Fashion Sense

If you see a group of guys wearing skin tight clothing in a variety of flamboyant colors, and these guys are primarily discussing clothes, shopping and other people’s body parts, you are probably looking at a group of cyclists.

In my normal life, I am the least fashion conscious person I know. Blue jeans, which ever T-shirt my hand happens to fall on first, tennis shoes and I’m ready to go. My goal when I go clothes shopping is generally to spend the last amount of time possible in the store. I want a shirt. There’s one. Let’s go. It isn’t so much shopping as getting and then getting on with my life that I’m interested in.

And yet…

Here I am hanging around with a very fashion conscious group of people. There are people who have multiple bikes and select which kit they will wear based on how well the colors harmonize with the color scheme of the bike they are going to ride this day. (Note that I am not criticizing this, I am merely stating that it’s antithetical to how I normally operate.)

I have actually shopped for a new jersey. I mean, I have gone through and looked at all the options and carefully considered which one might suit me best before buying one. (This may sound to you like a thing that normal humans do, but, if so, then I am not a normal human, because I don’t normally do this.)

I have some jerseys and a jacket with the Seyboro Cyclists colors and logo, and I actually got excited because we were going to place another other and this time we could finally get *gasp* VESTS! Can you believe it? Something appears to have gone wrong with my brain. I am excited about getting an article of clothing.

Who knew that this cycling thing would affect so many aspects of my life? I have become a clothes horse. I put a lot more thought into what to wear on a ride than I do into what to wear to work.

Gloves with fingers or not? Should I wear tights or regular shorts? Maybe I should buy a pair of those bib shorts…I wonder if I need a new jersey? Hm…maybe I should wear my new vest today…(Okay, so that last one hasn’t happened yet, but it will. Trust me. Just wait and see.)

I even find myself wondering which pair of socks to wear on a ride, for crying out loud.

(You have to understand that, in my normal life, all my socks are white so that I can just grab any two and put them on. It turns out that all white socks are not identical. Who knew? So sometimes people notice and ask me why I am wearing two different socks. It’s usually news to me that I am. I’m not saying this is the way you should live your life, I’m just saying it’s the way I live mine.)

All of this is just an unexpected consequence of taking up cycling, and I just had to comment on it.

See you on the road.

If I can figure out what to wear, that is.

Limits

I was watching the Tour of California…oops…I mean, the AMGEN Tour of California, as the announcers were always very careful to say, the other day, when a noncyclist wandered into the room. The peloton was cruising along flat ground, and the riders had formed echelons, so there was a vicious cross-headwind blowing, and the noncyclist asked, “How fast are they going? Sixty miles an hour?”

My goodness. Sixty miles an hour on the flat and into the wind, sustained over many many miles. That would indeed be impressive. The reality, however, was quite impressive to me, but the noncyclist, who seemed nonchalant about the idea of a bike going sixty miles an hour on the flat, was not impressed at all by the fact that they were actually going 35-40 mph.

In the Indiviual Time Trial, the average pace was around 37 mph, which certainly impressed the heck out of me. A noncyclist, having seen part of the time trial asked me, “Could you comptete?”

“I beg your pardon?” I replied politely.

“Could you go into that race and compete?”

Well, of course, I don’t have a license…but, if I did, could I compete? Well, if by compete you mean smile politely as all the pros shot forward and disappeared over the horizon while I sat back and watched them go, then, yes, I certainly could.

“No,” I said. “I’m not that fast.”

“Well, what if you trained?”

Hm. Well…if I had a professional coach and professional equipment, a doctor to monitor me, a power meter and heart rate monitor, my own cook and quit my job so that I could train six or eight hours a day, then….no. Not a chance in the world. I may not know precisely what my limits are, but I know that’s well beyond them.

What are my limits? Well, one day three of us rode “Six Hills Road.” That isn’t actually its name, and there are probably more than six hills on this short stretch of road. It’s a beast and a lot of fun at the same time. Even if everyone has been riding together, it is every man for himself as we hit the hills. You go as fast as you can and wait for the slower folks at the end.

