On Monday it was neither raining, nor too hot. Perfect riding weather. My schedule, however, lent itself to errands, and one stop led to another. I soon found myself in the belly of the beast: Crossgates Mall. I had to venture in to get the battery replaced in my heart-rate monitor that I use while cycling. It tells me useful things, like "you're barely working," "you're sort of working," and "whoa, you're at about 90%, bro." By the time I'd stopped to browse at the phone-accessory kiosk, I knew that artificial lighting and smarmy mall-air had nearly gotten to me. "Need any help?" the young man asked. Yes. I quickly came to my senses and broke out, determined to ride the next day.
I rode to my allergist's on Tuesday, to get two shots of the things that make me sneeze. The hope is that after about five years of weekly needle sticks, I won't be as allergic to these things. I've concluded that Albany is not very bike-friendly, something I'd written in my ride journal but must have forgotten. Washington Avenue sucks, no matter what time of day it is.
The nurse, prepping the twin syringes, noticed my helmet. Assuming a tone of surprise and slight disapproval, she asked, "You rode your BIKE here?" I replied, "yes." More questions, inflected just a tad higher: "From where? Where did you leave the bike?" I'd ridden a whopping four miles. "Downtown... There's a bike rack in front of this building." Slight pause. "Oh." One needle. The other needle.
I want to practice what I preach. I want to use my bike for short errands. I like leaving my car parked. I just wish it was easier, and safer. It's a fact that cyclists are safer when there are more of us. (Holland is the best example.) But it's just not enjoyable riding down Washington Avenue, especially when it widens and speeds increase by the SUNY campus. There are no alternative routes that are any better. There's the perception problem as well: the nurse's attitude is not unusual. It's part of the car culture. The cycling idealists will say that one more bike will make a difference. This rider may not see that difference for a long time.
Ride number two: club ride out of Schodack, 5 pm, with the regular crew. We rolled out and quickly got up to cruising speed, south on Route 150. Ah, that's better. Sure, a tight pack of cyclists has its dangers, but we're all competent and aware riders--and we're more easily noticed by drivers. We even get positive attention at times: waves, thumbs up, that sort of thing.
Dennis led the way, with his cue sheet clipped to the bars. We dropped down to 9J for some easy rolling along the river. Gary took a huge pull, and I was next in line, just before the route turned left and climbed. Oh, great. Just like on TV, those who'd been sitting in moved to the front as Gary and I felt the burn up the first substantial hill. Two rights and we were descending the ridge we'd just climbed.
This climb-and-descend pattern continued, and I wondered aloud what our normally mild-mannered ride leader had been thinking. Then again, I'd wanted a hard ride. My legs burn, sure, but I don't think of it as pain, and certainly not as suffering. I like riding with a group, measuring my progress, and seeing how my body and mind respond to the shifts in terrain. This all clicks on an emotional level as well, with the ups and downs, the group dynamics, the periods of effort and recovery. It's life. The road rises for everyone.
The ride went from hilly to rolling, with riders splitting up and regrouping as the evening unfolded. Unsure if a county-line sprint was happening, I went for it--and got it, as a rider behind me groaned. I told him, hey, I got that sprint, but I'm no king of the mountains tonight.
I seemed to get stronger as the ride continued. Proper hydration, terrain changes, good mojo, cooler temps? Who knows. We all got back safely, kibbitzed about club rides, pro races, travel, the coming school year. Two rides in one day. One practical, both necessary.
May you rise with the road.
Showing posts with label ride report. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ride report. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
The Angel Gruppetto
It's been a tough week. I lost a dear friend after a brave struggle with ovarian cancer. She was in hospice, so the outcome wasn't unexpected. I have learned, though, that expecting grief does little once it arrives.
Riding my bike helps me process my feelings, and, given the volume and complexity of emotions, a ride was in order.
I try to not believe in the pathetic fallacy of weather influencing mood and vice versa, but it's been that kind of summer, with these low-pressure weather systems moving in, silent gray troops looming a way off, but looking like they mean business. I set out on Thursday, right around noon, under generally sunny skies. I was following an old cue sheet from a club ride.
