Photos From the Saddle

In the midst of a rather difficult discussion with a friend today, it was mentioned that even cycling doesn’t seem to make me happy like it used to. They’re right. I’ve been in a bit of a rough spot, and much of the things around me have been affected by that… including the effect cycling has on me. It was a rather sharp observation, but that’s why I went to that friend in the first place and I was, in a way, glad to hear someone else say that they see what it is I’ve been fearing was the case.

So, this evening, I set out with the singular purpose of spinning for some sanity. It’s so hard to put into words effectively, but there’s just something that feels like “home” when I swing a leg over, feel and hear the solid click in the pedals and start to spin.

I exhaled gently. Spun easily in my low gears. Went nowhere quick. Somewhere along the ride… I felt better. Not all the problems are solved, but that’s okay. I have my bike(s).

Yesterday was a long day in the saddle. Long enough that, less than a half-mile from my house and on totally flat road, I contemplated stepping off my bike and walking it those last few blocks. I was in my lowest gear, limply hanging over my bars, barely making enough speed to stay upright. I was stupid exhausted, but stubbornly (and slowly) rode those last few blocks. At the end of the day, I’d ridden 99.3 miles with 5,313 ft. of elevation gain, nearly 54 ft. of gain for every mile.

It all “started” last Wednesday when I decided, for certain, that I’d partake in the local Randonneurs’ populaire—a 100km ride filled with elevation and views. Robert played a major part in encouraging me to partake, and I thank him for it. By that point, I’d survived Tuesday’s hammer-fest and felt sufficiently fit to give a climbing-fest a go. The thought was that I’d rest Wednesday and Thursday, do a little spin-up Friday and then go big (and stupid) and ride up to the start of the ride, do the populaire, then ride back home. I am so very thankful to the various people (including Robert) who talked me out of the idea of trying to do it all in one day.

Anyway, Thursday I rode a short commute in to work and had planned to do the same for the trip back, however G approached me and (90% jokingly) said he needed someone to give him a pull home against the headwind. How could I resist such a tempting offer? It was a great impromptu ride, for sure, but the headwind hurt and my legs weren’t fully recovered from Tuesday… so not much rest Thursday, but good training nonetheless.

Friday, I ended up riding to a friend’s place near the start of the populaire after they generously offered their guest bed to crash on that night. The ride up featured nearly 1,000 ft. of gain over 15ish miles with an 11 lb. overnight pack. I wasn’t doing so well with the “resting up” thing. Didn’t sleep well that night, partly out of anxiety for the ride the next day, partly out of being in a new bed.

Woke up Saturday to some glorious weather, followed instructions left by my slumbering hosts to eat a piece of apple pie along with some cereal, and headed to the start.

At the start I met Robert, chatted a little bit, and generally stared at all the bikes and other people engaged in friendly chats. But mostly I just stared at the bikes. Randos seem a bit more my “type” than any other cycling niche I’ve encountered to date. Lots and lots of steel bikes, many of them custom.

Everyone rolled out en masse, ~60 riders I’m guessing, with two packs established within the first couple miles (or at least two to my knowledge: the one ahead of me and the one I was in). Hit the first control and a little later turned into the first steep climb with a distinct creak in my bottom bracket. I immediately recalled BKW’s recent entry and had to laugh, for it’s all too true—to many of us who wrench our own bikes, an unseemly noise is an embarrassment. So I stood on my pedals and worked my way up that first 12%-graded climb with a one-two creaking metronome.

Miles passed, and by the time we hit the base of the first (epic) climb, I’d found some people to pace with. My legs were in a good spot, warmed up and loose, and I found myself kicking up the 16%, half-mile climb. Don’t get me wrong, there was outright pain, shock and disbelief (Holy shit, this is a steep hill. This is insane!!)… and seeing people walking up it seemed like a really reasonable idea. But I also felt okay to just ride it out, and, admittably, was curious to see if I could. Cruelly, what appeared to be the summit was actually a sharp turn followed by more climbing… but the reward was an unexpected stop stocked with water, delicious brownies and other foodstuffs. I think I was equally relieved to stop for the food as I was to not have to hear the creaking of my bb for a few moments.

