Thursday, June 24, 2010

The Mountain Dance


I would like to say the mountains met me with gentle conversation but they did not. Their cruelty began early and livened our time together with sharp grades and undulations. For I am the traveler the mountain understands. I am the lone traveler with the human powered engine and the cooling sweat that drips onto the thirsty parched pavement.

Those bigger vehicles with their metal pistons and fake atmosphere would not understand this journey as I do. Those “others” float fat on gravy seats hastening the throttled explosions under the hulking hood while portly maneuvering around the bends made so generous for their proud obese fenders. Those damned vehicles that will someday deliver my doom. Curse them all!

My eyes are hollow now and I look through my eyelids for respite ahead. As the snow appears I feel the cool promise or relief but know it is a lie told only to the weaker pockets in my brain to keep doubt at bay. At 9000 feet the only relief is at home, thousands of feet below.

The serpent dance has begun on my pedals as I am standing looking to find the mythical rhythm to get me through the kick and deliver me to a gentler bend. In truth I want more. Suffering is the way, the badge, the life. Here on this road built by men long dead and surrounded by monstrous boulders I am searching for a moment of my own and the only souvenir I can carry home is the suffering.

Cresting the top I tug at the zipper on my jersey providing the only protection I will have on the cold descent back to the toil of cars and bustle. I lean, bend and contort my body into shapes to steal any precious speed I can find. The wheels are whirling now and the room for error was vacated at the top. Lean left and push hard on the right pedal. Pick that line and carve, carve, carve!

The ride down is the drive home from the hot date. The real action was on the way up but the way down gives me a chance to relish in the hot sweat and love. It’s a beautiful dance of pain and desire and the mountains are always a wonderful partner. A brief break for refreshments and it’s time to go again. The orchestra begins to play a waltz I will never tire from and I will always answer to with lively legs and a pumping heart. The glory is in the mountains.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010


You would probably find Floyd Landis in a Radio Shack Team kit before you would find me participating in a community wide, 22-mile (free-for-all) path ride…but there I was elbows out praying for safe passage like Michael Rasmussen trying to descend during a 2005 Tour de France time trial (I’ll take obscure TdF references for $200 Alex…). The bottom line was the kids wanted to ride and I was going to make sure they did. It’s not every day that you can get teenagers away from video games and I was not going to miss this opportunity. Red Dead Redemption be damned! We were riding!

That morning I left for a quick primer of 50 miles with Turbo-Mom and we told the kids to drink plenty of water and be ready at 2:30 to ride. As we were leaving out the door I noticed the boy eating two big burritos…It was then I decided I would be pulling the whole way. We finished our training ride and took a quick nap while the junior cycling squad got ready to roll. I took quick inventory before we left. Water, sunscreen, helmets, patience and I took some gels just in case.

Of course I only had my team gear to wear (I did tone it down with black bibs). Paul Sherwin would have commented that I looked “resplendent in my team strip” but in the crowd of YMCA t-shirts, cargo shorts and baseball hats under first generation Bell helmets I stood out like the Pope at a Slayer concert. Even though certain portions of the route would not be paved I still rolled out on the Tommaso Volo…If I could race the Boulder Roubaix on my carbon Tommaso dream machine I think I could handle some gravel paths and 50 soccer moms…

The team (family unit) and I quickly fell into formation and headed out into the sea of T-shirt, tetanus threatening drivetrains and…well…bad bike handling. At 10 mph there is going to be some weaving. Throw in some children, hot sun and poor course marking and it all goes right into the Port-o-Let.

Right from the start we were having fun. There was laughing and zero shaved leg, “don’t ding my $8,000 bike” aggression. Dads were sitting way too low on their bikes and Mom’s were busy telling little Jimmy to stop cutting off the other riders. It was a Cat 1 racer’s nightmare…I thought it was hysterical! Where else would I find myself being pulled by a girl in a swimsuit on a cruiser and a guy on a mountain bike wearing a cowboy hat smelling like some summer ale? Not at the local ACA event that’s for sure.

As the miles wore on we laughed and surged through the carnival pack and came to a rest stop. It was time for the teenage girl to have an energy gel to get her through the next hour…she balked. She did not want to eat the gel. It was like Joe Regan trying to get some Fear Factor contestant to eat a live centipede. Amazing…the kid can eat popcorn, orange juice and 4 scoops of ice cream drowning in chocolate sauce (in one sitting) and you can’t get her to eat something that tastes like 1.1 ounce of vanilla pudding. With some encouragement from the group and a switch to chocolate she survived…barely.

Full of renewed energy and rest we were heading towards home. We counted off the last remaining miles out loud and hit our street at exactly 22 miles! We had survived the baby strollers, weavers, criers, drunkards and the course. Most importantly the kids finished their longest ride ever in one piece. Their Mom and I shared a quick glimpse of joy as we parked the bikes in the garage.