Mt. Nemesis before breakfast

Got up just before dawn today, the sky gray not with clouds but with lingering night, the birds just beginning to stir, soft morning breezes slipping past. Headed out for my hill run. Few cars, most traffic lights still on flashing reds and yellows. Felt pretty good, the Mineral Point hills made their presence known, but manageable. The cemetery lawn glistening as the sun rose, sparkles on the tombstones and the statues. The bluing sky dotted with pale white clouds. The liquid trill of robins.

At and around the hospital, traffic began picking up, cars, bikes, and pedestrians. As I rounded the last bend toward the turn to Nemesis, I thought about the guy who passed me the other day, the one I re-passed on the climb. At that moment it happened again, another, younger guy, in matching jersey and shorts, who shot past without a sound and, I suddenly realized, without the faint chain chatter of the other guy, which had led me to suspect the other, first, guy had been more of a wannabe than a strong rider. Not this new guy. He turned toward the Mount and attacked it, riding hard and, halfway up, standing in the saddle and thrusting up the hill. By the time I reached the first summit, he was gone. As for me, I had climbed at a good rate, better than I recalled, and perhaps not even dropping into granny. I say perhaps, because when I reached the first summit, I shifted the wrong way, so that I couldn't tell for sure what gear I had been in during the climb. But no matter, really, I know I climbed well.

A peaceful ride home, a good breakfast and shower, and the day at last began.


This afternoon the Centurion route was posted and, just as I suspected, it will loop around the Mt. Horeb area. So I feel good that I know the route, and I feel a bit apprehensive, because, I know the route, and it will be hard. But that's the point, innit? We shall see.

Can't close here without mentioning last Sunday's ride with Anna, six or so miles up and down the Southwest Trail, beginning at Regent Street and riding up to Midvale, then back again. Nothing challenging, but a good ride for her. She spent much of the ride filling me in about manga books, especially her favorite series, with a few side trips into teenage theology and philosophy. Saw squirrels and rabbits and birds, oh my. And I saw how careless people can be on the trails, lost in their earphone worlds, or flashing past with inches to spare. But then, one can't protect them from life, can one?

Certain the Final Run to Home

"Not knowing where mount and rider end,
or where they come together,
I see myself as statue weathered,
sitting its saddle like an Ichabod."

William Kloefkorn, Uncertain the Final Run to Winter

This title poem, by a prominent Nebraska poet, came to me as I turned toward home Saturday, halfway through my planned half-century. Once I made that turn, any uncertainty as to the immediate future vanished -- I could watch the landmarks, so hard-won on the way out, reappear in reverse order, and I knew both where I would end up, and how the ride would end. And having spent time enough on the saddle as of that point, I did indeed feel weathered and one.

The ride began under grey and uncertain skies. I parked the car at Lake Monona, caught the Capitol City Trail, and took it north and east. About three miles in I came upon trail-pass checkpoint, which I greeted with great pleasure -- only the night before I had decided to buy a pass; the debate had been,not so much a moral one as a practical one -- whether the odds of anyone really checking passes was worth parting with $20. I felt so damned vindicated and proud as I showed him my spanking new pass, the ink barely dry. And I ended up being checked twice more.

The trail wound on past Anna's school, and through a long wondrous patch of deep dark woods. The sensation was like one of those dreams, in which unexpected vistas open up behind doors one never thought to open. The smell was green and pungent, the paved trail wended, the birds sang, and I saw very few other cyclists. Past water retention ponds, through a wildlife preserve and a public hunting area (that gives one pause), up long hills and down. Until I came to the Military Ridge Trail, not far after which the paving gave way to hardpacked gravel and clay. I rolled along nicely, paused briefly at the second trailpass check, through patches of woods and prairie, over small bridges over burbling streams and moss-topped ponds. I entered a more urban area, swatches of the city of Verona, pausing briefly at stop signs before charging across roads and streets; being on a bicyle trail tends to give me a sense of unexpected priority -- instead of being on constant guard against dangerous cars, I find myself as the dominant life form, cautioning hikers and slower bikers, letting down my guard just a bit.

With that attitude, I darted across an intersecting pathway, leading on one hand to a small carnival and on the other to a residential development. I noticed with interest that it was the pathway that had the stop sign, not me. At the same moment, I caught a flash of color on my right, coming from the residential area, a flash that solidified, in seeming slow motion, into a man on a bicyle, a large, Simian-browed Nordic sort, short blond hair and a ruddy face, on a cheap hybrid bike. Everything moved so slowly, as I slammed on my brakes and he began to skid. Somehow he stopped, the merest fraction of an inch from me. We both stood for a moment. "Sorry," I finally said, and he murmured. "But you had the stop sign," I added a bit defiantly. He murmured again, and looked blearily sheepish, a sort of Budweiser enhanced expression. I resumed pedaling. "Moron," I said under my breath, when I was sure he couldn't hear.