From there, the ride settled into a good groove of climbs and descents and gorgeous scenery. And sun. Lots and lots of sun. I paused a bit longer than usual at the “lunch” control, taking a moment to use the restroom and inhale a Pemmican bar. I rolled out with a new set of people. We hit the southernmost point and turned North roughly around Noon, which, coincidentally, was also about the time when we transitioned onto more main thoroughfares that weren’t tucked into winding, wooded neighborhoods. My bb had stopped creaking as well—let’s blame the heat for that.

Our group had been creeping up on another group, which lingered at the next info control and spun up as we rolled in. I was able to quickly jot down the info I needed, roll out and bridge the gap up to the next group, which contained many of the same people I’d paced earlier in the day. We essentially remained a cohesive pack from there on.

I’ll say this: riding with an experienced group of people, especially those that aren’t inclined to hammer for the sake of hammering, is truly wonderful. I caught myself, on more than one occassion, thinking “If I were riding with the usual people, or even solo, I’d be pushing harder”… which is more a comment on the attack/hammer tendencies of me and my colleagues (who have influenced my riding habits) than on the wonderfully-patient pace that I encountered with the Randos.

In any case, the last miles melted away with a few rollers and quick-to-change-against-us stop lights. I could feel my skin burning ever so slightly at that point. A screaming descent later, we spun easy to the finish control roughly 5 hours and 64 miles after rolling out.

After hanging out with new friends in the shade, drooling over the many bikes and enjoying a very tasty garden burger washed down with a porter, I made way back to my friend’s place. The thought was that I’d ride back home after a short pit stop to grab my gear, as my friends were heading out to a BBQ. As I started the gradual climb back up ‘n over to their place, though, I had a mild headache and knew I’d misjudged my hydration level. Sure enough, with more elevation and heat, the headache grew and my energy faded. Fortunately, it wasn’t a terribly long ride… but it hurt in ways I hadn’t experienced on the longer ride.

When I rolled into their place, I could barely formulate a full sentence or thought aside from “water” and “pass out”. They got the gist. As it turned out, I’d misunderstood their plans and I was able to shower, rest, thoroughly rehydrate and visit with them before parting ways. A short ride and a ferry trip later, I was at the base of my second-to-last major climb. I’d saved some gels specifically for the last two climbs (which included the mountain-pass-like climb from Tuesday), and appreciated their contributions as I suffered up the first hill. Honestly, I’d conveniently forgotten how bad that first hill was, even though I’d flown down it the night before. It’s much worse than the mountain-pass-like climb. So much so that I felt compelled to take a picture of the pinnacle.

I knew I wasn’t going to make the next-soonest ferry, which gave me roughly an hour to ride less than ten miles that were mostly flat or downhill. I did as little as I could over those miles until I found myself at the base of the last climb and almost out of water. I won’t lie. I hurt on that hill more than I think I’ve hurt on any hill recently. 39×27 felt like 53×11. I was scraping the bottom of the barrel that’d already been scraped over… but I made it.

Sort of.

What truly broke me was the last 300 ft. of climbing home. It wasn’t an epic climb by any means. I wasn’t scraping or digging deep or anything that’d be considered hardcore. I was simply stupid with exhaustion, limply hanging over my bars and barely making enough speed to stay upright… ever so slowly inching to my doorstep. Nothing glamorous. No adrenaline fueling the last Big Push. Just a silent, slow limp home by myself.

But I made it. After showering, the effects of the sun became humorously apparent. Remember sunscreen, kids. I forced myself to eat dinner and promptly passed out for 9 hours of solid sleep.

