The storm has passed, and
now, above quiet, damp streets,
trees dance, intact limbs waving,
as the air animates them--
a fresh, rising wind, strong
but kind, a messenger from
somewhere else, speaking
through branches and leaves
like breath through a reed.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Race Report: Capital Region Road Race, August 20, 2011
Disclaimer and spoiler: This report will NOT end with me recounting my epic victory salute as I crossed the line ahead of everyone else in my field. Any suspense that you sense in the coming paragraphs will lead to a denouement of a different sort. I'm a dilettante on a bike, a competent racer with decent fitness and varying motivation, still looking to learn by pinning on a number and joining the pack.
I belong to the Capital Bicycle Racing Club, and this is our race. Well, Paul McDonnell, planner extraordinaire, puts it together, and many club members help out with the details: marking the course, sweeping the turns, marshaling, driving pace, and so on. It's a tough course: a twenty-mile loop with two short but steep climbs, with 1300 feet of elevation gain per loop, maxing out at 16 percent.
It's customary for cyclists to self-deprecate about most things, like how much they've been riding (not much), why they are here (it's just training for me) to how well they may do (fair to average). I adopted this posture with a friend, who sarcastically replied, “You're all winners!” She and I know that's not true. There's no running onto the field after the last point for a group hug or pile-on involving all the players. This is a linear sport: a clear beginning and end point, and a time for each rider. For some reason, other endurance sports—running and triathlon—seem to focus more on the act of completing the race. But remember that numbers don't tell the whole story. Racing makes me a better rider... maybe even a better person. Like many things, it tests limits—in our case, strength, endurance and pain tolerance. Even the most competitive rides with friends, up and down the Rensselaer plateau, don't take me to the limits like races do. There's always something surprising, something new.
I've been racing for about five years, and riding anywhere from two to three thousand miles per year—not counting mountain-bike and cyclocross rides. These numbers are not unusual, or even particularly impressive to the crowd gathered in the high-school parking lot last Saturday morning. I'm still a category five rider. Still, technically, a beginner. For this race, I decided to register for the combined cat four/cat five field, a group of more experienced riders. I allowed for the possibility of getting shelled out the back pretty quickly, or just maybe hanging onto the wheels in front of me for a bit. Like a friend says, a racer has to think, “Yeah, I can beat him,” even if it's not likely. The trick is to come back for more even when you've been proven wrong.
The parking lot was full of lean and hungry racers, and enough carbon fiber to build a squadron of stealth fighters. My bike looked a bit welfare among the exotic names, deep-dish rims and high-end components on many machines. No worries, though. Run what you brought.
The field assembled, 75 strong—bigger than the fifty in the cat five. We had a neutral roll-out of three miles, and I once again started too far back. On the plus side, it is a beautiful sight to see dozens of bikes filling the road ahead. I watched a rider from our club seamlessly, almost politely, thread his way up. We ambled along, with a sound like crickets as our chains stopped and our gear cassettes clicked. We were packed in tightly and ready to race, but everyone kept it under control.
The pace car pulled away and the speed increased. I found a good spot in the peloton, near a couple of other CBRC riders. We gingerly negotiated the sharp turns that I'd swept the night before, with that mix of anticipation and dread that always comes. I felt the familiar incline of Tracy Road, the first climb of the lap. The pack shook loose, as riders sat, stood, weaved and gasped at different rates. I pushed to a point just short of wanting to throw up, then notched it back a tiny bit. I kept my head in check, too—it's easy to mentally crack, then physically deflate when riders open gaps on a climb, but I've done this enough to know that I need to ride within myself at these times, do it at my pace, come what may.
A brief reprieve on a downhill, and the chase to close gaps was on. I tucked in behind another rider for a bit, then pulled around to pull. I got in front of him, but he must have sped up, as I felt a very subtle shift in my bike when my rear wheel rubbed his front wheel. I truly thought I was clear. This is a common cause of crashes, but he kept it upright. I hollered a quick apology, and—even more surprising than him not crashing—he said no, it's cool. Whew.
We scrubbed off about 30 mph, then took the hairpin past EMTs and marshals to the wall of Whitbeck Road, the steepest, nastiest quarter mile in Albany County, and we went through our contorted motions again to the top.
