Re-creation

The room in which

I teach exists, surely,

but I'm miles from it,

even further in my mind,

as my bicycle's overlapping

circles of wheels, cranks

and gears turn smoothly

in the July sun. Later,

I'll enjoy the sounds of

wood and wire as I

play guitar out back.

As I ride, I think of how

every pedal stroke, every

strum or pluck marks some

incremental reset and

recovery from the

endurance activity

that is teaching, and I

add one little hyphen

and find that recreation

is re-creation.

Late Sun

Riding along the

rural road this evening, the

burn in my muscles

dropped away for a time, and

the late sun glowed like honey.

Ode to the Peloton

Sweet rolling

order and chaos,

sinuous and shifting,

amorphous, flowing

over the road's shapes,

shelter from capricious

wind, my friend and foe.

Hive mind, move as one,

an agile flock in flight,

tuned to one's wing flick

and subtle vector.

My solace and my prison--

escape off the front,

fade away and die

off the back.

Mercurial as the wind

you split, fast then slow,

easy until it is not,

and again, brakes like

grabbing hands preface

the fire in tight sinew, burning

red pain betrayed only by

the slight whirr and whoosh.

July Morning

The rider slices

open the thick air, feels a

gentle push of wind

only the birds and he know,

the world breathing and alive.

Haiku

Riding last evening,

the wind subsided and the

peepers' chorus rose.

Evening Hills

The hills are like a woman 

sleeping soundly on her side,

off in the distance, not

really getting closer,

while beneath me the

bicycle rhythmically sways

in a dance of chain clicks

and my rocking hips,

staccato breath coming

now in triplets as flicks

of rain land on my

tanned forearms

as the mottled black

pavement slides beneath

and my attention is drawn

again to those distant hills--

all blues and grays

below a sinking sun

with those familiar curves

of hip, breast, shoulder--

clear but distant, unreachable

tonight, under my own power--

so I am on this hillside here,

holding close its serpentine road,

this scene nothing like that

soundly sleeping woman--

that trust and ease of sleep,

that simple comfort and shared space--

ride as hard or far as I can, or I will,

but I can't quite get there.

It's the things far off that draw me

the most, hovering as these hills do

at the edge of my vision, but still clear

as the wind whistles over me and the

road, the ride and the wind shake loose

thoughts that become these words.

Fear and Motion

I launch my bicycle over piles of rocks

when chasing a competitor,

crouch into corners at car-like speeds,

but my heart rides in the equivalent

of a tank, or at least a pope-mobile.

Safe. Isolated. Cut off from so much.

I know about pain, hurt, injury, wear and recovery.

The physics of muscles, the ripping and tearing,

the inflammation that leads to growth and more strength.

I throw myself into it, and reap the results of calm mind,

tingly body, a soreness I say means I'm alive.

But what of my heart? Reduced to a high-performance

component in my drive train, constant orders from

upstairs pushing out those old hurts, systolic

and diastolic movement, a whooshing drowning out

any little whispers of some sort of emotional center.

Fear and motion, those familiar safeguards.

The Rider Up The Road

Tomorrow is a speeding rider up the road.

My slight gain, a slip back--I can't reel him in,

hovering, rocking, shimmering in the cold.

No number, no race, nothing clear to win.

What may I see around the beckoning curve?

No matter my speed, I will face it alone.

Will it steel me, spur me, or unhinge my nerve?

Feeling much, only seeing what is shown.

We all ride, trapped in our bubbles of time.

Yet in any moment, who can say “it's mine”?

I will be that rider, as I was the one behind.

You and I are alike, not in time but in kind.

Chasing that next fleeting rider up the road

into another evening's quickly fading glow.

Race report: Catskill Divide Road Race, August 19, 2012

Conventional wisdom says train hard, then taper your training before your race or event. Conventional wisdom says get a good night's sleep. In my world, friends speak louder than that wisdom, so when one says “I really want to ride Deerfield... will you ride with me?” and another friend says “Hey, there's this really cool race you'd like,” the answer of course is yes. And yes.