Today, I’ve done my best to do as little as possible, aside from periodic lotioning and avoiding the sun as though I were a vampire. Other than the sunburn and some tightness in my calves, I feel pretty good. I can already sense some appreciation for the entire experience, suffering and all. I won’t say my choice to ride home was the smartest ever, but there it is. I’m glad I did it. I’m also glad I was seven-tenths short of a century.

(A note about the photos… the first was actually from Thursday’s ride home with G, and it didn’t come out all too well, but “Donuts” is scribed in the dust on the truck’s door. Otherwise, the pictures below are a chronology of the ride up, the populaire and the ride home. I also saw at least ten gloves, but only got a few shots… those to come later.)

A couple of things came together yesterday, resulting in two very different rides. The first was the typical morning commute up’n'over. It appeared that I’d successfully worked through whatever issues I’d had with lack of fitness, allowing me to hammer up the trail and generally push a faster-than-usual pace. The morning was gorgeous, too, with a mist hanging in the fields and a crisp sun cresting over the hills. It was very pleasant (hammering aside).

The second ride, however, was a different story.

After I got home in the afternoon, the plan was that a couple friends, T and C, would join me in a ride that included some ferry action. Ferries being ferries, there were time tables involved, and we missed the first window of opportunity and arrived at our “start” an hour later than expected. No biggie… we had three hours before the last ferry, though we all agreed it’d be ideal to make the second-to-last ferry, which left us two hours to ride.

So off we went, riding along some gorgeous rolling country hills and chatting about this and that. I’d pulled the computer off the Karate Monkey and moved it to the Double Cross, however I hadn’t reset any of the readings for the DC’s screen, so my typical combo of clock, speed and distance wasn’t readily available—instead, just a combo of speed and distance (and heart rate, but I wasn’t tracking that). The clock was on a different screen. Anyway, the ride became a ride of great pleasure and time was the last thing I was thinking about. It truly was just a leisurely cruise through gorgeous country farmland and secluded forests. And lots of rollers.

We hit a particularly fun section of rollers and blind corners before we turned into the base of a decent climb. About half-way up this climb, my friends spotted a bunch of ripening salmon berries and suggested we stop. They set about harvesting handful after handful while I took a breather. It dawned on me that I didn’t know what time it was, so I clicked through to the clock.

“Uh, guys… it’s 7:45.” “It’s what?” “7:45″ “Oh… wait, how far left do we have to go?” “More than half.” “Oh…”

That’s when the hammer dropped.

Fortunately, there wasn’t much left of the climb and it was relatively flat for a good portion of the ride after that. We discovered that we were all comfortable keeping the same pace, so for the next ~9 miles we kept things moving between 21-25 mph. I knew what was ahead of us, but didn’t let my hopes of making the ferry go just yet.

As the road started gaining some mild elevation, C called up to me “Is this the hill?” I replied that it wasn’t, but I was lying.

Somehow, C and I kicked out a steady pace between 10 and 11 mph up what can only be described as a monster of a hill. It’s deceptive, for one, with the base having a relatively low incline that gradually increases… so basically, you find yourself kicking out a steady pace up at the bottom, and just about the time you realize that it’s getting harder to keep the same pace, it’s too late and you’re stuck in a conundrum—it’s not steep enough to drop more than a gear, two at most, but there’s no way you can keep the same gearing without standing… The thought of standing is just absurd, because you’ve realized that there’s quite a bit more elevation ahead of you. So you stick it out, sitting mid-cassette, and pray that a false summit is just around the corner so you can regain some composure. Suspicions of a spot being the true summit are immediately dismissed as crazy, because what you’re in the middle of is coming to light: the closest thing to a true mountain pass that isn’t actually in the mountains.

About 3/4 of the way up the monster, a public bus passed us and I heard T say “Uh oh” behind me. The bus was on its way to the terminal and we still had a bit to go. Soon after that, the poisonous notion that it was my second intense climbing session of the day crossed my mind and within seconds I imploded and peeled off. C cruised past me and, awesomely, stood on her pedals and nailed the coffin shut. I reached for my water and checked over my shoulder. T, wisely, had sat back and established her own pace.