One day I did this ride with Scott and a friend of Scott’s. The friend had a problem and Scott, could ride me into the ground with one leg tied behind his back, waited for his friend. I didn’t hold anything back and flew down the road. At the end, I was hanging over my handlebars while my stomach made a series of uncertain revolutions.

Scott and his friend caught up with me. “What are you doing?” Scott asked.

“Trying to decide if I’m going to throw up,” I gasped.

Scott laughed. “Come on,” he said, and he and his buddy pedaled gently away. I sighed and clipped in and pedaled after them. I hadn’t quite reached my limit after all, apparently.

The cycling club rides and annual double century – 200 miles in one day. I completed this ride. I was the lantern rouge, paced in by another rider dead last. I didn’t finish pretty or strong, but I did finish. No limit there, either.

The thing about cycling is that it will encourage you to push through what you think your limits are, and that’s a pretty rewarding thing.

Scott says, “You have to start by knowing you can do it.”

There you go.

I’m going for a ride.

See you on the road.

Comeback

It’s comeback time, ladies and gentlemen. (I hope you noticed the optimism in that statement – I said ladies and gentlemen implying a belief that I have at least four readers). Lance Armstrong has raced his first American race in several years. Floyd Landis has ridden his first stage race in two years. I am back riding the bike after my appendectomy.

One of these things is not like the others

One of these things just doesn’t belong

Can you tell which thing is not like the others

By the time I finish my song?

Now, I know that it might embarrass Lance and Floyd to be mentioned in the same paragraph as me, but since they’ll never read this, I don’t suppose it matters a whole lot. I suppose each one of them has a moment that, for him, will mark, in his own mind, that his comeback is real. There will be that moment when he’ll think, “Yes, I’m back.” I have that moment, too. Well, really, I have two of them.

The first one will be when I ride Bike Route 40 from…well, I can’t say from start to finish because it’s a circle, more or less, but you get the idea. I was originally only going to have one such mental landmark, and then I went on a ride with Jerry, and Jerry said, “I’m going to ride Bridge to Bridge this year,” and I found my mouth, without bothering to consult my brain first, saying, “I’ll ride it with you.”

Say what?

I rode Bridge to Bridge four years ago, in 2005 (thus proving I can do simple arithmetic) and the experience is still green in my memory. Some things, you don’t forget. I have this distressing feeling, though, that my memories are not accurate. I suspect that I’ve blocked out the real pain and suffering that were involved. Well, I guess I’ll find out this September.

Mind you, I’m a long way from Bridge to Bridge right now, in every conceivable way. Geographically it’s across the state. Chronologically there are many months to go. Physically…oysh. Physically I am in another state of being. I got up and rode a mere fifteen miles at sunrise the other day and I felt it that evening. Oh, well, from little seeds mighty acorns sprout and from short rides longer rides are born, or something like that.

So now I have two goals for my comeback…well, to have a comeback I suppose you have to have been somewhere in the first place, and I’m not certain that applies to me, but why be picky?

Right now I am looking at the picture of myself near the top of Grandfather mountain. Below that is the patch I got for completing the Bridge of Bridge ride. In that picture I look at ease and even happy. That picture is lying. I was suffering like a dog and wishing the ride was over. When the ride finally was over, I couldn’t get off my bike for a while because I couldn’t lift either leg high enough to get it over the top tube.

And this is the ride that I have chosen to do again…

Well, something tells me I’d better get riding. I have a lot of miles to ride before I reach the base of the mountain, right?

See you on the road.

Sore Legs

Do you know what happens when you got for an unusually long walk (a little over six miles in this case) to which you are not accustomed and then you spend a lot of the next day sitting down?


Anybody?


Yes…you in the back row…


Correct. Your legs get stiff.