About 23 miles in I began to suspect I had miscalculated the mileage. I found a wondrous spot by the trail, a monstrous old cottonwood tree in a clearing, with two round picnic tables made of large-stoned cement. A sacred spot if there ever was one, the faint rustle of breeze pushing the weeds, and an undertone of clicking, chirring insects. I consumed a tube of Gu and a Clif Bar, and spread out the map. I'd never make it to Mt. Horeb and back in the time alloted. So I rode another two miles on, ensuring the certain fifty miles, and turned back toward home. For the most part the miles and markers clicked by, but I began to feel it, a bit tired. A familiar pain recurred under my left kneecap. About ten miles from home the gray sky began to spit, and my ride was punctuated by the stacatto of rain drops pelting my helmet. But I spent much of that time back in the deep trees, and it never did rain much. Three miles from home the cell phone rang in my back jersey pocket, and I knew I had passed my allotted arrival time. I ground on toward the car, the stroke of my pedals accompanied by strains of a CD Daniel insists on playing in the car, paens to various numbers and mathmatical games. "Adding with seven is easy, it's a very special game. . .." I was amazed I knew so many of the lyrics, and hated the fact that they crowded out my ostensible choices, like the Beatles or even the Bonanza theme song.

Finally I arrived at the car, called home to announce that fact, and was done. Feeling, perhaps, a bit Ichabodesque.

That Old Familiar Feeling

This has been Bike-To-Work week here in Madison, but I was never able to participate -- the need to be home in a reasonably short time precluded relying on the 45- or so minute ride. So Wednesday seemed the perfect compromise -- Bike-To-Dr.-Appt-From Home. The distance was only about 8 miles, each way, Daniel was in school,and Anna would just as soon have the extra time home alone, so I did it. The day was sunny, a bit windy, and in the upper 70s. The ride began on a negative note -- as I was waiting at the first traffic light, to turn left, a car pulled alongside me and cut in very close, edging me back. The irony was that the bozo driver had a bike rack on the back, with a bike in it. I felt like explaining things to him, but opted to let it go. I was happy that the hills leading to the bike trail were easily managed. It all felt so good, so much better than driving there in a car.

The majority of the ride in was on the Southwest Bike Trail, a gradual downgrade under arcing trees, and smooth asphalt, underpasses letting me see the underside of familiar-sounding street names. The greenery around the trail is astounding, carefully cultivated gardens alternating with wild patches of every sort of weed, many of which I recalled from my childhood, though not their names. The trail was moderately busy, bikers, hikers, strollers (human and baby). Patches of scent wafted by, from blooming trees, flower gardens, and wildflowers. Birds, of course, and the usual squirrels and chipmunks dashing across the path. Even a big-eyed orange tomcat who glowered at me as I went past, no doubt interrupting his pursuit of birds or chipmunks.

I emerged onto the streets again down by the Stadium and, inter alia, Mickie's Dairy Bar. A straight shot down Regent Street found me in front of Budget Bikes, with still 20 minutes or so to kill before my appt. some three blocks away. So I wandered about, enjoying the ambience and camraderies, bought some energy goodies for my next long ride, and a small bungie to replace the frayed one on my handlebar bag. Then on to the appt., which was in a new, pseudo-old, multi-story office building of brick and stone-facade.

I had opted for regular shorts instead of the usual spandex, but because I don't currently have any panniers, I couldn't carry spare shoes, meaning I walked into the tiled lobby with my cleats clicking, the shoes making my gait a bit duck-like as I tried to moderate the wear on my cleats, my helmet tucked under my arm. But this being Madison, no one seemed to nocice.

Afterward I began rolling home, into a fairly stiff headwind, and hungry as hell (it was noonish). I contemplated healthy snacks, ranging from a turkey subway to an order of beans and rice from New Orleans Takeout, then I rationalized myself into eggs and hashbrowns at Mickies. The thinking went this way: Bicycling magazine mentioned Mickie's in their recent article about Madison as a place not be missed, and to refuel. The place was right in front of me, I'd worked off at least the equivalent calories, my cholesterol level was down enough that I could risk it, and I was hungry. Visions of the old Cecil's Cafe in Dundee welled up before my eyes, so I went for it. Any pretense of this being a rare exception was shattered when the little old waitress greeted me familiarly and asked if I wanted my "usual eggs over easy and yanks".