The morning after 55 miles at Deerfield—after wrong turns, route extensions and a trip to the emergency room for a friend's thankfully minor incident--I found myself in Big Indian, in New York's Catskill mountains. After several wrong turns and the distraction of runners, recreational cyclists, and weekenders, my friends and I pulled in and unloaded. The whole thing was remarkably low-key for a road race, with a group of riders so small that the race organizer decided to put us all together at the start—categories one through five, men, women and a solitary junior racer.

This race bills itself as a super-tough dirt-road race that's comfortable on a cyclocross bike—if you don't mind falling way behind riders on road bikes. I chose my road bike, but did not have time to change out my Michelins for tires with a bit more width and puncture resistance. Oh well, throw more wisdom to the wind.

We rolled out, and I felt more twitchy than I'd expected. Maybe it was the recent memory of my friend's crash the previous day. Maybe it was that I was in such proximity to pros—I was hoping my bike-handling would be adequate for our admittedly brief time together before they went up the road at their pace. We rolled out fairly slowly, no doubt because the Pro/1/2/3 guys (all three of them) had two laps to do, not just one like us.

The first climb broke up things. It was hard to tell who was in what field, but I consoled myself by knowing some of the cat fives were behind me. I had a rider in front of me in sight, and a big gap behind. We zig-zagged through a small town, and I had to squeeze between two cars, one on either side of the road, the one on my side not quite committed to either driving or pulling over. Then it was up a sharp dirt climb, where more riders came into view as everyone's pace slowed. I tried to keep a reasonable speed without blowing up. I did reel in a rider within a couple of miles—the junior, who probably hasn't yet worked out how to dole out his energy reserves--then another, which is always good for a little extra shot of motivation.

We had a group of three on another dirt section, and they seemed to know where to go—which was down a tiny, narrow road threaded between a couple of barns. One rider on a BMC flatted, within FEET of the wheel truck. He got back on quickly. We stretched out and bunched up off and on over the next few miles.

The website suggested mountain-bike shoes, should a rider need to run on part of Townsend Hollow Road. “Not me,” I thought. I thought incorrectly. Mr. BMC came around right as a rider ahead of me un-clipped. I was next. I walked about 50 feet, found a flat spot and got back on. My calves and lower back—parts of my body that I generally do not need to tell to shut up—were screaming as I crested the climb, the road filled with soft soil and fist-sized rocks.

The dirt descents were sketchy, more so than what we encounter on our Tuesdays in Rensselaer County. I rode within my ability, which I thought was pretty good, but a couple of guys just bombed right down them. Fearless. My friend Johny K. says the bike wants to stay upright. Me, too. Again, we'd spread out and re-group. One rider seemed a bit frayed: His bike and jersey looked beat up, and he wobbled a bit. Not the best wheel to follow.

We had more of this sort of up-and-down on the dirt fun for the next few miles, and it actually DID feel fun. My what-the-heck attitude at the start had morphed into spirited competitiveness, and my body felt way better than I'd expected, given the previous day's riding. We had a group of three or four: myself, the guy on the BMC, and the squirrely guy. We worked together, in a ragged way, until the last big dirt descent, where they took off. I was on the brakes, trying to balance the relative dangers of speed and an overheated rim from too much braking, which can lead to a blow-out. I passed a few other riders on the way down, and caught sight of my previous partners soon. The wobbly guy's bike sounded like it was about to fall apart, which was more incentive for me to get around him. We picked up our third again and worked together, until the base of the hill, where we came around the noisy bike. His graceless cornering explained it: he was riding on a flat front tire, at speeds pushing 30 mph downhill. We dropped him out of the corner and worked together for the last couple of miles, trading pulls.