I quickly got into the open country, and noticed a tiny, beetly bug perched on my bike computer. I did not flick it off, but instead carried this creature, and thought about involuntary relocation. Where would he/she end up? Somewhere more remote, and at a higher elevation, if I followed the cue sheet. That's life, right? We all get relocated, physically, but also emotionally. Sometimes we have a say, but often we don't. This year feels like one of those times for me.
Taborton Road rises from Sand Lake, up into ever-thickening pine trees. The scenery up there is like riding through the cover picture of an L.L. Bean catalog. I found my pace on the climb. I ascended, as the brown, foamy water in the creek to my side descended. Overhead, the sky turned to that popular if not fashionable color for the summer: mottled gray. Reminded again that weather changes like my moods.
I rounded a corner and saw two riders ahead on the hill. I gradually caught up, and chatted with them. Both retired, it turns out--more time to ride. We chatted about routes and climbs, dirt roads getting paved, and, of course the Tour.
Sprinter David Millar got within two kilometers of a win today before getting gobbled up by the mass of riders in the peloton. Not what he wanted, for sure, but heroic nonetheless. These breakaways in races go that way more often than not, yet everyone cheers for those bold riders who attempt it. Millar, totally spent, passed through the peloton backwards, out of contention for any notable place for the day. In my own racing, I'm not much of a breakaway artist--more like a hang-onto-the-wheels-for-dear-life type. But I am that man, in other areas. Trying, falling short, occasionally making it. We're all the breakaway hero sometimes, and other times we're the hungry peloton.
Further along, riding alone, I felt the presence of some departed friends around me. Sharon was there, my "bartender" at the school library who would always lend a sympathetic ear. My friend George, who showed me so many great roads. A former student, whose exuberance in life won't be forgotten. My dad, who had come to my rescue so many times when I'd gone out for a ride.
I'm not so quick to dismiss this sort of thing as the ramblings of an overworked body, with more blood flowing to the legs than the brain. No, there's something there. Something safe. High up into the woods of Rensselaer County, I prefer to think of this as my angel gruppetto, others riding close, keeping me in sight, pointing out hazards and highlights, helping me pick good lines as I ride on.
Riding my bike helps me process my feelings, and, given the volume and complexity of emotions, a ride was in order.
I try to not believe in the pathetic fallacy of weather influencing mood and vice versa, but it's been that kind of summer, with these low-pressure weather systems moving in, silent gray troops looming a way off, but looking like they mean business. I set out on Thursday, right around noon, under generally sunny skies. I was following an old cue sheet from a club ride.
I quickly got into the open country, and noticed a tiny, beetly bug perched on my bike computer. I did not flick it off, but instead carried this creature, and thought about involuntary relocation. Where would he/she end up? Somewhere more remote, and at a higher elevation, if I followed the cue sheet. That's life, right? We all get relocated, physically, but also emotionally. Sometimes we have a say, but often we don't. This year feels like one of those times for me.
Taborton Road rises from Sand Lake, up into ever-thickening pine trees. The scenery up there is like riding through the cover picture of an L.L. Bean catalog. I found my pace on the climb. I ascended, as the brown, foamy water in the creek to my side descended. Overhead, the sky turned to that popular if not fashionable color for the summer: mottled gray. Reminded again that weather changes like my moods.
I rounded a corner and saw two riders ahead on the hill. I gradually caught up, and chatted with them. Both retired, it turns out--more time to ride. We chatted about routes and climbs, dirt roads getting paved, and, of course the Tour.
Sprinter David Millar got within two kilometers of a win today before getting gobbled up by the mass of riders in the peloton. Not what he wanted, for sure, but heroic nonetheless. These breakaways in races go that way more often than not, yet everyone cheers for those bold riders who attempt it. Millar, totally spent, passed through the peloton backwards, out of contention for any notable place for the day. In my own racing, I'm not much of a breakaway artist--more like a hang-onto-the-wheels-for-dear-life type. But I am that man, in other areas. Trying, falling short, occasionally making it. We're all the breakaway hero sometimes, and other times we're the hungry peloton.
