We had a nice ride on Sunday afternoon.  A small group met at the Scholars Inn Bakehouse downtown for a Fall training ride.  It seemed way colder than it was despite a 50 degree reading on my window thermometer. The Northeast wind had already stretched out the American flag at the courthouse so tight that you could count all of the stripes.  I came in to town on the bike from the North and the tailwind had the same effect on me as a motorpacing behind my Suzuki 800 Intruder.  But I was still cold, zipping up my winter jacket tight around my neck.

The group at the Bakehouse was fairly homogenous; about 10 of us, mostly racers, some high-level recreational riders (capable of riding with anyone in town), various uniforms represented. I knew almost everyone there.   But one rider stood out.  A young college kid from Bloomington in a Solar jersey had joined us.  Now, I can tell you that I have gone on many, many rides where there’s a group – plus one.   And usually, the ‘one’ becomes a liability before too long.  But, you know what, the kid had read about the ride on Bloomington VeloNews and had taken the trouble to come on out, so let’s give him a chance.  Besides, I would never suggest that someone not be included.  It wouldn’t be gracious; besides, the bike is a great delineator of skill and endurance! Not that today’s ride was going to be difficult- it wasn’t.  My only interest was the welfare of the young man in question.  Also, he was incredulously underdressed in a short sleeved jersey and shorts. 

Before we left for the ride I did a quick trip to the few other haunts in town where riders congregate to see if I could drum up any more business in the ‘misery loves company’ department.  When I returned, I chatted casually to the student.   His bike seemed like a late model but I noticed he didn’t have a front derailleur and his chain was on the large chainring with no option to shift!   At that point I offered up a question to the young man, “Do you have a spare and a pump?” as none were evident on his person.  “No,” was the reply.  “Then,” says I, “Do you have a cell phone?”  “Yes,” he answered.  I felt only slightly better about the situation.   If you know me, then you know that I also sail small boats.  Sailors have a responsibility-a code actually- that they must answer a ship’s distress signal, even during a race, or regatta where it means turning back.  Evolution may have skipped this trait with cyclists as almost always the opposite is true.  But today was just a Fall training ride.  Right?  

So off we went at the designated hour and minute. We were heading North, then Easterly on Bottom Road and through Paragon.  I was riding along early in the ride, chatting with Gary, when the young man in question dropped his chain as if on schedule! An inauspicious beginning.  So Gary stays with the youngster while I steam to the front and tell the leaders at the time (Geraint and Dave) to settle down until they catch back on.   They rejoined us within a few minutes.  Okay.  Were back together.  Then, on our descent onto the fields of Bottom Rd. a few miles later, in a really bumpy section, his chain pops off again!  Now, he’s alone back there.  I slow down and then soft pedal for minutes, waiting and watching the tight group disappear ahead.  I keep looking back, but it’s taking a long time, longer than it should to put a chain on.  It’s just as well I thought.  He had the good sense to turn around and head home.  As I began to turn back toward the group, steeling myself for a heroic solo chase, I saw a small figure out of the corner of my eye bursting onto the flat section of the road and heading toward me.   Here he comes!  I don’t believe it! A part of me was angry, but nonetheless a small smile passed my lips as I met the kid and pulled him back to the group.

The rest of the ride was uneventful, chatty even, as we took our turns at the front, two by two, on these country roads that meander through the farms and hills into the Morgan-Monroe state forest then home.  A couple of riders were turning back about three quarters of the way through the ride.  I asked the young cyclist if he wanted to cut it short, knowing that we had another hour in the saddle ahead of us.  “No,” he said, “I’ll finish with the group.”   An admirable trait, I thought.  Good for you!  I may have answered in a similar way years ago as a young man.   Later, we were heading home on Old 37 South with the same tailwind I mentioned earlier, barreling along in our bigger gears.  We had the chance to regroup briefly on our roll up on the flats near Firehouse hill, so I asked the young man for his name.  “Mike,” he said.  “Hi, good to meet you.”  And then, just a moment later, without warning, he stood up on the pedals and in his big chainring, dropped us on the climb!  Just rode away from us!  Good for you, I thought, good for you, as he disappeared up the climb.  

Team Tortuga Hosts Bloomington Bicycle Races on the Streets of Downtown Bloomington.

On Saturday July 10th, Team Tortuga is hosting a Formula 1™ style bicycle race on the streets of downtown Bloomington, Indiana. Also known as a criterium, the event is one of the Mid-West’s premier cycling events.