I was wondering when the alliance would split. I wasn't wondering too hard, since I had no idea where we were, place-wise. It was just fun. I took what I decided was my last pull, and then came around him about 400 meters out, and sprinted. I don't think he responded, and I'm not sure if it was due to fatigue or disinterest, but for today at least, I gained a place in the finale. Again, fun.

I ended up sixth out of seventeen registrants, fifteen starters, and fourteen finishers. We were only separated by a few minutes. If I hadn't promised to drive my friends to the race in my car, I may have blown off the entire race. I'm glad I didn't. That was one of my best results this year. I'm clawing my way past the middle.

We hung around afterward, and chowed down on a huge container of fruit the organizer provided for us. I talked with some other racers, people on actual teams—not clubs—and heard some great stories. I even got a pair of socks. Hey, it's the little things. Everyone left with something, which is pretty cool. This race is definitely on my calendar for next year. 

Full results

Promoter's website

Titles

Teacher, judge, critic, arbiter of pass/fail.

Therapist, counselor, seeker of unknown grail.

Good son, angry kid, loyal friend, outcast.

Late bloomer, number-wearer, second, never last.

Friendly shoulder, prickly loner—confused.

Sound shaper, channeler, painting shades of blue.

Handyman, homeowner: measure once, swear twice.

Hold-out, repeater, stumbler, ignorer of advice.

Long rambler, stream-of-consciousness swimmer.

Light seeker, push on as the day gets dimmer.

Pace Line

The man on the bicycle is unconcerned

with the rain-slick asphalt and the brakes

that no longer work; rather, he is focused

on the wheel ahead and holding that line on

the black ribbon of road under his tires.

The man on the bicycle will hold that wheel, then

take the lead when honor and obligation require

and part the wind for his nameless accomplices

trailing behind in the water's spray, their tacit

agreement of mutual aid until the road tilts up

or someone bows out, whichever comes first.

The man on the bicycle knows that pain and

suffering are labels, words he chooses to not use

for his circumstances as his body protests his

mind's insistence with shocks of silent fire

the roadside observer will never know.

The man on the bicycle knows the absurdity of

this act, riding a circuit on a day better suited

for ducks, but the rain hits his number, pinned

to him, his whole identity now this, as he and

the others balance on their machines, legs as

fulcrums carrying them on until the white line

slides beneath them and they go slack with

ratchet clicks and beached-whale gasps as

their wheels slow and stop and they

become ordinary again.

The Doe

There was a flash of tan

and white amid the green

as the trail serpentined

through the woods.

My bike and the doe halted

maybe fifty feet apart,

and her eyes and ears

turned to me as the brakes

chirped. Her tail flicked

as she held her gaze and

the moment stretched,

hands falling off clocks

somewhere as time opened

up into the middle of eternity.

She nibbled and scratched,

grooming like the cats at home,

glancing back up now and again.

She casually fed on leaves,

walking slowly now, leaving

me in her blind spot as

she ambled away and the

moment closed and

time resumed.

Dropped

a tight group of
eight riders flying
down a dirt road
tires thumb-wide
heart pounding in
the head and arms bent
and wheels furrow the dry dirt
mid-pack riders inches apart
bike dancing beneath me
like skiing powder
feeling good and the
bike pulls left and
I follow the wheel
hundreds of tiny hands
grab the skinny tire
scrub off the speed and
a gap opens and riders
in front pull away
roll away like nothing
but it’s something and
I wheeze and stand on
the pedals alone in the wind
and there goes seven places
and I ride on inside myself and
riders ahead are miniature
figures and 17 miles to go and
I ride on to the
finish or oblivion
whichever comes
first.

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.

