I took Old Sauk into town, and back home, maybe 15 miles, but it was dinnertime after all.

That night I checked the map and the route. Next day, after dropping Daniel off at camp, I drove a detour and followed Airport out to the aptly named Enchanged Valley Road, a few more miles and hills out from Middleton. A remarkable little road, winding two-lane blacktop, past farms and country retreats and the slightest hint of an exclusive development, which appears to have been stalled by the economy. I drove past a herd of goats, and past a pair of horsewomen trotting along the highway, and caught Hiway P, which I followed to Cross Plains, then home on 14. Once again, a delightful discovery, and I determined to ride it soon. But weather and obligations kept rising up, and it got put off.

Until this morning.

I set out in a breezeless sunny dawn, got one mile out, just before the point of safe return, and realized I'd forgotten my ID and money; I debated briefly, then turned back -- if I'm going to have an accident while alone on country roads on my bicycle, I think I'd like whoever comes across my broken body to know who I am without undue delay; besides, I was envisioning breakfast or brunch in Cross Plains. Another couple miles added to the start. I deliberately rode down Mt. Nemesis, a delightful descent, and followed the bike trail under University Avenue and then parallel to it. The route then turned away from University, and I followed, past nice old lakefront houses, some really little more than gussied up cabins. I liked the new route, a back way across town, behind the busy streets. I was delighted to come upon "Baker Avenue", which I took as an omen. I knew I'd seen it before, from University, and thought I'd found its other end; but I was wrong.

Turns out the bike route was simply meant to move bikes away from the Avenue for a bit, and then I was dumped right back there, a few blocks further west after several blocks north, then south. Purty much a waste of time and energy, but I reminded myself I was in this for the ride, not the accomplishment, and there was no hurry. Then to Century Avenue, up a long hill, and out Airport, over those hills again, sweat dripping in my eyes (forgot the bandana, too). Stopped shortly after beginning Enchanted Valley Road, at a large isolated tree, where I stood and ate Gu and a few bites of a Clif bar, hearing Sherpa words in my ear, "take it easy, do it right, no hurry, at your own pace." I tipped my water bottle toward the image of Paul, and set out again. Pure country, almost heaven, as Mr. Denver might have sung. Past goats, cows, horses, cattails, a murky green-capped pond, sun warm but not hot, grasses and trees and wildflowers, a bit of strain, and gentling into a glorious long descent into calm flatness. As in Theodore Roethke, "The hill becomes the valley, and is still" (from The Right Thing).

Suddenly there was County Highway P, and the road to Cross Plains. And then, sooner than seemed right, I was in Cross Plains, a fairly unlovely little settlement, at least what I saw, gas stations and fast food, convenience stores; a school and houses; and then I was on Highway 14. I'd meant to continue on P, but what the hay. I went where I was headed.

And that was down 14, a busy undivided highway, cars and trucks whizzing past, the sun beginning to get hot, no shade, blotches of deceased wildlife marking the roadway, gravel and debris on the shoulder, mostly flat. Not pleasant, but tolerable and I averaged in the upper teens all the way into Middleton. I toyed with the idea of closing out the ride by climbing Nemesis but said the Hell with it, let him triumph for once, and rolled on home, 30 miles in about two and a half-hours, and feeling pretty damn good. A quick shower, and to the office to do some official work.

So, the dilemma remains. Can I do this Century? 30 to 50 miles I'm good, I handled the hills, but 100? Who knows? Neighbor Rob and I are planning a 50 miler this Sunday. Maybe then I'll know. Stay tuned.

The Light Ahead

Driving to work today I could, at times, barely see through the beating rain, despite my wipers going full blast. Made me glad I did a bit of riding yesterday afternoon, when the sky was blue and the temps in the low 80s. Basically my training route, though I went a bit further into the city; on the road back I took a road I'd seen but never followed, which climbed sharply up from the UW and vanished into trees. Eagle Heights, a campus housing development.