Further along, riding alone, I felt the presence of some departed friends around me. Sharon was there, my "bartender" at the school library who would always lend a sympathetic ear. My friend George, who showed me so many great roads. A former student, whose exuberance in life won't be forgotten. My dad, who had come to my rescue so many times when I'd gone out for a ride.
I'm not so quick to dismiss this sort of thing as the ramblings of an overworked body, with more blood flowing to the legs than the brain. No, there's something there. Something safe. High up into the woods of Rensselaer County, I prefer to think of this as my angel gruppetto, others riding close, keeping me in sight, pointing out hazards and highlights, helping me pick good lines as I ride on.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Climbing, ripping, growing
It is the highest point in Massachusetts. The road was recently paved. Its profile closely resembles the Col D'Aspin, a fabled climb of the Tour de France. Its peak was shrouded in clouds all day today. Forty percent chance of rain.
I happened to be in North Adams, with my bike. Of course, I had to ride up Mount Greylock. I just hadn't gotten around to it, until today.
I took a nice warm-up out Massachusetts Avenue, to Williamstown, about 40 minutes or so. Raindrops mixed with patches of sun. I took the right turn on Notch Road, a surprisingly nondescript spot from which to begin such an epic climb. I left busy Route 2 behind, and the road immediately began to rise. My legs felt rubbery, and the thick, humid air seemed to stick to my lungs. I was out of the saddle on the very modest rise, passing people cutting lawns, kids playing.
I soon turned right, and started into the park, and the road pitched up even more sharply. I put my head down, and slowly turned my lowest gear, trying to keep my breathing even. My heart rate monitor wasn't working, which was just as well. The relevant information was all there, in the form of my labored breaths, the creaks of my cleats, and the sound of the tires on the new pavement.
Climb inside yourself, I've read in more than one place. Go at your own pace. But there's often another meaning to that phrase. Climb inside yourself--scaling a grade on a bike allows me to climb into my mind. It's a narrow focus. It's an elegantly simple proposition: keep the wheels moving, stay upright. Sure enough, my mind opened itself. I thought about how I haven't been riding that often or that hard recently. I thought about how the muscles of my legs were hosting little explosions, as the glycogen burned, as the fibers of the muscles were being stretched and torn. I'll be stronger because of this, I thought. I'll feel it in a couple of days. That's good.
I continued riding, fairly straight, but my mind was turning corners. I thought of Monday, when I was helping a dear soul make some sense of her yard. We'd cleared a small patch, turned over some soil, and planted a few things: hosta, astilbe, tomatoes, basil, and tiger lilies transplanted from my own yard. I've learned that it's best to be a bit rough with plants: tear those root balls a bit, really separate them. So I did. My friend, pulling weeds, was aghast when I urged her to do the same. "It's alive--I don't want to hurt it!" It does seem counterintuitive, but I assured her that it's the way to go. She and I are transplants, too, and we both know a lot about ripping and tearing, then growing. It's humbling and empowering at the same time.
My muscles continued their quiet fusillades as I rocked the bike a bit to get more leverage around the switchbacks, the hairpin turns designed to make the Greylock road more manageable for motorized traffic. The switchbacks began to take on the appearance of a jester's lopsided, sinister smirk, sharp and steep on the low, inside corner, flatter toward the outside.
Twelve switchbacks in all, and I was seeing clear sky and tiny landscapes to my right, and increasingly scrubby pines on my left. I got a small wave from inside a Williams College van, a nod from a descending cyclist, and a bemused glance from two chipmunks. More clouds than sun. I avoided checking my mileage, and kept focusing on the road immediately ahead. I must have checked my jersey zipper (already unzipped) and rear derailleur (still in the lowest gear) at least twenty times. I got the distinct sensation that I was riding into a cloud. It was hard to imagine that this same piece of pavement started in gritty Wednesday-morning North Adams.
