A Memorable Memorial Day
Sunday night I watched "Jarhead" (3.5/4 water bottles on the Activeness movie rating scale) and thought about the hell our soldiers have gone through in the Middle East since Operation Desert Shield began in 1990. These brave men and women don't need silly multisports to test their strength and courage in the lazy, fastfood, instant gratification, American Idol world they left behind. No, they're doing it every day, with stakes—life and death—quite a bit higher than grabbing an age group award or hitting a race PR. It was past midnight when the movie ended—hello Memorial Day and thank you soldiers.
Six hours later, I was coffeed and frozen waffled up and in my car on my way to the gorgeous farmlands and wide open roads along the mighty Mississippi River in southern Illinois for my first long ride of the season. Full sun and 90+ degree temperatures were forecast—with no shade to be found—but that's the way I like it for cycling: the hotter the better for my 40-year-old legs. And there's nothing like lathering up with sunscreen while it's still dark out to build anticipation for the "battle" ahead.
Diesel, Dools, and I had the roads to ourselves when we pedaled out of the parking lot and toward the fields of corn and soybeans at 6:30 A.M. We'd see just one car and only a handful of other cyclists over the first two hours of the ride. As usual, Diesel put his head down, fit into his bike like a glove, and churned his legs like a speedskater, keeping a strong, smooth cadence and a steady 20+ MPH pace into the headwind—that's why he's The Diesel—as Dools and I did what we could to hang on to his wheel.
At about mile 20, as I was entering the Dark Side and donning the mask of pain while contemplating dropping off his wheel and into oblivion, Diesel's front tire wedged into a gap along the rails while we were navigating over a rough train crossing. His wheel stopped but Diesel didn't, as gravity torqued him forward and sent him hurtling through the air in slow motion. Well, that's a first, I thought: Like a bronco that bucked its cowboy, the bike was still standing upright, mocking its prone, swearing rider.
Except for a road-rashed shoulder covered by a funky mix of pine tar and oil that I managed to clean off with water from my bottle, Diesel was OK. The glare from his wife on seeing the damage would probably be the worst part. But, most importantly, was his Cervelo OK? A little experimenting revealed that the slightly bent front wheel had taken on a slight wobble, but the rig was rideable.
"Let's go," said the undeterred Diesel, as he jumped to the front again, slowly picking up steam and confidence and pulling us another 35 hard-driving miles on a roundabout route back to our cars. His shaky wheel, the return tailwind, and the fact that Diesel was slowed by a puffed-up knee from a collision with the outfield wall in a softball game earlier in the week helped Dools and I hang on for the entire 55 miles.
At one point I noticed that Dools, in his effort to stay with the group, was so far up Diesel's back wheel—maybe an inch away—that to be polite he really should have at least bought him dinner first. And the position may have even been illegal in Kansas and Alabama. I think they're now technically married in the state of Vermont. In Dools' defense, I guess anything goes when you're "in the suck." I kept a wary distance, not wanting to go down with them in a potential pileup.
My final thoughts for the day were that cycling with friends on open roads—feeling the freedom, speed, and burn—is about as much fun as you can legally have "on your own," if you know what I mean. Also, I believe I've passed the annual test and earned the right to call myself a cyclist again this summer. Look out legs, the Norelco is ready.
Six hours later, I was coffeed and frozen waffled up and in my car on my way to the gorgeous farmlands and wide open roads along the mighty Mississippi River in southern Illinois for my first long ride of the season. Full sun and 90+ degree temperatures were forecast—with no shade to be found—but that's the way I like it for cycling: the hotter the better for my 40-year-old legs. And there's nothing like lathering up with sunscreen while it's still dark out to build anticipation for the "battle" ahead.
Diesel, Dools, and I had the roads to ourselves when we pedaled out of the parking lot and toward the fields of corn and soybeans at 6:30 A.M. We'd see just one car and only a handful of other cyclists over the first two hours of the ride. As usual, Diesel put his head down, fit into his bike like a glove, and churned his legs like a speedskater, keeping a strong, smooth cadence and a steady 20+ MPH pace into the headwind—that's why he's The Diesel—as Dools and I did what we could to hang on to his wheel.
At about mile 20, as I was entering the Dark Side and donning the mask of pain while contemplating dropping off his wheel and into oblivion, Diesel's front tire wedged into a gap along the rails while we were navigating over a rough train crossing. His wheel stopped but Diesel didn't, as gravity torqued him forward and sent him hurtling through the air in slow motion. Well, that's a first, I thought: Like a bronco that bucked its cowboy, the bike was still standing upright, mocking its prone, swearing rider.
Except for a road-rashed shoulder covered by a funky mix of pine tar and oil that I managed to clean off with water from my bottle, Diesel was OK. The glare from his wife on seeing the damage would probably be the worst part. But, most importantly, was his Cervelo OK? A little experimenting revealed that the slightly bent front wheel had taken on a slight wobble, but the rig was rideable.
"Let's go," said the undeterred Diesel, as he jumped to the front again, slowly picking up steam and confidence and pulling us another 35 hard-driving miles on a roundabout route back to our cars. His shaky wheel, the return tailwind, and the fact that Diesel was slowed by a puffed-up knee from a collision with the outfield wall in a softball game earlier in the week helped Dools and I hang on for the entire 55 miles.
At one point I noticed that Dools, in his effort to stay with the group, was so far up Diesel's back wheel—maybe an inch away—that to be polite he really should have at least bought him dinner first. And the position may have even been illegal in Kansas and Alabama. I think they're now technically married in the state of Vermont. In Dools' defense, I guess anything goes when you're "in the suck." I kept a wary distance, not wanting to go down with them in a potential pileup.
My final thoughts for the day were that cycling with friends on open roads—feeling the freedom, speed, and burn—is about as much fun as you can legally have "on your own," if you know what I mean. Also, I believe I've passed the annual test and earned the right to call myself a cyclist again this summer. Look out legs, the Norelco is ready.
posted by John at Tuesday, May 30, 2006
<< Home