I emerged into the hot sunshine 20 minutes later, sated and a bit sluggish. The air seemed hot, the wind even stronger. I worked back up the trail, feeling just okay, then onto the roadway. The image of the last hill before home kept insinuating itself into my mind; I told myself it was nothing, I'd done it before, and so on. But visions of that old Traynor Iowa ride kept nagging me, where I'd downed a whole stack of pancakes and let the west wind do me in. Every push of the pedals seemed harder than it ought. But I did climb this hill, with only moderate effort, but I felt it more than I thought I should have.

Later that evening, a massive head cold hit like that same west wind, and I collapsed into bed after dinner. Only today, two days later, do I feel myself again. And, I hope, ready to ride tomorrow.

A few Good Miles

Yesterday a massive Nebraskaesque thunderhead welled up around 3 p.m., same time that Anna and a friend had planned to do some biking around the neighborhood. The storm burst just after the friend arrived, so they spent the afternoon in the house, talking and texting and so on. Just as the friend left, the rain stopped, the wind died,and the clouds broke. Raindrops glistened on leaves, and a few recalcitrant drops pocked the brimming bird bath.

I talked Anna into going out with me, for a brief ride before dinner.

We took a neighborhood bike route to where it tunnelled under the freeway, and into quieter side streets and through a park, beneath wide trees still dripping with rain, the path dappled with sunlight, past a baby rabbit, disturbing a lonesome drake paddling in a big puddle. Anna had the lead, and she charged through the puddles and small lakes that dotted the bike path. I'd forgotten the exuberance of fat tires and water, but she reminded me, as her rear tire painted a dark line along the back of her white t-shirt, and she sparkled with laughter. We just rode a couple miles, up and along a meandering path, turned about and rode home. She's still finding herself on her bike, shifting is a mystery to her, but her balance is good and I sense her beginning to want to do it without prompting. She's talking about going out with her friend today or tomorrow, and even wondered to me what it would be like to go on a long, multi-day trip.

As for me, it felt good just to stretch the legs a bit after yesterday's climbing, and her enthusiasm was a reminder that the measure of things is not in miles but in memories made. I think we did a few yesterday.

Them Centurion Blues

The Centurion route has not yet been published, but it will almost certainly include the Blue Mounds region near Mt. Horeb, the area's highest and hilliest patch. With that in mind, I decided to check it out. The day was cool and gray, with a slight chance of showers and thunderstorms, but the increasing patches of sunlight convinced me the weather would hold. Just to be sure, I packed my rain jacket (which I never needed).

The trip involved driving to Mt. Horeb, since I had neither the time nor the certain energy -- nor the commitment -- to do it all on a bike yet. Driving up involved whizzing along the same hills and roads I'd ridden up the weeks before; as always, what seemed so critical on a bike seems so almost irrelevant from a car seat. A friend of mine long ago remarked he preferred riding a motorcycle to a bicycle, because from the bicycle all he saw was pavement and the immediate surrounding area. On this drive I saw what he meant, and had to agree; the vistas were much broader. But it's also a tradeoff -- the experience is much more intense on a bicycle, details from the road surface to the smell of the landscape to the windshifts, all matter more.

I parked the car at the Mt. Horeb visitor center lot, sucked down a tube of Strawberry Banana gu, and headed out Hiway 78, to the Hiway J cutoff, which led to the Tyrol Ski Basin. Which of course implied downhill. One fundamental of cycling, to me, is that one ought never surrender high ground easily -- the rationale is simple: if you are uphill, you must have gotten there somehow, so if you go down, you'll need to go back up to be back where you were. This truism burst into mind as I headed down a marvelous long steep decline, into deep woods, with no one around, simply me and Rocinante and the moderately well-maintained winding blacktopped road. As I went deeper, I passed a sign announcing the Township of Vermont; I understood immediately why the early settlers had chosen that name, the tiny farms tucked into the hillsides, with small bands of black-and-white dairy cows and decrepit barns reminded me of a Ben and Jerry's ad.

The road leveled off, still winding and silent, and the smell was that of the deep woods, almost like the mountains. Just me and the bike and the occasional squirrel and chipmunk dashing into the road, some large bird gliding down into a nearby copse. I stopped at the intersection of Hiway J and F, and unfurled the map. A pack of cyclists came whizzing past, resplendent in garish jerseys, sort of a Monty Python parody of a motorcyle gang, their appearance preceded by snippets of conversation and the whir of chains and tires. One shouted to me as they passed, "Got everything?" I gave the thumbs up, and they vanished up the road, toward Mazomanie. I heard one remark to the group, "Zip it up," to which the others laughed, no doubt an inside joke. I turned the other way, to finish the loop back toward Mt. Horeb, and toward the lost altitude I knew I had to recover.