The road flattened out a bit, and I began to see sky on both sides. I rounded a corner, feeling a surge of energy, and saw the sign for the summit: elevation 3491 feet. I circled the monument, originally intended to be a lighthouse. That seemed appropriate: as I looked out over the railing at the top of the mountain, I felt that I might have been at sea level, looking out over a very low fog over a calm shoreline. No matter: my legs and lungs knew the deal. My breathing took on that deep, slow rhythm that tells me all is well in my body and mind.
I rolled past a rock, noticed a stanza on it, and went back. Words from Henry David Thoreau:
"As the light increased, I discovered around me an ocean of mist, which by chance reached up exactly to the base of the tower and shut out every vestige of the earth, while I was left floating on this fragment of the wreck of a world, on my carved plank, in cloudland. . . .
I lingered for a few minutes, inhaled some bits of clouds, zipped my jersey, and set off for the long, speedy descent. I knew my legs would carry me home. I knew I'd be stronger for my effort. Cycling tells me again and again that I can. I can, and sometimes it takes climbing and ripping in order to grow.
Why do people put on silly clothes and propel their bicycles up ridiculously steep slopes, dawdle for a while, then descend in a breathless, 40-mile-an-hour isometric rollercoaster? Well, why do people do anything?
I happened to be in North Adams, with my bike. Of course, I had to ride up Mount Greylock. I just hadn't gotten around to it, until today.
I took a nice warm-up out Massachusetts Avenue, to Williamstown, about 40 minutes or so. Raindrops mixed with patches of sun. I took the right turn on Notch Road, a surprisingly nondescript spot from which to begin such an epic climb. I left busy Route 2 behind, and the road immediately began to rise. My legs felt rubbery, and the thick, humid air seemed to stick to my lungs. I was out of the saddle on the very modest rise, passing people cutting lawns, kids playing.
I soon turned right, and started into the park, and the road pitched up even more sharply. I put my head down, and slowly turned my lowest gear, trying to keep my breathing even. My heart rate monitor wasn't working, which was just as well. The relevant information was all there, in the form of my labored breaths, the creaks of my cleats, and the sound of the tires on the new pavement.
Climb inside yourself, I've read in more than one place. Go at your own pace. But there's often another meaning to that phrase. Climb inside yourself--scaling a grade on a bike allows me to climb into my mind. It's a narrow focus. It's an elegantly simple proposition: keep the wheels moving, stay upright. Sure enough, my mind opened itself. I thought about how I haven't been riding that often or that hard recently. I thought about how the muscles of my legs were hosting little explosions, as the glycogen burned, as the fibers of the muscles were being stretched and torn. I'll be stronger because of this, I thought. I'll feel it in a couple of days. That's good.
I continued riding, fairly straight, but my mind was turning corners. I thought of Monday, when I was helping a dear soul make some sense of her yard. We'd cleared a small patch, turned over some soil, and planted a few things: hosta, astilbe, tomatoes, basil, and tiger lilies transplanted from my own yard. I've learned that it's best to be a bit rough with plants: tear those root balls a bit, really separate them. So I did. My friend, pulling weeds, was aghast when I urged her to do the same. "It's alive--I don't want to hurt it!" It does seem counterintuitive, but I assured her that it's the way to go. She and I are transplants, too, and we both know a lot about ripping and tearing, then growing. It's humbling and empowering at the same time.
My muscles continued their quiet fusillades as I rocked the bike a bit to get more leverage around the switchbacks, the hairpin turns designed to make the Greylock road more manageable for motorized traffic. The switchbacks began to take on the appearance of a jester's lopsided, sinister smirk, sharp and steep on the low, inside corner, flatter toward the outside.
Twelve switchbacks in all, and I was seeing clear sky and tiny landscapes to my right, and increasingly scrubby pines on my left. I got a small wave from inside a Williams College van, a nod from a descending cyclist, and a bemused glance from two chipmunks. More clouds than sun. I avoided checking my mileage, and kept focusing on the road immediately ahead. I must have checked my jersey zipper (already unzipped) and rear derailleur (still in the lowest gear) at least twenty times. I got the distinct sensation that I was riding into a cloud. It was hard to imagine that this same piece of pavement started in gritty Wednesday-morning North Adams.