Regrouping on the back side of the course, our group increased in size and speed. I actually spun out my 50 x 11 gear as a big rider, unsatisfied with our 20-something pace, went to the front and pulled us at around 33 mph. I wasn't the only one happy about that, I'm sure. Go ahead, buddy. It'll be see ya later when the road tilts up again.
The second lap whittled our group down to seven. None of us knew where we were overall—riders ahead and behind, hopefully more of the latter. I kept a cool head up the climbs again, and we regrouped, all a bit more ragged. Good riders, all—this 4/5 field definitely felt less twitchy than others have.
As we got down to the last few clicks, I decided to sit in until things started happening. Sure enough, the last few little rises caused a few of us to drop off. I just maintained my pace, with a bit of a kick at the end, coming in third out of our group of seven.
The results? 48th out of 75. See results for everyone here. I covered 43 miles in two hours, nine minutes and forty-six seconds. But, like I said, the numbers don't tell the whole story. This was the most raciest race I've been in, as I stayed with others the whole way, rather than getting caught between groups in that weird never-land—a solitary rider, number rattling in the breeze along a quiet road. I hung with experienced, strong riders who knew how to work together. I pushed myself mentally and physically, and I'll bring more to the line next time.
Later, I helped clean up in the feed zone, while two women patiently waited for their significant others to finish. It looked to me like the beverage of choice along that particular stretch of country road was Miller Lite. Funny, I don't remember seeing anyone handing them up during the race...
There were large orange DOT signs along the course: “Bike Race. Be prepared to stop,” intended, of course, for motorists. But it applies to us, too. Our field was strong, and pretty cohesive. No one was slacking. I'm sure, though, that all of us know people who have stopped—stopped racing, stopped riding—for a variety of reasons, from injury, illness, simple burnout, frustration, or countless others. It could be any of us tomorrow. But here, on this day, we're part of it. We're in it. The moment, when it's possible that you might beat that rider, you might close that gap, you might be the strongest in the bunch, or maybe just set a personal record. Finishing upright and intact is always good, too.
I belong to the Capital Bicycle Racing Club, and this is our race. Well, Paul McDonnell, planner extraordinaire, puts it together, and many club members help out with the details: marking the course, sweeping the turns, marshaling, driving pace, and so on. It's a tough course: a twenty-mile loop with two short but steep climbs, with 1300 feet of elevation gain per loop, maxing out at 16 percent.
It's customary for cyclists to self-deprecate about most things, like how much they've been riding (not much), why they are here (it's just training for me) to how well they may do (fair to average). I adopted this posture with a friend, who sarcastically replied, “You're all winners!” She and I know that's not true. There's no running onto the field after the last point for a group hug or pile-on involving all the players. This is a linear sport: a clear beginning and end point, and a time for each rider. For some reason, other endurance sports—running and triathlon—seem to focus more on the act of completing the race. But remember that numbers don't tell the whole story. Racing makes me a better rider... maybe even a better person. Like many things, it tests limits—in our case, strength, endurance and pain tolerance. Even the most competitive rides with friends, up and down the Rensselaer plateau, don't take me to the limits like races do. There's always something surprising, something new.
I've been racing for about five years, and riding anywhere from two to three thousand miles per year—not counting mountain-bike and cyclocross rides. These numbers are not unusual, or even particularly impressive to the crowd gathered in the high-school parking lot last Saturday morning. I'm still a category five rider. Still, technically, a beginner. For this race, I decided to register for the combined cat four/cat five field, a group of more experienced riders. I allowed for the possibility of getting shelled out the back pretty quickly, or just maybe hanging onto the wheels in front of me for a bit. Like a friend says, a racer has to think, “Yeah, I can beat him,” even if it's not likely. The trick is to come back for more even when you've been proven wrong.
The parking lot was full of lean and hungry racers, and enough carbon fiber to build a squadron of stealth fighters. My bike looked a bit welfare among the exotic names, deep-dish rims and high-end components on many machines. No worries, though. Run what you brought.
The field assembled, 75 strong—bigger than the fifty in the cat five. We had a neutral roll-out of three miles, and I once again started too far back. On the plus side, it is a beautiful sight to see dozens of bikes filling the road ahead. I watched a rider from our club seamlessly, almost politely, thread his way up. We ambled along, with a sound like crickets as our chains stopped and our gear cassettes clicked. We were packed in tightly and ready to race, but everyone kept it under control.
