I am off to Arizona as I write this and as January begins its decline into what is supposed to be the coldest month of the year. It’s a four hour trip so you may want to get comfortable. I am travelling on Southwest Airlines. If you haven’t travelled with them before (I haven’t), the queuing for boarding is a lot like lining up for dodgeball in grammar school was. Then it’s a mad dash for seats in a musical-chair-like milieu that would leave the most fearless sprinter reeling in the peloton wondering how they got nipped at the line. Once on board and settled in, I was able to enjoy a few moments of peace with 137 closest friends. We weren’t flying over water so it amused me that a sign indicated that my seat bottom cushion can be used for flotation. Even if we were flying over water, I think that locating my seat bottom would not be high on my list. I thought of asking if parachutes were available in the event of a…well, you know. When you travel by air you tend to get your “house in order” for just this reason. Even though, statistically you are more likely to perish from a timber-rattler snakebite climbing BeanBlossom than from an air-event there is a certain amount of trepidation when flying at 40,000 feet. Have I been the best Dad that I could have? Did I say, “I love you to my wife?” Should I eat that box of cookies that the flight attendant just gave me?

Continue reading Mile-high Dreaming

We received a note last week from a former teammate now racing for a team up North.  He was bringing a squad down for a ride on the Morgan-Monroe course Sunday and asked if we were interested in joining, which is a little like the Sharks asking the Jets in West Side Story if they want to come out and play.

 

Tony, “You heard-it’s going to be a fair fight!
Doc, “And that’s going to cure something?”
 

It was overcast but unseasonably warm.  Seven Tortugans met at the Sample gates for 9:30 a.m. and ambled up toward Paragon and 37 via Hindustan where we intercepted the seven other riders coming toward us and headed out on the Morgan-Monroe course.  We had ridden about 45 minutes to get there and had about 30 miles of discovery ahead of us with a couple of thousand feet of climbing.  A substantial wind was blowing in from the south. The roads were wet from the recent rain and where there was no standing water, the sand from the road crews formed small strips of muddy beach heads in the center of each lane. 

 

The roads were familiar and so was the company as the peloton regrouped and headed east on Anderson.  We were nervously talking to each other and doing some neighborly catching up at 20mph since we last met during races at the end of last season. We were approaching our first major climb and the tension in the group was palpable.  Our tempo was high and all were eager to test their fitness compared to our peers.  We were already covered with mud and wet through, at first, trying to stay out of the spray of the rider in front, but later taking the spray full-on as the speed increased and the mud no longer mattered.  We occasionally spat out the sand and grit in our teeth.

 

We reached the base of the first climb.  When statistical types talk about strength to weight ratio, they’re envisioning someone who climbs hills on a bicycle.  That adds up to an athlete with a little more than 2 pounds per inch of height.  Much more than this and no one will get to know your name in the group because you probably won’t be there.

 

Climbing is in unequal measure physiological and psychological. And each hill has its own personality.  A rise chooses to ‘release’ you at a certain point, you can feel it, and it is all formulated on the variables of speed vs. group dynamics, power vs. strength, and, most importantly, self-will vs. self-doubt.  That release point changes as these variables change.  But it’s no mystery to a cyclist.  Climbing is rank and file in its cruelest form. You’re either known as a climber or your not.  For some, it’s a self-imposed exile spent languishing at the back of the field when the road goes up.  “I’m just not a climber,” they may say and that is that.  You can train to climb, and get pretty good at it, but it’s a little like learning a second language.  You will never be a native speaker.  For climbers, the hill is an elite battleground in rarefied air.  A cyclist knows what gear they can turn to keep the pace high, stay in the field yet respond to any surges.  A climber, by comparison knows, rather, senses where and when to attack on a climb with reckless abandon, shredding the field in their wake.  Or, how to keep the pressure on until all-comers fall from grace, one by one, until it’s quiet  This day was a little of both, a tete-a-tete on bicycles between two gangs of Indiana.

 

BIG DEAL: But the gym’s neutral territory.
RIFF: I’m gonna make nice there!
 

We would be making one more lap on this muddy circuit  today.  And, no one was keeping score.   The climbers were waiting for us at the top.  All is fair in love and war.

 

Tom

As we all know training for and competing in cycle races has many physical and physiological benefits. The contentment of a long steady ride, the pleasing achievement of a hard training session and the camaraderie of competition are the reasons that we all compete. However there can be a darker side to our endeavors in the form of the mental and physical anguish that is named many ways- ‘the bonk’, ‘the knock’, when you feel ‘sans’ or when you meet ‘L’hombre del mazo’ or ‘the man with the hammer’. Many will say that the more you suffer on the bike, the more you learn to suffer. However this surely applies to cases when you are racing on the limit, using all your reserves of strength to hang onto the wheel ahead or dying ten deaths as you solo away from the group! However when you have ‘the knock’ none of that applies- you feel so devoid of energy then there is no holding of wheels and your wish is for the ground to open up and swallow you up. Talking to a friend is out of the question; you just want to be alone! The climb to ‘cascades’ feels like Boltinghouse and slog to the Firehouse might as well be the Col de Tourmalet.
And so it was for me today!
A great group of seven tortugans (Saccone, Shei, Palmer, Parry, Brauner, Lewis, Millar) rolled up to the forest to meet with an equal group from the IN hand center and rode a steady first lap of the forest with the inevertable splits occuring up Beanblossom. On the second lap the pace of course picked up along Anderson road where the gaps opened up and I was off the back. From my vantage point Tortugans Saccone, Shei, and Palmer seemed to be riding particularly strongly. As the group went away I could tell things were about the go pear-shaped for me but against my better judgement I climbed Beanblossom at record slow speed where I was somewhat dismayed to see the group waiting for me! We took off again and that’s when the legs pretty much feel off. I peeled off the group and prepared for a long ride back in. The climbs of Hindustan and Fireshouse were successively dreadful- no pain but rather a sense of utter lethargy. Oh for a can of coke!
With thoughts of bed and sandwiches I finally made it home with tingling hands and shakey vision. The ride from the firehouse on old37 to my apartment is 6.5miles. It took me 45minutes!