To get there I'd followed the trail along Lake Monona, past the Monona Terrace, past the shores lined with fishermen, mostly minority older men and kids, sitting on upturned buckets, watching lines that drifted with the faint breeze. I realized that shoreline fishing in Madison's lakes has become a, to use a socially-biased phrase, though I think appropriate, based on a cursory evaluation resting on appearances alone, a lower-class pursuit -- it's pretty clear that anyone with the wherewhithal goes "up north" to fish, or at least out on a boat. The same, I think, with swimming, at least to judge by the few people in the water or on the beaches at James Madison Park; those with money are in private pools or, again, out on their boats. Nothing like the Madison in the 1950 Life magazine story of idyllic middle-class bucolia. No more lakeside cabins or general store/bait shops.

A couple rants about people on that trail. First was the rider ambling slowly ahead of me, shirtless and helmetless, riding in the center of our lane, with a pair of dismantled fishing rods horizontal on his lap, sticking several inches out on either side. As I prepared to pass I tried to warn him, but he had earphones and didn't respond. Then I caught up with a middle-aged woman on a unicycle, with one kid on either side of her, both of them on unicycles, covering the entire lane and weaving across the center. I barely got past them. Once I had worked over to the Lake Mendota side of the isthmus, I rode past the Union Terrace and headed into the shaded Temin Lake Trail. At that point a young woman rider suddenly swooped past me on my left, so close that I nearly brushed into her. I thought about complaining, or maybe just commenting, but I gave it up when I saw that not only was she not wearing helmet, she was barely wearing anything but a long blonde ponytail, and had a tiny purse dangling from one wrist. Obviously the physical risks of cycling were the least of her interests.

Still, it reminded me of the vulnerability of cycling, in which one has no protection save a helmet. I recalled a few days earlier, when we had dropped off Anna at Northwestern U. in Evanston Ill. A cycling grand prix was taking place nearby, maybe 30 garishly-clad muscular cyclists of both genders circling a .9 mile route at high speed, bunching at the turns. As we came out of a restaurant, I saw a young woman limping along the sidewalk, stiff in her racing gear, one arm wrapped in an Ace bandage, ribbons of blood along one leg -- she had been in a pile-up a few moments before; and this, an obviously experienced young well-conditioned rider. She knew the risks, and knew, first-hand, the pain of miscalculation or dumb bad luck. It showed in her rigid walk and her mask of stoic indifference.

But I let it go, and concentrated on the smells of the lake, the warm shade, the breeze on my face, the irritated geese glaring as I rode by, the catttails and wildflowers, all the blessings that biking brings back into focus. One thing about cycling, it is all-encompassing while I do it; that can be pleasant, when things are going well, and a bit less than pleasant when I'm struggling to keep going, but the end is always the same, I am there and there only while I'm cycling. And that's a good thing, in either case.

I had planned to stop when I got to the base of the Eagle Heights hill, a la Sherpa Paul's advice, and refresh and reload, but I arrived too soon for that. So I charged ahead and was pleasantly surprised by the way it fell beneath me, the ease of which convincing me that, perhaps, I am getting stronger after all. I did pause at the top, relieved myself behind the trees, drank deep, and ate a tube of Gu. When I remounted I followed a sweeping blacktop along a ridge that paralled the lake. Once I got past the UW property, I found myself between a manicured golf course and a long line of fancy homes, many almost hidden behind huge trees and hillocks, all overlooking Lake Mendota. One house was for sale, and the realtor's sign said it all, "Historic and Luxury Lake Homes, LLC." This was the heart of Shorewood, the queen of NIMBY municipalities, where Volvos and Subarus sit in winding driveways, faded Gore and Kerrey bumper stickers, careful compost collections, immaculate lawns, strategically planned flower beds and rain gardens, wonderful views, the same place that refused to allow low-income housing within village limits. Social considerations aside, the road was wonderful, sweeping hills, no traffic, and ample shade. I ended up a lot further west than I had intended, and had to work my way back along busy University Avenue to where, as always, Mt. Nemesis lurked in sinister repose. I climbed it in the usual manner, dropping soon into lowest gear, pushing my hardest, gasping a bit, cursing it, but making it, and enjoying the fact that the few subsequent hills were of no consequence. And home, to see my sweat-drenched visage in the bathroom mirror, then to let the luxurious shower wash away the grime and stiffness.