The pace car pulled away and the speed increased. I found a good spot in the peloton, near a couple of other CBRC riders. We gingerly negotiated the sharp turns that I'd swept the night before, with that mix of anticipation and dread that always comes. I felt the familiar incline of Tracy Road, the first climb of the lap. The pack shook loose, as riders sat, stood, weaved and gasped at different rates. I pushed to a point just short of wanting to throw up, then notched it back a tiny bit. I kept my head in check, too—it's easy to mentally crack, then physically deflate when riders open gaps on a climb, but I've done this enough to know that I need to ride within myself at these times, do it at my pace, come what may.
A brief reprieve on a downhill, and the chase to close gaps was on. I tucked in behind another rider for a bit, then pulled around to pull. I got in front of him, but he must have sped up, as I felt a very subtle shift in my bike when my rear wheel rubbed his front wheel. I truly thought I was clear. This is a common cause of crashes, but he kept it upright. I hollered a quick apology, and—even more surprising than him not crashing—he said no, it's cool. Whew.
We scrubbed off about 30 mph, then took the hairpin past EMTs and marshals to the wall of Whitbeck Road, the steepest, nastiest quarter mile in Albany County, and we went through our contorted motions again to the top.
Regrouping on the back side of the course, our group increased in size and speed. I actually spun out my 50 x 11 gear as a big rider, unsatisfied with our 20-something pace, went to the front and pulled us at around 33 mph. I wasn't the only one happy about that, I'm sure. Go ahead, buddy. It'll be see ya later when the road tilts up again.
The second lap whittled our group down to seven. None of us knew where we were overall—riders ahead and behind, hopefully more of the latter. I kept a cool head up the climbs again, and we regrouped, all a bit more ragged. Good riders, all—this 4/5 field definitely felt less twitchy than others have.
As we got down to the last few clicks, I decided to sit in until things started happening. Sure enough, the last few little rises caused a few of us to drop off. I just maintained my pace, with a bit of a kick at the end, coming in third out of our group of seven.
The results? 48th out of 75. See results for everyone here. I covered 43 miles in two hours, nine minutes and forty-six seconds. But, like I said, the numbers don't tell the whole story. This was the most raciest race I've been in, as I stayed with others the whole way, rather than getting caught between groups in that weird never-land—a solitary rider, number rattling in the breeze along a quiet road. I hung with experienced, strong riders who knew how to work together. I pushed myself mentally and physically, and I'll bring more to the line next time.
Later, I helped clean up in the feed zone, while two women patiently waited for their significant others to finish. It looked to me like the beverage of choice along that particular stretch of country road was Miller Lite. Funny, I don't remember seeing anyone handing them up during the race...
There were large orange DOT signs along the course: “Bike Race. Be prepared to stop,” intended, of course, for motorists. But it applies to us, too. Our field was strong, and pretty cohesive. No one was slacking. I'm sure, though, that all of us know people who have stopped—stopped racing, stopped riding—for a variety of reasons, from injury, illness, simple burnout, frustration, or countless others. It could be any of us tomorrow. But here, on this day, we're part of it. We're in it. The moment, when it's possible that you might beat that rider, you might close that gap, you might be the strongest in the bunch, or maybe just set a personal record. Finishing upright and intact is always good, too.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
No Hands
Nearly home, I take my hands
from the bar and the bike tracks straight.
My long shadow fills the road as
I sit up and look around, and
the earth is alive with the wind's breath.
The bike wants to stay upright, a friend says--
comforting personification that makes us a team,
this willful soul-giving to a machine.
My hands fall to my sides, as slight shifts
in my weight—automatic, really--
keep the course now. Balance and motion:
what more do I truly need?
from the bar and the bike tracks straight.
My long shadow fills the road as
I sit up and look around, and
the earth is alive with the wind's breath.
The bike wants to stay upright, a friend says--
comforting personification that makes us a team,
this willful soul-giving to a machine.
My hands fall to my sides, as slight shifts
in my weight—automatic, really--
keep the course now. Balance and motion:
what more do I truly need?
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Rise
Free me from my tired refrains:
Not good enough, will never be
as I sing it again, love in vain,
looking for years, unable to see.