My only request, as I had gone down the long steep hill, was that the road back be one of long moderate climbs instead of one steep grind, and I got that wish (to be filed, perhaps, under one should be careful for what one asks). I worked my way up some long hills, fortunately broken by level areas and even a few brief downhills. Mostly I did all right, though at one point I pulled over and checked the tires, convinced my lack of speed must be due to a flat -- nope, just the hills and a hint of fatigue. I stopped briefly at a small cemetary, refueled and rehydrated, and went on. I felt spent by the time I reached Brigham County Park, but perked up again as I reached the highway, and spun happily into Mt. Horeb, to my car, and to home, already planning next week's adventure.

Old Sauk, Old Middleton, Old Guy, New Story

As I mentioned before, Mt. Nemesis is an 11% grade at the intersection of Old Sauk Road and Old Middleton Road, a hill that looms in the middle of an otherwise moderate to easy bike route. I try to end my local rides there, as a final challenge. With due respect to Edmund Hillary and his ilk, it strikes me as Everest struck them, an indifferent obstacle that can't be bullied, only respected. I look forward to the day I can reach the top without dropping to lowest gear, when I can pass the "Thanks for Slowing Down" sign without feeling as though I'm being mocked.

Yesterday seemed pretty much the same. I stole a couple hours from the middle of the day, and rode downtown to the bike shop, from there across campus along the lake. I took an alternate route through Shorewood Hills, with a couple fairly long gradual climbs, along winding roads under massive trees and past stately houses, the smell of money mixed with that of the flowerbeds. Then curled back to the bike path, toward Nemesis. As I drew near, at a moderate pace, a rider whizzed past, startling me with a curt, "On your left," a lanky gray-haired guy (so many gray haired cyclists here) on a decent bike, with an air of confidence, maybe even arrogance. I decided to pace myself with him, which was not easy, since he was making a good clip. A few blocks later he made the turn toward Nemesis, and I followed.

As we began grinding upward, I noticed I was gaining on him, and ended up riding at his left shoulder during the final part of first of Nemesis's two summits. On the brief flat before the start of the second ascent, I passed him, with a brief, "Hell of a hill, innit?" He grunted. It occurred to me that, perhaps, he was more like me, aiming for a level of performance he had not yet achieved.

In any event, I gradually pulled away, and topped the hill with him fading into my mirror. I turned toward home, on Ozark Parkway, and he continued down Old Sauk.

The climb had been hard, as always, and still involved granny gear, but once I had topped it I felt charged, and the moderate incline toward home seemed irrelevant. As I rode along I thought about what had happened, and reminded myself to steer a careful course between the Scylla of smugness and the Charybidis of confidence. Certainly the hill is easier now than it was in April, and I climbed it better than at least one Madison cyclist.

As I drew near my final turn, I came upon another cyclist. I pulled up alongside and greeted him with, "Beautiful Day, hey?" This rider, very gray-haired indeed, jerked sharply, turned toward me with a startled look on his face. "You shouldn't sneak up on people," he scolded.

I apologized and went on my way not, I hoped, too smugly.

New Riding Buddy

Went for a short but sweet ride today, maybe five miles along Lake Monona. What made it special was that 13-year-old daughter Anna Mei accompanied me on her Trek hybrid. She's a bit like I had been, a reluctant rider, since it always seemed well, okay, but maybe not quite worth the effort. But, with mom's prodding, she went with me. Another glorious day, though the trail was crowded. We stopped at Willie Street Bikes, then turned around and went back, me riding wingman most of the way, making sure no one cut her off or otherwise messed up her somewhat uncertain ride. She stayed mostly in one gear, seeming at ease, and, she later begrudgingly admitted, having a good time. What with ducks and ducklings, geese and goslings, and a big soda at the end, what could go wrong?

Reminded me it can be good to ride with company. But not necessarily just any company. Which might explain my reluctance to follow through on any Bombay Bike Club rides. I have my own list of reasons for solitude, and have always preferred to make my own way rather than find it in company of polite strangers, plan my own route and pace. I also find it hard -- residual shyness? doubts as to my abilities? -- to commit to an already existing group, and to accede to group decisions. I much prefer the old days, riding with Mark and Paul, and perhaps one or two varying side riders. People I knew well who knew me, with whom I could relax and laugh. Not to be maudlin here, there are moments, especially toward the end of long days, in which their idiosyncracies can grate, and God knows what sort of tics and traits I exhibit and they tolerate. Still, it's good that both of them will be with me on the Centurion, and, I hope, we'll all finish together. The Three Amigos, once again.

In the meantime, I already have plans for Anna and my next ride.