C opened up quite a gap. I kept at it and turned my pedals over to the best of my sanity. I didn’t bother thinking about what time it was, all I knew was that the last time I’d checked we had less than 15 minutes to make the ferry.

The false summit starts as the road straightens out and a gradual climb starts to the true “summit”. C was hammering in what had to have been her big ring. I began a pursuit that consisted of what must’ve looked like a fit of standing, sitting and a schizophrenic cadence as I pushed, hit the wall, eased off, pushed again, walled again, and so on. Somehow I closed the gap to about 200 meters as we hit the true descent.

With mass to my advantage (a special thanks to Porters, Stouts and Belgians), I closed the gap further and passed C doing something near 40 mph. A few gentle curves later, cars started coming in the opposite direction, which meant that the ferry had arrived… but was only just unloading. We had less than a mile to go… we were going to make it.

I pulled up behind the last car in the ferry line and turned around… C was right behind me. T arrived moments later. The thought occurred to me that I’d found two great riding partners who, when the situation called for it, could hammer, but were otherwise inclined to cruise and stop to pick the berries.

We boarded the ferry and set about stretching and laughing about this and that. It hadn’t yet sunk in, but a sense of accomplishment was certainly present.

Of course, we didn’t think about the 12% climb right from the start of the other dock on our way home, which was a brutal wake-up for the muscles, but we were operating on almost-home euphoria at that point.

We parted ways and, once in the door, I had to force myself to eat dinner instead of passing out. This morning, I awoke to a mildly stiff body and could feel some tendons stubbornly clicking in my right heel area… though this disappeared as the day wore on. My legs were cooked for sure, but fondness for the ride as a whole eclipsed any physical discomfort.

I may have to do it again sooner than later.

Plans to do a new route with a new friend Sunday got postponed and I found myself with an open day and a strong desire to regain some of the fitness that’d slipped away recently. But, as lazy Sundays are wont to do, I soon found myself in the early afternoon without any time in the saddle.

Determined, I got my stuff together and headed out for an open-ended jaunt that I envisioned would be at least 30 miles. My body had other plans. The weather did as well, if one is counting planners.

I hit the park loop and kicked the pace up a little—nothing near red lining it, but a good “fitness” level that may or may not’ve included some out-of-the-saddle hammering up a hill or two. On the backside of 7 miles, leaving the park and contemplating my options, my burning lungs and legs suggested I turn homeward. For a moment, I thought about continuing on, but it was about this time I caught glimpse of the black mass of doom that was marching in my direction. I knew rain was in the forecast, but these clouds indicated it wasn’t going to be a pleasant summer sprinkle.

Homeward it was.

A few minutes after getting home I heard the rumble of thunder and was immediately content with my choice to cut the ride short. A few minutes after that, lightning, thunder and a whole lotta wind and rain came through. True, it would’ve made for a totally epic ride… but I’m okay with having missed that opportunity.

Besides, had I continued on, I would’ve had at least three decent climbs that probably would’ve left me a bit more exhausted than I’d wanted.

It rained a bit more throughout the night, but I figured it’d clear up come morning. Sure enough, the roads were partially dry and no rain appeared to be on the horizon (have I mentioned that I check four different weather forecasts/tools in the morning?). I got rolling about 20 minutes later than usual, but was happy to not feel totally rushed to get out the door. The thought was that I’d get to the new trail and time trial up it as a interval of sorts… however, once on the trail, I realized that a long-standing suspicion turned out to be quite true: that the amount of debris, particularly the leaves, petals and such, when soaked, would make for slippery surfaces. My back wheel slipped a couple times, so I nixed the idea of standing on the pedals and hammering. Even still, I got my heart rate up and pushed as much as it felt safe.