Balance what I feel and what I know,
like the cycling moon, light and dark.
It takes effort to keep doors closed--
is that better than a shot off its mark?
Anything lived is never really gone.
Find words to forgive, but not forget.
Lines in my heart run on and on,
and tomorrow and I have not met.
Words, imprecise, always taste of surprise.
With the winding road, may I also rise.
Not good enough, will never be
as I sing it again, love in vain,
looking for years, unable to see.
Balance what I feel and what I know,
like the cycling moon, light and dark.
It takes effort to keep doors closed--
is that better than a shot off its mark?
Anything lived is never really gone.
Find words to forgive, but not forget.
Lines in my heart run on and on,
and tomorrow and I have not met.
Words, imprecise, always taste of surprise.
With the winding road, may I also rise.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Teach
Spend a day with us in a crowded, hot room:
Read the roster, have a plan, pick up the book.
Tell me then that the 2:35 bell comes too soon.
They're all here: leaders, dreamers and crooks.
Society's motley progeny arrives at our door.
Country's falling behind, we've heard for years.
Give all, but be prepared when asked for more.
Still, success outweighs failure, to be clear.
I cringe, look away, when I hear kids these days--
we were all there, wandering in some hazy past,
finding our way through an adolescent maze.
Remember time's river, flowing deep and fast.
Do not ever let a shaky grasp limit reach.
Know that those who can, will always teach.
Read the roster, have a plan, pick up the book.
Tell me then that the 2:35 bell comes too soon.
They're all here: leaders, dreamers and crooks.
Society's motley progeny arrives at our door.
Country's falling behind, we've heard for years.
Give all, but be prepared when asked for more.
Still, success outweighs failure, to be clear.
I cringe, look away, when I hear kids these days--
we were all there, wandering in some hazy past,
finding our way through an adolescent maze.
Remember time's river, flowing deep and fast.
Do not ever let a shaky grasp limit reach.
Know that those who can, will always teach.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
One-Way Eyes
Prone to rage and shame,
I'm a weapon with no aim.
Pushing away whoever's close,
test those I need the most.
It's harder to write than revise,
looking out from one-way eyes.
Pictures have scripts that fit:
that's me, the kid who can't hit.
Quiet and gifted, sent away;
lived it then, feel it here today.
Look back too long, this moment dies,
looking out from one-way eyes.
I'm in the cave, can't stop--
keep the drill to the rock.
Remember a touch, laugh, smile,
so much softer back a while.
How present am I, feeling old highs?
Looking out from one-way eyes.
I'm a weapon with no aim.
Pushing away whoever's close,
test those I need the most.
It's harder to write than revise,
looking out from one-way eyes.
Pictures have scripts that fit:
that's me, the kid who can't hit.
Quiet and gifted, sent away;
lived it then, feel it here today.
Look back too long, this moment dies,
looking out from one-way eyes.
I'm in the cave, can't stop--
keep the drill to the rock.
Remember a touch, laugh, smile,
so much softer back a while.
How present am I, feeling old highs?
Looking out from one-way eyes.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Believer
Looking at my T-shirt
with its quick slashes of ink
human-like outstretched arms
forming a Chinese character
standing for peace I believe
you asked
small gold cross hanging
around your tanned neck
Are you a believer
And I said yes
which is always a good answer
I believe
and still do
even as our minds
drew different conclusions
or so I believe
with its quick slashes of ink
human-like outstretched arms
forming a Chinese character
standing for peace I believe
you asked
small gold cross hanging
around your tanned neck
Are you a believer
And I said yes
which is always a good answer
I believe
and still do
even as our minds
drew different conclusions
or so I believe
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Morning Mirror
Reaching out, bristly
and stiff, shades of brown and gray
greet me after dreams
retreat like nocturnal beasts.
In the mirror, a day's growth.
and stiff, shades of brown and gray
greet me after dreams
retreat like nocturnal beasts.
In the mirror, a day's growth.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Water Over Rock
Look away from the relentless clock.
Change is not always something seen.
Give me the patience of water over rock.
Tense already, as I wake with a shock--
Am I running too rich or too lean?
Look away from the cruel, mocking clock.
How to carve myself out of this stifling block?
Michelangelo's angel was there, unseen.