That’s why, even though I got home only slightly before sunset, I decided to go for a ride. I tossed on some jeans and a sweatshirt, helmet and gloves, and hit the road. I figured I could only get in about fifteen minutes of ride time before it got uncomfortably dark, but, hey, fifteen minutes is better than no minutes, right?


Every ride has its own flavor, and this one was largely contemplative. It was cold (about 38 degrees) with some wind on top of that, but it was quiet and really quite pleasant, except for the frozen cheeks and blocks of ice where my ears were supposed to be.


I was listening to the iPod of the mind, which is my way of saying I had a song running through my head for much of the ride. This time it was The Braes of Balquhidder by The Tannahill Weavers, which is a good song to accompany a quiet ride.


At one point I saw a dog ahead of me. It appeared to be a Lhasa Apso with a shaved body but not a shaved head, which gave it a remarkable resemblance to a dandelion. So, this dandelion ran down the street toward me barking at the top of its little lungs. Then, as it got near me it suddenly swerved into a driveway and began to sniff the ground. It gave every appearance of a dog who would have been whistling nonchalantly if only it had been able to figure out how to purse it lips. It kept up this attitude of indifference as I rode past and then, when I had gone by, proceeded to bark and chase after me for a few minutes. It was clearly a very brave dog.


I passed a few people out exercising. People exercising generally fall into two groups:


A) Those who are focused and intent and will not acknowledge your existence and probably don’t even know you’re there anyway.


I may well have been that person in the past - not because I deliberately ignored anyone but because i was so focused on my ride (or so wrapped up on a lactic acid induced haze of pain) that I simply didn't realize anyone else was there.


Jörg recalls calling out to me while I was riding past in the rain, head down and wet and focused, but I never heard a sound other than that of my own wheels on the road.


B) Those who think that being fellow exerciser makes you a comrade to be greeted cheerfully.


I saw a couple of people who were clearly walking just for the joy of it.


It's easy to tell the difference between people who are walking to someplace in particular and those who are just out walking for the sake of the walk. (It’s easy to be certain about what you know when you're sure you won't ever have the opportunity to find out if what you know is right or wrong.)


They smiled cheerfully at me and waved. I waved back. I'm polite that way.


I didn’t have a lot of time, so there were two ways to get the most out of it. One way was to go as hard as I could the whole time, spend every last erg of energy that I could. The other way was to go utterly easily, no stress, no sweat, just enjoy spinning the pedals. That was the option I went for, and why not? A hard ride is its own reward, but so is an easy ride, just so long as you're riding.


See you on the road.

Natural Hazards

There are many natural hazards out there on the road. Here I am not thinking of bumps, hills, or cars. I am not even thinking of wind, even though that might be considered a natural hazard at times (such as today when the wind here is blowing at 20 mph with gusts up to 30). I am mostly thinking of bugs.

Bugs?

Yes, bugs.

One day, Dave got stung by a bee while riding. There was a general stop while medical necessities were dealt with. Unfortunately for Dave, Chuck was the one doing the dealing. According to Chuck, he pulled out a credit card (always a useful thing to have on a ride, right?) and used it to scrape away at Dave’s forehead (yes, he nearly got stung right between the eyes) in an attempt to get the stinger out.

According to Dave, Chuck abandoned the credit card and pulled up a speed limit sign and used that to scrape away at Dave’s forehead and didn’t stop scraping until several minutes after hitting bone. We think Dave may exaggerate, but he swears that, if he ever gets stung again, he’ll leave the stinger in rather than let Chuck help him out because it will hurt less.
Other bug encounters have been less painful.

For example, one day I headed out to ride with some friends. I was riding to the rendezvous point and, for some reason even I can’t explain, had decided to go as hard as I could. I was an utterly unattractive site, because my mouth was hanging open so I could suck down air and a bug flew straight in my mouth, bumped my epiglottis and dived down my throat.

Now, I know that bugs are supposed to be high in protein and low in fat, but I’ve never eaten one willingly, not even as a child, and I'm not tempted to eat any more, because this one tasted really really bad. The experience has not inclined me to become insectivorous.
Then there was the great mosquito feast.