Alpine Race

Light and shadow, as trees filter
sunlight onto a humble Italian road.
Capricious turns, no clear lines of sight
and the race is with those around them.
Shoulders rock in rhythmic shrugs,
a twitch, a tic, unnatural anywhere else
and the strong riders emerge from
the proletariat pack, like seeds sprung
from shells now discarded, shooting forth,
sprouting instantly as the road climbs.
The top is just the beginning of the
downhill exam, all physics and geometry:
compound curves, acute angles of
bent riders and sinuous road, with
extra credit for steeled nerves.
Then, a rush to the line, in a single rider's
tunnel vision of barricades and booming voices
as, for the first time in hours, he unfolds, sits up--
eyes behind mirrors, the arms aloft say it all
and, by now, the wheels know where to go.

Race Report: Pawling Mountain Road Race, Sunday, July 10, 2011

I tried my best to get to bed early, but it didn't happen. My nocturnal habits have returned since the school year ended. Fitful sleep, early alarm. So be it. Sun in the sky at 5 a.m. helped. Loaded up and headed out, two hour drive to a race that would probably take an hour. Oh well--runners travel farther for a 5K.

It was a pretty drive down through Columbia County, taking the Taconic past familiar roads where I've built whatever fitness I have. Hanging with the regulars on Tuesdays this year is definitely encouraging.

I got to Pawling without enough time to ride the course at anything resembling a reasonable pace. There wasn't even enough time to drive it. I did drive in over the last couple miles of the course, which were pretty hairy—a short climb and a twisty descent on rough pavement, with ever-larger mammals jumping out in front of me. I told myself it wasn't an omen.

I signed in and saw a couple other riders from CBRC, made some small talk: Are you ready? Ready as I'll be. Really—what rider says, “Oh yeah, I've been riding lots, and feeling super strong”? I got in a decent 20-minute warm-up, which I figured was enough for an hour-long race. Lots of down-state/NYC/Connecticut club kits, and more women than our boys' club rides usually attract.

Usually, my nerves are at their worst the night before a race. The morning of, not so bad. For some reason, though, I was really nervous rolling up to the start. Not sure why--maybe too much coffee. It thankfully went away once we started riding, as I settled in about 20 riders back in our group of around 50. We had a “neutral start”—no racing right from the line—and I wasn't sure where it ended, as the pace picked up only a bit. Everybody was pretty well-behaved and predictable.

I dropped my chain around mile four, off the OUTSIDE of the big ring. The cranks started spinning uselessly and my bike made a sound like an old man reaching into an ample pocket of change. So much for thinking I had my derailleurs dialed perfectly. I back-pedaled for about 20 seconds before the chain popped back on, with guys yelling at me to drop back the whole time—to where? I was on the outside, right at the double yellow. To stop would mean getting dropped before even really starting. There's no team car with a spare bike in amateur racing. But, hey, it worked out, even though I lost about ten places.

The easy pace continued, but I think we all knew the race would get a lot harder around mile seven, at the beginning of a two-mile climb. That's just what happened, as riders rose out of their saddles, heart rates spiked, breathing became labored. The climb quickly split the field right in front of me—which, for some reason, happens often. Then, the question: bridge to the group ahead or not? That move might work, or it might lead to me blowing up, and being caught in that lonely space between groups. Since I didn't know the course, I climbed at my own pace. Two miles, around six percent grade, seated, at about 85 percent of my capacity.

There was a guy in a Monadnock jersey who was doing these strong attacks, rising and sprinting. I resisted the bait and did my own thing, which worked out because he'd always drift back. Over the top, I slowly passed him, and he grabbed my wheel. We worked together on the descent, and the flat bit that followed, eventually catching four other riders. It's a sweet feeling, cranking along, then letting off the gas for a few seconds as that last little gap closes, into that quiet cone of shelter. We got a ragged pace line going, with lots of shouting but not much understanding. Maybe I should cat up, I thought briefly, but that might involve riding alone more often, watching even more riders shrink away ahead of me. Maybe next year.

Bike racing is more fun for me when I'm in a group. It was at this point that the race got interesting. Good riders can study others quickly: pick out the strong, steady ones; avoid the wobbly, slower ones. I rode well, taking short pulls, but somehow ending up back out front quickly.