The road flattened out a bit, and I began to see sky on both sides. I rounded a corner, feeling a surge of energy, and saw the sign for the summit: elevation 3491 feet. I circled the monument, originally intended to be a lighthouse. That seemed appropriate: as I looked out over the railing at the top of the mountain, I felt that I might have been at sea level, looking out over a very low fog over a calm shoreline. No matter: my legs and lungs knew the deal. My breathing took on that deep, slow rhythm that tells me all is well in my body and mind.
I rolled past a rock, noticed a stanza on it, and went back. Words from Henry David Thoreau:
"As the light increased, I discovered around me an ocean of mist, which by chance reached up exactly to the base of the tower and shut out every vestige of the earth, while I was left floating on this fragment of the wreck of a world, on my carved plank, in cloudland. . . .
I lingered for a few minutes, inhaled some bits of clouds, zipped my jersey, and set off for the long, speedy descent. I knew my legs would carry me home. I knew I'd be stronger for my effort. Cycling tells me again and again that I can. I can, and sometimes it takes climbing and ripping in order to grow.
Why do people put on silly clothes and propel their bicycles up ridiculously steep slopes, dawdle for a while, then descend in a breathless, 40-mile-an-hour isometric rollercoaster? Well, why do people do anything?
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Ride Report, Tues. 5/12/09 (poetic version)
Lords of the big rings,
small-cog spinners, mid-pack winners,
fully kitted saints and sinners
in the church of the maxed-out heart,
whirling dervishes on a different plane--
Slicing the blossomed air
each forward surge a dare
drop the shoulders, hands
loose on the hooks--
hey, how's my form look?
Good move, I say aloud,
as someone grabs a wheel--three's a crowd--
two off the front, empty road rises ahead,
teamwork, an alliance unsaid.
Riding, surfing a swelling wave,
crawling out of the cave
of my mind into the
slanting dusk--
push on, perfect circles--
today, I must.
My alchemy machine,
stress and anger burn the best--
off the front now, in the
soft asphalt quiet, alone,
no chance for rest--
But no need! My speed
keeps me upright as we
hurtle into damp, sweet twilight.
It's not a bike, but a
fulcrum, a magical lever--
right now I'm immortal,
turn those cranks forever!
small-cog spinners, mid-pack winners,
fully kitted saints and sinners
in the church of the maxed-out heart,
whirling dervishes on a different plane--
Slicing the blossomed air
each forward surge a dare
drop the shoulders, hands
loose on the hooks--
hey, how's my form look?
Good move, I say aloud,
as someone grabs a wheel--three's a crowd--
two off the front, empty road rises ahead,
teamwork, an alliance unsaid.
Riding, surfing a swelling wave,
crawling out of the cave
of my mind into the
slanting dusk--
push on, perfect circles--
today, I must.
My alchemy machine,
stress and anger burn the best--
off the front now, in the
soft asphalt quiet, alone,
no chance for rest--
But no need! My speed
keeps me upright as we
hurtle into damp, sweet twilight.
It's not a bike, but a
fulcrum, a magical lever--
right now I'm immortal,
turn those cranks forever!
Ride Report, Tues. 5/12/09 (factual version)
Time: One hour, 51 minutes, 20 seconds.
Distance: 35.9 miles.
Average speed: 19.2 mph.
Maximum speed: 39.5 mph.
Distance: 35.9 miles.
Average speed: 19.2 mph.
Maximum speed: 39.5 mph.
Friday, February 20, 2009
"Spring" Training
I like to get out of town during our February break. I've visited my sis in SoCal before, but it didn't work out this year. I figure I'll throw the bikes on the car roof, drive to Philly and see Mom for a couple of days, then head south a ways in the hope of gaining a few degrees and maybe finding some strange mountains to ride.