A group of us had gone out for a ride in the county, and, as sometimes happens, someone got a flat. We all pulled over to wait. There were no houses visible within a few hundred yards. There were, however, trees, grass, a ditch (into which I would, on a later day, tumble head over heels while trying not to run over the face of someone who had gone down right in front of me) and lots of dirt.

No big deal. We lounged around chatting while the flat was being changed. The lounging lasted all of three minutes, after which slaps began to be heard followed by a bit of language. The mosquitoes had come. We don’t know from where, but they had come in a massive swarm. You could see them crawling over nearly every square inch of exposed skin. Who knows what they lived on when they could get human, but there were a ton of them.
I am not ashamed to admit that we fled. (Not the person who was changing the flat, mind you, though I suppose the insect advent did increase the speed with which that flat was fixed.) We hopped on our bikes and took off down the road for a good hundred yards, where we tentatively climbed off our bikes and waited. The mosquitoes did not follow us.
Then there are the armadillos.

Armadillos?! Aramdillos aren't bugs.

I know. I just wanted to work them in and couldn't think of a good segue.
Well, we don’t actually know about the armadillos. Chuck claims to have seen the armadillos one day while out on a ride. Several other people looked but no one else saw the armadillos. I offer that one up without comment because I wasn't there.

I also know at least one cyclist who ran into a deer (or got run over by a deer, depending on whose side your on) with no apparent injury to either party.

We won’t even bother to talk about dogs. The dog related injuries of people I know have ranged from scrapes, bumps, bruises, road rash, a separated shoulder and a broken pelvis. None of them, however, have been bitten.

(Yes, I did notice that, right after saying I wasn’t going to talk about dogs, I pretty much did so. That’s the kind of confusion you get sometimes in a blog like this.)
I suppose there have been other animal encounters out there, but I haven’t been involved in them. If you have, feel free to share.

See you on the road.

An Afternoon Ride

It was a balmy 52 degrees Fahrenheit out, quite windy, and I only had an hour, but I couldn’t resist spending that hour on the bike. Under the peculiar illusion that it was warmer out than it really was (which it never is) I passed over the tights and decided to wear knickers (which is cycling lingo for “pants in which I look extraordinarily silly”) and hit the road.

I had a route already picked out. Being the science nerd that I am, I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone (no birds were harmed in the writing of this blog) and find out which of two routes to a certain point was longer while I was getting in a ride. This had the added advantage of taking me by the house.

I don’t really know much about the house. I had passed it on a few club rides quite some time ago and was quite surprised to pass it recently in the car. I hadn’t had any idea that I was anywhere near the house.

Okay, enough with the italics.

The house is a very nice and very very large house set well back from the road. Rumors abound about how much the house cost to build. I have been told (and I pass this on without vouching for it but also without prejudice) that the driveway alone cost a million dollars. The driveway is, in fact, two parallel driveways, and, while I don’t know how far back from the road the house is, I know that it’s a long way. The house was apparently built and then never lived in and has been vacant now for several years.

A few days ago while driving past, I saw a man jogging down the driveway. This made me consider the idea of riding my bike down the driveway and founding out just how long it is. I was discouraged from this, however, by the large red and black signs reading “Private Property.”

A thing that I noticed on this ride is that a lot of people didn’t want me to encroach on their property. This was a fact which they made clear with a variety of appropriately worded signs. (I hasten to add that none of these signs actually had my name on them, so don’t I suppose they were addressed specifically to me, but it was quite inhospitable all the same.)

And I still don’t know how long the driveway is.

The most exciting moment on my ride came when a Chihuahua ran out after me. Though I have been told of the mythical thirty mile an hour Chihuahua, this was more like a two and a half mile and hour Chihuahua, but it was well ahead of me and ran toward my just as I was cresting a hill. It was well placed in front of to dive directly under my front wheel if it had a mind to. Why it would want to do such a thing, I don’t know, but the only dog of this particular breed that I ever met socially did not dazzle me with its intellect.