(As an aside, my crash in February is still lingering, both in physical and mental forms… my finger is roughly 80% healthy and slightly swollen and my riding remains cautious, especially in potentially slippery situations and hard cornering.)

Once down the other side of the hill and heading to the trail, I amused myself by noting the change in color of my tire as I’d go from wet to dry pavement to damp to puddle to dry dirt and such, with particular amusement in seeing how long it’d take the center tread to “dry” out. Those last 8 miles can be a little boring.

The past couple weeks have been quite busy, leaving me little time to ride (or write about riding), so this will be a rather disjointed mish-mash of snippets.

My mountain bike arrived and I totally rocked it on the bike path for all of two miles. Hardcore, I know. Sadly, I haven’t ridden it since (that time thing again). I’m really going to have to get over the mental hurdle of not wanting to drive somewhere to ride my bike.

I also managed to pick up an old road bike (‘85) as a cheap, fun project. The frame is in great condition and the thought at the moment is to restore the bike as close to its original state/spec as reasonably possible, perhaps turning it into a 1×5 (I already know I have to replace the crank). I can easily envision it as an all-around errand-running, pub-crawling, friend-visiting cross-towner. Goal is to keep out-of-pocket costs to no more than $100.

Through coincidence I ended up venturing out with a group of people for a leisurely 30-miler through some of the foothills of the area. It was fun meeting equally-passionate riders and watching the group dynamics evolve over the course of a couple hours, and the post-ride BBQ made it all the better.

I did manage to commute a couple times last week, though only by the “short” route (7 miles each way). I can feel my body losing much of what I’d gained over May, but I am also feeling much more balanced and am quite content with the fact that I’m not injured as a result of May’s efforts. In any case, it was on one of these short commutes home that I encountered those two guys practicing for what I can only imagine is a local street luge thing.

Friday made for another impromptu bike outing and BBQ with new friends, though this one was much shorter in distance. Having friends that are inclined to ride their bikes nearly as much as you is pretty awesome.

What’s not awesome is the dent I managed to put in the top tube of the Double Cross. I was messing around in the garage, cleaning up the ‘85er and had leaned the DC against the bike stand, as it turned out, a bit too precariously. The front wheel turned out and the bike tipped, with the tt hitting one of the stand’s legs. It broke my heart, seeing the dent. For almost two years I’ve managed to keep it relatively unscathed, despite some close calls. I was able to get some touchup paint on the spot, but it’s in a place where I’ll see it every time I ride. In a way, it’s kind of a relief… that it’s “broken in”, so I no longer have to be so ginger. It’s no big deal, right? It was bound to happen anyway… right?

Never rely on the glory of the morning nor the smiles of your mother-in-law. ~Japanese Proverb

I saw a fair number of gloves throughout May, however most of the time I was on a timeline and unable to stop or riding with others. In all, I probably saw a good 20 or so different gloves over the course of the month. These are the ones I was able to shoot (amusingly enough, many of ‘em were the same style).

That last one was actually from this past Monday, but I figured I’d lump it in with the others for good measure.

There’ve been a fair number of sunrise shots as of late, I know… but that’s what you get when you combine an early roll-out with a good number of beautiful sunrises.

I’ve decided that there’s actually a fair amount of truth to the “postridem depression” quip I made in the last entry. Emotional matters aside, I’d reason that there’s a physiological change, perhaps a drastic one, when a body goes from intense, sustained physical demands to the opposite. My only evidence for such a theory is that I felt 100x better after putting in a full ride in to work on Monday morning.

I really, really like the new trail route. Especially when comparing it to the flat route I was riding on the Karate Monkey in May. My exposure to traffic is easily halved, plus I get to ride along some wonderfully lush areas.