Give me the patience of water over rock.
What will summon inspiration's knock?
I climb a green hill to see where I've been,
and turn away from the indifferent clock.
In a small boat freed from the dock,
I think of waves, and lulls in between.
Give me the patience of water over rock.
Soon, words become keys to the locks:
my habits, faults, allegiance to routine,
tied to the unfeeling, cold clock.
Give me the patience of water shaping rock.
Change is not always something seen.
Give me the patience of water over rock.
Tense already, as I wake with a shock--
Am I running too rich or too lean?
Look away from the cruel, mocking clock.
How to carve myself out of this stifling block?
Michelangelo's angel was there, unseen.
Give me the patience of water over rock.
What will summon inspiration's knock?
I climb a green hill to see where I've been,
and turn away from the indifferent clock.
In a small boat freed from the dock,
I think of waves, and lulls in between.
Give me the patience of water over rock.
Soon, words become keys to the locks:
my habits, faults, allegiance to routine,
tied to the unfeeling, cold clock.
Give me the patience of water shaping rock.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Where You Going?
Twilight, and I pilot my bike
down an empty city street.
Pastel pink and blue softens
silent gray concrete.
A flashing sign: “Detour,”
arrow pointing left—I stop,
things happen.
My mind wanders (those wheels never stop)
and I'm a farmer in my head, end of
the day, wondering about my crops,
if it's a good year, and how long I will
continue to till and sow these familiar,
lonesome fields of bachelorhood.
Wheelchair man, doing quick spins
mid-street, as if dancing to music,
rolls up, stops. Vietnam vet, he says.
His hands, black from the chair's wheels; his
pot belly, creeping out from his shirt; his
gray stubble; rattly coffee cup containing three
Canadian dollars and not much more, he tells me.
Do you work for the police?
More questions: Where do you live, how far
have you gone? Me, to him: Where you going?
Got no home, he says. Going to Troy. The street breathes,
I keep my wondering quiet for now, let
the canyon-echo traffic fill the space.
A cab appears, he hails it.
Cabbie, heavy subcontinent accent, loads his
suitcase, the chair. Where you going? More mumbles,
the cup rattles, and I wonder what I have
in my back pocket.
Another moment hangs, a dangling
cigarette in his lip, unlit, as I wait
for something to happen.
Take care, bud, I say twice.
You, too.
The cabbie drops the lever into drive,
and pulls away. Where you going?
Good question.
down an empty city street.
Pastel pink and blue softens
silent gray concrete.
A flashing sign: “Detour,”
arrow pointing left—I stop,
things happen.
My mind wanders (those wheels never stop)
and I'm a farmer in my head, end of
the day, wondering about my crops,
if it's a good year, and how long I will
continue to till and sow these familiar,
lonesome fields of bachelorhood.
Wheelchair man, doing quick spins
mid-street, as if dancing to music,
rolls up, stops. Vietnam vet, he says.
His hands, black from the chair's wheels; his
pot belly, creeping out from his shirt; his
gray stubble; rattly coffee cup containing three
Canadian dollars and not much more, he tells me.
Do you work for the police?
More questions: Where do you live, how far
have you gone? Me, to him: Where you going?
Got no home, he says. Going to Troy. The street breathes,
I keep my wondering quiet for now, let
the canyon-echo traffic fill the space.
A cab appears, he hails it.
Cabbie, heavy subcontinent accent, loads his
suitcase, the chair. Where you going? More mumbles,
the cup rattles, and I wonder what I have
in my back pocket.
Another moment hangs, a dangling
cigarette in his lip, unlit, as I wait
for something to happen.
Take care, bud, I say twice.
You, too.
The cabbie drops the lever into drive,
and pulls away. Where you going?
Good question.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Going Somewhere?
Rank, file and legion
in the large, mirrored room,
lines of runners, belts spinning
furiously beneath them,
humming insect drone--
they run hard and fast,
gaining no ground,
eyes ahead, fixed on screens
filled with beautiful people
that the runners can't
quite reach.
in the large, mirrored room,
lines of runners, belts spinning
furiously beneath them,
humming insect drone--
they run hard and fast,
gaining no ground,
eyes ahead, fixed on screens
filled with beautiful people
that the runners can't
quite reach.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)