That all adds up to Mt. Jackson, VA, right off of I-81, in between the Appalachian and Blue Ridge mountains. I get a hotel room and some cue sheets online, and I'm in business. Friends react strongly, and trot out all sorts of Southern stereotypes. Hey, I retort, I have a cell phone and a GPS. If you don't hear from me in a week, call the state police. Some nervous laughter follows.
DAY 1: I pick out a 33-mile loop, and have about 2 1/2 hours of daylight in which to do it. That should work out, I think, barring any mechanicals/wrong turns/acts of God. First lesson: roads in states that don't get lots of snow have correspondingly smaller (read: nonexistant) shoulders. OK, point taken. Still, the traffic is light and generally forgiving. I get greetings from friendly walkers. Two kids in hoodies give me the thumbs up as I zip by. Up and down all sorts of cool roads, lots of them with names including either "hill" or "hollow" -- that seems to be country for "high" and "low," respectively. I get multiple bovine stares, ride through a town called Quicksburg in about ten seconds, and see a building that could be a church, a barn or both. I see the misty breath of horses. I see a fragment of a halo a few degrees west of the sun, and think of three people who have passed. I feel a surge in my cadence as I imagine their faces before me.
DAY 2: I find some cool mountain bike trails in Harrisonburg, and spend a couple of hours doing loops in the squishy soil. Run into (nearly) a bunch of ROTC kids traipsing around. Now, seeing someone in camo in the woods tends to give me pause, but they are only armed with compasses. "Practicing your orienteering?" I ask one. "Yes, sir," comes the reply. Well, it's good to know that I'm not alone out here.
DAY 3: More iffy weather. I wake up to school delays on the radio. (It turns out that it doesn't take more than the threat of flurries to cause that in Virginia.) I take my time getting around, and finally set out at about 11 into some actual flurries. I picked out a 57-mile route, reasoning that I could always turn around. Up the hill, into the teeth of the punishing wind. Yikes. I begin to argue with myself: You could have driven to Bucks County to get beaten up like this! Just get in your warm car! No way, I'm riding. So what if I'm listing like a half-sunk battleship? I'll warm up eventually.
Hey, at least the cue sheet is accurate. What an act of faith: Print something from the internet, and trust it when it says "turn here." REALLY trust it when it says "SHARP DOWNHILL." It scares the bejesus out of me when that wind catches my front wheel briefly.
In Basye (pronunciation, please), I stop at a country store at the bottom of a monster hill. Ears and nose clogged, hobbling around in my cleats, I wander around the store until I find the hot chocolate. Thus fortified, I check the map: maybe I'll make my own route back. Yeah, I think. Third day in a row of riding, my quads screaming, maybe dial it back a bit. I'll still get over 30 miles.
So I'm on my own. My map is good, but it says nothing about road surfaces. Left turn, the road turns to dirt. OK, I'm up for it. Just like Columbia County. Dirt road turns a corner. Goes up. Around another corner, more up. Well, let's see if those "switchbacks" we did in spin class bear any resemblance to this. Somewhere mid-hill, it starts snowing. Hard. And gets windy. A brief flash of panic: it's up to me to finish this ride. I don't know what the frequency of cab service is here in Shenandoah County. Don't get off and walk, or it's all over, I say aloud. My panic evaporates as I see the road level off. My quads have strangely recovered somewhat as well.
The ride has taken on a quality, a color: It's dirt. And more dirt. Hey, I'm getting used to this. Twelve miles in the Battenkill will be NOTHING. A quick map check and a right turn past an ancient spaniel with a keening bark, more dirt, then a quick shot down an actual paved road with the wind at my back for once. Feeling strong again.
After a few more map checks and a couple of sharp, dirt climbs, I'm rolling with the wind down into the valley, crossing I-81, briefly mingling with semi-trucks before turning into the parking lot, with the wind still behind me.
All praises to the gods of county maps, tailwinds, hot chocolate and cue sheets. I check my odometer: just shy of 40. Yeah, like me.