The race series begins at 4:00 pm and will finish by 9:00 pm. Admission is free and the events are categorized into five separate event starts beginning with Category 4/5, Masters, Category 3/4, Women, and Category Pro 1/2/3. The event is sanctioned by USA Cycling, the national governing body of competitive cycling in the US and categorizes events by skill level with 4/5 being novice and 1/2 being elite. Participants are licensed by USA Cycling based on their performance level acquired.

I have a long drive home from work so I was delighted when I received a cell phone call from my wife saying that she would be out for an hour with my youngest daughter and that I could “go for a ride” if I wanted to.  When I heard those words, I immediately became alert after being lulled into a semi-comatose state from being in the car for over an hour.  It was about 6:30pm and there were big storms in the west, but far enough away as to not cloud my determination.   Once home, I let the dog out, hoping that the self-installed invisible-type fence would hold so that the neighbor’s chickens would be safe.  I hurried to the basement level garage where cyclists are generally banished in all households to inventory my cycling needs.  I unzipped my cycling bag sitting on the dresser in the garage and got dressed in my kit.  My bike was ready and waiting in its rack, cleaned, oiled and adjusted.  I gassed up the tires slipped it into the small chainring, took her out of the dark cave and headed out into the humid summer air, leaving dog and house and harbor behind. 

I knew the course that I would take.  The plan was to do the Morgan Monroe State Forest route in preparation for the upcoming event on the 27th.  I live near the top of the southern access of firehouse hill, so within the first 2 miles I was hurtling down through the shadows at 40+ mph like a time-trialist starting on a ramp.  I was motivated to get home in an hour for the 23 hilly miles to meet my family before dinner and to not shorten the leash needlessly. I was digging pretty hard in a bigger gear than I should be on the approach to the course.  It’s about 4 miles to the corner of Anderson and Old SR 37 where I would start my clock.   I know the course well and this test began with the easy rollers on Anderson.  The wind was negligible and my shadow was stretching long in front of me.  Out of habit, I glanced at the gathering weather in the west, across the expanse of open farmlands and budding fields as I turned east and south.  I normally ‘need’ about 10 miles to get loose for an event, but the hot summer night and the focus on performance on this upcoming race course allowed an early settling into my rhythm.  I let the memories of earlier rides on this road drift in and out of my consciousness while keeping a good tempo in a big gear; the night time training with lights, winter rides, family rides with the kids and my wife, the countless training rides, coming and going using this main connecting road out of town.    I navigated through the relatively flat 4 miles to the base of Bean Blossom at near race pace.  I don’t have a wattage meter or heart rate monitor, and it was difficult to read my computer through the sweat and vibration from the deteriorating road surface. But I can tell you that my approach to the climb was harder than I was comfortable with and I was in some difficulty at the base of the climb.

Those of you who know this climb also know that it doesn’t start straight away.  The whole of Bean Blossom is just under 2 miles long and it has 4 distinct steps and a few intermediary ones.  I used to manage climbs much better when I was younger and lighter, but these memories are biased by time and space.  Pain is pain and for me at least, it’s about how much I want to tolerate and what matters.  I approached it hot and fast in the big chain ring, then using all of my gears, took each step hard but not frantic and then settled into a big gear over the top of each rise.  I hit the top still averaging over 20mph since the start of Anderson as I turned on the forest road. I knew that I had about 3 miles until I hit the orchard climb.  I managed a nice tempo up the climb and crossed the Hindustan line at about 27 mph.  The sun had fallen behind darkening clouds and I could feel the electricity in the air. There was a car behind me, entering near Farr road and my speed was high enough to keep it at bay for the next few miles.  The impending storm was still off in the distance but we were both gathering momentum.  I was flying now across the mostly descending, broken-up road back toward Anderson.  I was in my biggest gear, losing some form, rocking side to side as I crossed the line at Anderson.  14 miles in 39 minutes, or a little better than 21 mph. Now, If I can just do this 2 more times in the race! 

I arrived at home just as the storm was about to hit.    I was alone still and I poured a long glass of ice water. I went up onto our west-facing deck and watched the storm clouds gather power as the sirens wailed.  I thought about my two teenage daughters, far from home, riding in their first (of many) 100 mile days somewhere south of Seattle, Washington with deCycles, hoping they were feeling the same exhilaration as I was.