As athletes, and as people in general, we are always striving for balance. Balance between work and play. Balance between saving and spending. Balance between thinking and talking (well, for me anyway). And even in cycling, we strive for balance between suffering and pleasure, however it is that you choose to define the two. Today my ride had both!
I’m getting a bit softer over the years. Upon first moving to the Lower Mainland from Calgary, my bike rarely saw the trainer, even in winter. The fenders were on, as well as layers of waterproof clothing to shield me from the ever-present monsoons.
This is no longer the case. Partly due to time constraints and partly due to fear of death by F-350 on Dewdney Trunk Road, I’m usually on the CompuTrainer in the dark season. I havn’t been on the real road since late October.
That changed this weekend, with my annual pilgrimage to Mecca. That is of course, Southern California. After the requisite 2200 kilometre drive (flying is cheating) to the promised land, I drank three cups of local coffee, re-assembled my superleggara Scott Foil from Wentings, mixed up my Glycodurance, and hit the road.
Seven days previously, I hosted a presentation for our local cycling club, Phoenix Velo. To get the members warmed up for the guest speaker, I asked them “when I am on my bike, I feel __________.”
Within ten pedal strokes, I had my own answer to that question, “at home!”
Ten more pedal strokes later, I noticed burning in my eyes. This was likely caused by the salty breeze wafting off the Pacific. Like I say, I hadn’t been on the real road in quite a while, so there was a brief period of acclimatization.
The second thing I noticed was how fresh my legs were feeling. The third thing I noticed was how many other cyclists there were.
There’s a simple mathematical formula that most riders have probably heard of. It goes like this. Fresh legs + many riders = RACE.
After passing twenty riders in ten minutes, my ego reigned itself in, well, at least for the moment. And even though I have ridden it a dozen times before, rolling through Leucadia, Encinitas, and Solano Beach, was like being in a movie featuring a cast of half-million dollar cars, quarter-million dollar plastic surgeries, inspiring vistas, and the roar of “Go Rams Go” emanating from scores of cantinas along the route. As it turned out, the Rams DID go, or should I say, ARE going to the Super Bowl.
But back to the ride. After stopping for fun beach pictures at Swami’s Beach, I soft pedaled for a few k, saving my legs for the piccolo provo of the day, hill repeats at Torrey Pines, a long but civilized grade of about 2 kilometres. The first repeat was a lesson in self-discipline. Yes, there were other riders. Yes, they were on “slower” bikes. Yes, they looked slower/older than me. Yes, I watched them ride all ride away, as I steadfastly held to my target heart rate (130). My glory would come on the next two repeats.
Hill repeat number two had nothing to do with effective training but everything to do with ego. Yet, every year I come back here I do it. To see if I still, “got it.” The protocol is as simple as it is self-destructive, ride the hill in the biggest gear. NOT “the biggest gear possible,” THE biggest gear. Failure IS an option. In fact it is honourable!
Off I went. There were no surprises. I resolved to sit, grind the 50/11 as long as possible, and stand only when my knees complained or when things were going sideways due to lack of forward momentum. In the first few minutes, things were going well. Despite my tortoise-like cadence (40-ish) I was getting up the climb. Equally important, nobody was passing me, likely because there was nobody else on the climb at that time.
Then it happened. Gently at first. But then increasing more and more. No, my knees were fine. It was my left shoe. Apparently, the massive watts (130, yes that’s a 1) that my 55-year-old legs generated, were loosening my cleat. With steely resolved I continued the grind, each pedal stroke sloppier than the previous. I promised myself I could tighten the cleat, but only after the crest of the climb.
I made it to the top. Then I dutifully unclipped. Then began looking for a place to balance the bike so I could re-tighten what was now remnants of a ten dollar bargain store Look compatible red plastic piece of plastic. Since I just completed the Torrey Pine Climb, how about a Torrey Pine tree to go with it? There were plenty. I chose one that was not too big or not too small. It was just right.
With my bike safe and my bladder full, I was also looking for relief of another sort. And after answering nature’s call, I sadly began smelling nature’s smell. And it wasn’t lavender.
Apparently, someone else thought this Torrey Pine was just right as well. But not for a pee. It was the unmistakable stench of having stepped in poo, and it was mine to deal with. Sure enough, the loose clear was smothered in it, like a piece of toast covered with Kraft extra chunky.
I assessed the grim task at hand, how to dislodge a few ounces of poo from the underside of my left shoe. To make my unsavoury task more dignified, I looked for something to take off the offending substance. No dice. Torrey Pines are conifers. How I longed for a Canadian Maple or Douglas Fir.
With no other option, I dug in with my now VERY multi-purpose tool and commenced liberating my cleat from the greasy mix of pine needles, shards of red plastic, and feces. Minutes later the dirty deed was done and I was set for the rest of the ride. And although it was beautiful, it was much less memorable for all the right reasons.
And so the season begins!