Our alliance of six strengthened as we covered a few more miles. Hopes soared as we discussed how many—or how few—riders were in front of us. Hard left, past the marshals' orange flags, and we spotted more riders on the next climb: bait for our hungry gruppetto. We passed them, yelled “grab a wheel,” but none did. There's such a huge range of ability and fitness at this admittedly lower level of competition that riders do get very spread out on the road.

Soon we were on the last climb, the one I'd reconnoitered from the car. I was out front, and I set an easy pace—go ahead and pass if you want, then you pull. Whatever our overall standings in the race, it was fun to use strategy for once. In the past, if I was out front, I'd feel a need to push the pace. I guess I'm learning.

Watching my computer, I knew the end was coming, so I tucked in behind the biggest rider in the group, to whom I'd later properly introduce myself. He looked around every once and a while, inviting me to pull up, but I declined. The six riders reshuffled places for a bit, little tests and bursts. The speed picked up as we neared the countdown: signs placed at 200, 100 and 50 meters.

I've never truly sprinted for the line in a race before, but it seemed inevitable. We were all in the bar drops, and I felt good, right behind the big guy. A couple others came around, and I jumped, sat in for a moment, then came around. Out of our six, I passed four just before the line. So it wasn't for first place—it was still a rush, the best moment of the race.

We coasted down the road afterward, made quick introductions and gave animated re-caps, all in that sweet post-race euphoria.

I grabbed lunch with some other CBRC riders—and Terry, my lead-out man, who, it turns out, is a really cool dude. "Jeez, Terry," I said, "if I'd have know you were such a nice guy... "

The cold, hard facts: I placed 17th out of 44 finishers in my field, riding 20 miles in 58 minutes and nine seconds. Sure, I want to do better in the next race. But, as I hope I've shown, there's much more to it than that.

For another description of the sprint, click here.

For a run-down of my rather average race results, click here.

The Sprint

Tucked in behind a big wall of a rider
where the only wind I hear
is the steam-train staccato
of my own breaths
roughly in time with the
pistons of my legs
six riders hustle and jostle
filling the cracked
country tarmac
blurring colors and voices
and a row of signs
counting down the meters
miles behind us spent
playing cards
dealing out and holding back
now the sweet spot
sheltered for as long
as possible until a
break right—no, left--
into the wind
hunched at the bar
saddle swinging like
a pendulum counting
out the final seconds
narrow-eyed animal focus
on the line ahead
throw the bike over the line
then everything goes slack--
and we are human again,
grinning like kids, a slap
on the back--
Good race, man.

Thursday Ride

Summer, and it's light 'til late--
Why write a poem when you can ride a bike
in a shape-shifting group, stretching out
and bunching up with gear clicks
and conversation and always a
whoosh by the ears
past athletic fields with pinging bats
as the pavement follows the land
up into the sunset to that ridge
you can see from all around
and you know you're getting up there
when you see spindly metal towers
sprouting antennae and shouting
god-knows-what to whomever
then down a chattery road
like the devil's stubble under
the wheels then onto a
smooth false flat down
a chain of six riders inside the wind
as we unzip the evening air,
animal alertness and vision wide.

Spotted

The spotted fawn came
out of the woods, into the road
and toward me, astride my bike.
She—for the hoof clicks on pavement
sounded like heels—strode, paused,
looked, twitched for a lingering moment,
then, as a car approached,
sprung off into the green
with a grace and ease
any cyclist would admire.

More miles

Conversation outside of King Neptune's, Lake George:

Steve: Hey, did you ride your motorcycle today?

Amy: You bet.

Steve: Perfect day for it.

Amy: Yup.

Steve: Do a lot of riding this summer?

Amy: Yeah, like 1800 miles.

Steve: Whoah. I rode my bike more than that!

That's crazy or cool, depending on your perspective. Maybe even crazy cool, if you're under 25.