Why do I do it? Well, to get ready for the season, of course. Yeah, but isn't there some serious discomfort involved? Hey, that's life, too. And I feel a range of emotions while I'm out there unwinding my mind. All that, plus that amazing all-natural buzz that comes early and stays late.
That all adds up to Mt. Jackson, VA, right off of I-81, in between the Appalachian and Blue Ridge mountains. I get a hotel room and some cue sheets online, and I'm in business. Friends react strongly, and trot out all sorts of Southern stereotypes. Hey, I retort, I have a cell phone and a GPS. If you don't hear from me in a week, call the state police. Some nervous laughter follows.
DAY 1: I pick out a 33-mile loop, and have about 2 1/2 hours of daylight in which to do it. That should work out, I think, barring any mechanicals/wrong turns/acts of God. First lesson: roads in states that don't get lots of snow have correspondingly smaller (read: nonexistant) shoulders. OK, point taken. Still, the traffic is light and generally forgiving. I get greetings from friendly walkers. Two kids in hoodies give me the thumbs up as I zip by. Up and down all sorts of cool roads, lots of them with names including either "hill" or "hollow" -- that seems to be country for "high" and "low," respectively. I get multiple bovine stares, ride through a town called Quicksburg in about ten seconds, and see a building that could be a church, a barn or both. I see the misty breath of horses. I see a fragment of a halo a few degrees west of the sun, and think of three people who have passed. I feel a surge in my cadence as I imagine their faces before me.
DAY 2: I find some cool mountain bike trails in Harrisonburg, and spend a couple of hours doing loops in the squishy soil. Run into (nearly) a bunch of ROTC kids traipsing around. Now, seeing someone in camo in the woods tends to give me pause, but they are only armed with compasses. "Practicing your orienteering?" I ask one. "Yes, sir," comes the reply. Well, it's good to know that I'm not alone out here.
DAY 3: More iffy weather. I wake up to school delays on the radio. (It turns out that it doesn't take more than the threat of flurries to cause that in Virginia.) I take my time getting around, and finally set out at about 11 into some actual flurries. I picked out a 57-mile route, reasoning that I could always turn around. Up the hill, into the teeth of the punishing wind. Yikes. I begin to argue with myself: You could have driven to Bucks County to get beaten up like this! Just get in your warm car! No way, I'm riding. So what if I'm listing like a half-sunk battleship? I'll warm up eventually.
Hey, at least the cue sheet is accurate. What an act of faith: Print something from the internet, and trust it when it says "turn here." REALLY trust it when it says "SHARP DOWNHILL." It scares the bejesus out of me when that wind catches my front wheel briefly.
In Basye (pronunciation, please), I stop at a country store at the bottom of a monster hill. Ears and nose clogged, hobbling around in my cleats, I wander around the store until I find the hot chocolate. Thus fortified, I check the map: maybe I'll make my own route back. Yeah, I think. Third day in a row of riding, my quads screaming, maybe dial it back a bit. I'll still get over 30 miles.
So I'm on my own. My map is good, but it says nothing about road surfaces. Left turn, the road turns to dirt. OK, I'm up for it. Just like Columbia County. Dirt road turns a corner. Goes up. Around another corner, more up. Well, let's see if those "switchbacks" we did in spin class bear any resemblance to this. Somewhere mid-hill, it starts snowing. Hard. And gets windy. A brief flash of panic: it's up to me to finish this ride. I don't know what the frequency of cab service is here in Shenandoah County. Don't get off and walk, or it's all over, I say aloud. My panic evaporates as I see the road level off. My quads have strangely recovered somewhat as well.
The ride has taken on a quality, a color: It's dirt. And more dirt. Hey, I'm getting used to this. Twelve miles in the Battenkill will be NOTHING. A quick map check and a right turn past an ancient spaniel with a keening bark, more dirt, then a quick shot down an actual paved road with the wind at my back for once. Feeling strong again.
After a few more map checks and a couple of sharp, dirt climbs, I'm rolling with the wind down into the valley, crossing I-81, briefly mingling with semi-trucks before turning into the parking lot, with the wind still behind me.