I stopped and glared at the dog. It barked at me. I set off again and the dog kicked up its speed to run along beside me yapping hysterically. I gave it a spray from my water bottle and it stopped, quite stunned, clearly obviously unprepared for this tactic. As I rode off, I did hear a few plaintive yips from behind me, but that was it.

When you have done enough rides with a cycling club, you never ride alone, even when you ride solo. I had advice in various voices in my head along the way. As I was coasting down a hill, for example, coughing from the cold and panting from the effort I had made to get up the hill, I heard Keith saying, “Pedal up, pedal down.” Sometimes I took his advice, and sometimes I just coasted down. It was good advice, but I needed a little rest all the same.

One polite fellow in a car waved at me, another gave the absolutely politest quietest toot on his own horn I have ever heard to let me know he was coming up behind me. Everyone else passed with courtesy and safety, and I got some miles in. It was altogether a most excellent ride.

I’m ready for another one, though.

See you on the road.

Missy Says

Cyclin’ Missy says:

I think it's sad that one of the biggest turnoffs to bike commuting is fear of the roads. We all seem to have our horror stories. It frustrates me that motorists don't seem to know the traffic laws concerning bicycles. I advocate awareness and education, building bike lanes and trails, etc. But while we wait for that, one of our best defenses as cyclists is increasing our visibility.

That’s so full of good juice that I want to take it piece by piece.

I think it's sad that one of the biggest turnoffs to bike commuting is fear of the roads.

And a lot of people are scared of the roads. (Mind you, there are people I know who are scared of exercise, too, but that’s a different matter.) When I set out to ride to work, my Lovely Lovely worries about me. I can see why she does. I’ve had my share of close calls, up to and including the time a lady in a jeep passed me and then pulled right in front of me and slammed on her brakes to turn into her driveway. It was only by throwing both bike and body desperately to the side that I avoided pancaking into the jeep. Apparently she was in a real hurry to make that turn. Perhaps she had some ice cream which she wanted to get into the freezer before it melted, I don’t know. It’s hard to argue that she didn’t know I was there, since she pulled around me to pass.

We all seem to have our horror stories.

I know I do - for instance, see my previous comments - but no serious injuries, though the backdraft from a tractor trailer going 55 mph as it blew past me without either slowing down or moving over did once knock me off the road and nearly into a ditch and then into a tree.

Nearly.

I’ve mentioned my buddy Dave before, but his website does a much better job of relating his experiences than I can do here.

It frustrates me that motorists don't seem to know the traffic laws concerning bicycles.

And you have to think that some of them wouldn’t care if they did know. I have seen my share of polite and courteous motorists, but I have also seen my share of motorists who gave the appearance of not caring.

Mind you, there is a sort of selective blindness out there. I don’t think a lot of drivers see us, and I know they aren’t looking for us. How you avoid seeing someone in an electric green jersey who is riding a bike painted six different shades of orange, red, and yellow, I don’t know. I would think that would kind of tend to stand out. (That isn’t a description of me, mind you. I was just using that as an example (although I do know someone who greatly resembles that description). I just wanted to make that clear.)

Whew. That's a lot of parentheses for one short paragraph.

I advocate awareness and education, building bike lanes and trails, etc.

Me, too. The town I live in has a population of around 40,000. (I don’t know how many of those people have bicycles.) We do have nearly four miles of bike lanes. The bike lanes don’t actually go anywhere, of course, they mostly just make a loop, and the four miles aren’t exactly continuous, but, still, it’s better than nothing.

I think.

But while we wait for that, one of our best defenses as cyclists is increasing our visibility.

Be visible and be predictable – my two favorite rules.

Missy was talking about something called the light lane. If you’re curious, head on over to her blog and read about it yourself. Meanwhile, stay upright and stay out of the way of anybody dangerous.

Oh, and have fun. I intend to.

See you on the road.