While standing in the shower, I wondered about the upcoming Centurion. I didn't feel overly tired, but I was hot and glad to be done; and it had been only 18 miles. The hills had been manageable but still obstacles to be overcome (I recalled, with a self-directed smirk, how early on I had expected to climb Mt. Nemesis two or three times in succession once I "had my legs under me" -- but that's not likely to happen). I had hoped to lose about 20 pounds, but that didn't happen. I'd tried to pin my enthusiasm on Lance's comeback, but that didn't happen. And it probably didn't help that I watched the old movie, The Alamo, while on the treadmill, with its message that even the most gallant effort, even by Davy Crockett, even by John Wayne, is sometimes not enough to overcome the odds.

And so I find myself wondering if I'm up to this ride after all, still trying to determine which is the better part of valor, discretion or unheeding gallantry. Whether that's really a light at the end of the tunnel, or the flickering fade of an unreachable dream.

Stay tuned.

The Photo Not Shown

As I prepared to leave for my ride Saturday a.m., I had Anna take a photo of me, helmet at my side, lance Armstrong buzz covered with a red bandana, holding Rocinante and looking, I presumed, like I was ready to roll, with the bandana lending an air of piractical renegade attitude. I came across, instead, looking lumpy and dumpy, a guy at his garage door on a Summer Saturday morning, smiling moronically. So I lead with this photo of koi scrimmaging in a pond at the Omaha Zoo -- their bright colors and eager eyes suggesting, perhaps, the ambitious convergence of riders at the upcoming Centurion. And, perhaps equally reflecting oblivion to the travails that lie ahead.

The ride was nice, about 26 miles of local trails; I broke the 500 mile mark for the year. My comrade was my cross-the-street neighbor Rob, with whom I'd never ridden before -- I didn't even know he rode. He showed up with a fairly new Trek Hybrid, and assured me he hadn't ridden much and didn't yet feel hillworthy. We maintained a pretty good pace, rode down to Lake Monona, then backtracked to the Capital City trail, dumping off eventually on the streets of SW Madison. We had a pleasant ride, the day was sunny and not yet warm, we talked when we wanted and respected the silence when appropriate. Good companionship, and will probably do it again.

Robb was in better shape than he had let on, and I found myself keeping up comfortably, and even trailing a bit on a couple of the steeper grades. He showed me a back route that I'd never seen, a long and wondrous descent that ended up in a park and onto a trail, which led us effortlessly home. As we rode up one fairly long and steep hill, he led, and I found myself recalling the old adage that "unless you're the lead dog, the view never changes." I also recalled a recent discussion in Bicycling magazine, by a member of cycling group. It seems that one member of the group, always a middle-to-trailing member of the pack, had set out on a master conditioning program and was suddenly surging into the lead. The letter writer didn't resent that, but he did resent the resurgent rider's sudden hardcore/consescending attitude. The magazine editor tsk-tsked along with the writer, saying that some people are just jerks, especially after spending years of being taken less than seriously.

I tsked, too, but I must confess I also thought, however briefly and uncomfortably, that just once I want to be that guy, though of course a much more magnanimous and modest version, and I had entertained some delusions that my regular treadmill and riding regimen had put near that point. So, at some deep level, I wanted to leave Robb in the dust from time to time and magnanimously wait for him once in awhile, as I recall others doing for me on other rides. It didn't happen, of course, and the better part of me is glad it didn't, but still . . . . I'll have to settle for what I am, moderately good shape for 60 after 10 years of neglect, and filled with hope, as did the fish at the pond, that the heavens will smile on me and that succor will fall unbidden and undeserved, about me.