All praises to the gods of county maps, tailwinds, hot chocolate and cue sheets. I check my odometer: just shy of 40. Yeah, like me.
Why do I do it? Well, to get ready for the season, of course. Yeah, but isn't there some serious discomfort involved? Hey, that's life, too. And I feel a range of emotions while I'm out there unwinding my mind. All that, plus that amazing all-natural buzz that comes early and stays late.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Ride report: Alcove Reservoir/Greene County
Saturday was wet and warm; Sunday promised to be windy and cold. My alarm woke me up (again... what ever happened to sleeping in?) and I managed to get to Delmar in time for the ride. Soon enough, eleven of us were rolling along, inside the deceptively quiet tunnel of tailwind. To Art's credit, we finished in a tailwind as well. In between was another story.
Michelle said I ride like a mountain biker. The "real" mountain bikers in the group told me that's a compliment. I'll go with that. Seems like the universe is telling me to get out on the dirt more.
We were on parts of the CBRC race course, plus some other cool roads. I'm in this area fairly regularly, but some of these roads were new to me. We turned off of 143 and went through the tiny town of Alcove, with its general store/post office crowding the narrow road. We rose above the reservoir, looking positively oceanic with its rows of whitecaps.
We rose up some cracked tarmac. I was a bit behind the group, and got treated to a Graham Watson-worthy sight of riders climbing the hill while late fall leaves swirled around them.
I figured out that we were doing town-line sprints, after like the third one. I jumped first, into the wind, uphill, feeling sheepish about it, since I thought no one else was going. Sure enough, Doug came around and got me by a bike length or so. Note to self: once you decide to go, go. Another note to self: you probably couldn't have given it much more, since your heart rate was 172.
Mixed in some dirt roads, too. I felt pretty confident. Heck, after my so-so cyclocrossing, "just riding" felt pretty good.
Brownies in the parking lot, courtesy of Kim. I'll burn off those calories... but not in that century next week. I'll have to wait until 2009 for a triple-digit day.
Michelle said I ride like a mountain biker. The "real" mountain bikers in the group told me that's a compliment. I'll go with that. Seems like the universe is telling me to get out on the dirt more.
We were on parts of the CBRC race course, plus some other cool roads. I'm in this area fairly regularly, but some of these roads were new to me. We turned off of 143 and went through the tiny town of Alcove, with its general store/post office crowding the narrow road. We rose above the reservoir, looking positively oceanic with its rows of whitecaps.
We rose up some cracked tarmac. I was a bit behind the group, and got treated to a Graham Watson-worthy sight of riders climbing the hill while late fall leaves swirled around them.
I figured out that we were doing town-line sprints, after like the third one. I jumped first, into the wind, uphill, feeling sheepish about it, since I thought no one else was going. Sure enough, Doug came around and got me by a bike length or so. Note to self: once you decide to go, go. Another note to self: you probably couldn't have given it much more, since your heart rate was 172.
Mixed in some dirt roads, too. I felt pretty confident. Heck, after my so-so cyclocrossing, "just riding" felt pretty good.
Brownies in the parking lot, courtesy of Kim. I'll burn off those calories... but not in that century next week. I'll have to wait until 2009 for a triple-digit day.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Ride report: Darkness closing in
Yeah, I rocked the bib shorts today. And the forecast was mostly right... mix of sun and clouds. They left "darkness" out of that little concoction. Whoops. I had a meeting that went way too long. (Principals love to hear themselves talk.) In the bibs and out the door at four. Blah. Then I broke the little screw thing off the valve in the parking lot. Blast! Good thing my spare tube was powdered up and ready. Anyway. Rode exactly one hour. It was like a creepy criterium race of sorts. I was off the front, being chased by darkness, who closed the gap in the last 5K. He can really dig deep late in the season. I didn't even hear him coming. Oncoming cars were turning on the high beams, presumably after seeing my feeble LED flashing like some sort of rabid beastie. Luckily, the roads were smooth and quiet, with little traffic, and I rolled back into the lot intact. I need better lights. Still, that's one more ride and one less spin class.
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