Funny thing is that I almost felt disappointed when I rolled onto the flat “backbone” trail, what with its flatness and lack of tall vegitation and reminders of civilization. However, it wasn’t far along on this said trail that I encountered what is possibly the most bizarre sight I’ve yet to have (on the trail, that is): a man sitting/laying on the side of the trail, wearing jeans and a polo shirt, doing upward hip thrusts… and this part of the trail is relatively isolated, too, so it’s not like the guy just walked off the street and plopped down to do his exercises; he had to go some distance to get there. Wonders never cease:

It wasn’t much further from this point, though, that I noticed my front tire was looking suspiciously low on air—not yet flat, but underinflated. I could’ve sworn there was more air in it, but after some distance with no noticeable loss in pressure, I figured it was either a really, really slow leak or just an underinflated tube.

Turns out it was a really, really slow leak. Caused by what appears to’ve been a tiny portion of a wire. No idea how it lodged itself into the tire (new Schwalbe Durano Plus’… supposedly super-durable and super-protected).

I’m relatively certain such a thing as “Postridem depression” doesn’t exist, but it seems apt in describing what’s been bugging me as of late. In a nutshell, the lack of an outright riding goal or routine has led to feelings of restlessness and dissatisfaction in riding. After a month of spending 3.5 hours in the saddle every workday, putting in upwards of 250 miles a week, going back to a round-trip commute of 14 miles feels… empty. It appears I need to find a new carrot.

Speaking of carrots, I never did follow up on the state of my carrot chasing during BtWM. As it turned out, it took longer to catch the first “carrot” guy, but I did catch ‘im… only to have another guy leapfrog both of us and jump ahead… creating a new “carrot” situation. I was feeling remarkably strong as the third week progressed, so I figured I’d give it my all and settled into a 50-miles-a-day routine that brought me, ever so slowly, within striking distance of the Top Carrot. On the eve of the last day of BtWM, we were neck-and-neck, with only a couple miles separating us.

I assumed he was equally aware of the situation and had heard second-hand reports that he wanted to be the top rider, so I figured he’d be putting in big miles on the last day. As it turned out, he didn’t ride at all (obligations). G informed me of all this as we were riding home, which made an already glorious day just that much better. So… yeah. I managed to pull it off and caught both of the carrots I ended up chasing.

Perhaps that’s what I’m bummed about… the lack of a carrot.

In other news, it’s been fecking hot this past week (which has also influenced my riding). It crossed over into the 90’s today, just in time for D and I to put in a 7-mile TT. It’s been a loooooong time since I’ve been that hot, dehydrated and sweaty. Mercifully, the train was air conditioned.

I kept trying to find a shot or angle that’d somehow convey just how hot it was out there, but nothing quite captured it. Lots of sticky tar. Shimmering horizons. Oh, and a decent amount of humidity to boot. Reminded me of the Midwest and East Coast.

Some other random tidbits… I pulled the fenders off the Double Cross a few weeks ago and fell in love with it all over again. Not that I’d fallen out of love with it; we were just at odds after the whole black ice, torn ligament thing (which, btw, still hasn’t healed and requires daily exercises and stretches… take my word for it, you don’t want to tear a ligament in your fingers). Also, I bit the bullet and bought a full-suspension mountain bike. More to come on that.

• Miles ridden: 878 (1,897.4 annual total)
• Miles driven: 91.7 (701.4 annual total; 137,422 odometer)

I’m feeling pretty good about those numbers, as well as the 1,200 mile surplus I’ve got over my driving miles and the 9.57 biked-miles to driven-mile ratio for the month.

It’s been very warm the past couple days, which has been quite nice in comparison to just a month ago. Last night, I ended up just aimlessly riding through my neighborhood around 9:30pm just because it was so nice out (low 70’s I think?). It’s 80 right now and most of the week is forecasted to be a little above or below that point. Time to put in some serious work on those tanlines!

Commuted on the Double Cross today, but kept the time in the saddle minimal. I was pleased to find that the DC didn’t feel too squirrelly after having been on the Karate Monkey for a month straight. Thinking I might get in a long ride home (or two) sometime this week.