Let's Hope Beauty Is but Skin Deep

The picture represents how I feel sometimes at the end of a long ride, wrinkled and Gollum-like, with my ass dragging. Note the Lance Armstrong haircut.

I haven't been on a bike in more than a week; our recent trip to Omaha messed up my schedule, though I found it psychologically invigorating to talk with Mark and Paul about the upcoming Century. Not surprisingly, Paul, Sherpa-like, had studied the route map and could tell me far more about the roads in my neck of the woods than I know, even though I've ridden many of them and own a biking map. He also offered sound advice about pacing and the need to keep it all in perspective.

Mark and I had discussed riding in more general terms the night before, over beers, and came to the same general conclusion, though it was ironic indeed to hear him disparage the hardcore riders and their "$1500 bikes," when I know that his, too, is in that category. But I know what both meant -- all our rides together have been made with the intent of riding, not of accomplishment, which will probably be different than the goals of most riders in the Centurion. Again, I'm glad both are coming along, my yin and yang compatriots.

My last ride had been a good one, out Old Sauk Road to the Shoveler Sink, and then up to Mt. Horeb, returning primarily along the bike route. The ride began slowly, so slowly that I began to wonder if I were developing some sort of health condition that sapped my strength. But as I warmed up I got better. As I approached Mt. Horeb a number of riders, usually in pairs, passed going back toward Madison. A couple returned my half-waves, but most ignored me. I wondered why then, and, after my talk with Mark, I could presume it was because I was not sufficiently hard-core looking. Though I did have my new Cannondale gloves (black with white stripes along the fingers) and Specialized shoes and a serviceable Bell helmet; my jersey was Pearl Izumi, though simple solid green. It might have been my new mail-order Nashbar shorts, unstylish though luxuriously padded. Or because I had just completed a long climb and no doubt showed an unhip air of windedness. Or maybe they were just absorbed in their own shared experience. Or maybe I was simply expecting more. Or maybe Mark is making me paranoid.

Though not on the bike recently, I have been on the treadmill quite a bit. That's been an interesting experience -- I can tell I'm getting stronger because the same routine is less tiring everytime, though I sweat more. And I've experienced the same phenomenon as when I ride -- it's always harder at the beginning, and to look too far ahead is to intimidate myself. I've never really gotten over the notion that at some point riding will get "easy", as in nondemanding. But that will never happen, short of getting a motorcycle, and I realize now it never should -- bicycling without effort would be like watching a movie, interesting but nonengaging. And that's not why I'v chosen to do it.

A sidenote -- in scheduling an MRI for my left shoulder (apparently a noncycling related muscle tear that won't heal) I had to verify the status of the stent I had inserted after my heart attack. Turns out the attack was seven years ago this month, July 26, 2003. My near-death experience, which, as I recall, seemed quite mundane at the time, only annoying. No life pictures flashing before my eyes, no regrets, no last-second conversion, just the welcome relief from the crushing pain as the meds kicked in. "You understand what's happening?" the doctor asked, "you're having a major heart attack and we have to act now." "Yeah," I had replied, "just go ahead." And then a 24-hour blur. I guess I knew, to the extent any of us can know, that my time hadn't come yet.

The first year after the attack I worked hard on diet and exercise, but spent the next six years falling slowly off the wagon. Till this spring, when the cholesterol tests all came in bad, and I grew the wild hair that caused me to sign up for this Centurion ride.

But I am planning a ride this weekend, with my neighbor Rob, who, I discovered, has also been training for an upcoming century, albeit an informal, mostly flat, ride up north with a couple buddies. We've set aside 7 to 9:30 this Saturday morning, though Mei says, with a voice of experience, it will no doubt be longer. It'll be the first time I've had ride-long companionship since the last time the Three Amigos rode, sometime back in 2000, and therefore the first chance I've had to compare my conditioning with another. Stay tuned.