Customer Disservice
I’ve spent the last twenty minutes talking to a customer about the differences between the bicycle computer he bought half an hour ago and the one he came back thinking about. I’m trying my best to convince him that the one he bought, while lacking a heart rate monitor, is actually the one he needs. Though I’m starting to suspect that he wants the other one so badly that his desire has moved beyond something so simple as a want.
He wants to know which one is going to give him a more accurate reading of the calories he’s burned on his way to and from work. I knew that I was fighting a losing battle once I started explaining to him why the heart rate monitor was slightly more accurate than calculating it from weight and speed. I could feel us jumping down the rabbit hole.
“You don’t really need to worry about your heart rate zones unless you’re training for something, and even then its only half useful.” I told him
“Yeah, but it will be more accurate with the calories right?” He asked.
“Yes…” I couldn’t finish
I didn’t want him to get the next model up. In part because I didn’t want to go through the process of voiding his last transaction and ringing up the next. But really I didn’t want him to upgrade to the next model because I didn’t want him to loose the magic he was just starting to discover.
While he held both boxes in his hands he started to describe to me how he started riding his bike to work. He stood about 5 foot 6 inches and sported hair that was somewhere between being short and long, with about a weeks growth of beard. He’s a little pudgy, but carries this laid back vibe that feels more California surf bum than NW outdoors man. He tells me that his friend talked him into riding his bike to work.
“Well…” He corrected himself “I ride to Goose Hollow then take the MAX out to Beaverton. I work for Tri-met, so you know, I have a pass. I didn’t think I’d like it, but I’ve been doing it for a few months and… I really like it.”
“Yeah” I smiled.
I knew that feeling he was talking about. I remember it from when I started riding, instead of driving. He was excited. His excitement was contagious, but we were both trying to suppress it as to not give too much of ourselves away to a stranger. It seemed that he was on the cusp of having that feeling of being a moving part of the city and not just a bubble moving through it. He’s at that beautiful moment where riding ceases to become something special and becomes just something that you do.
Part of me misses that magic. All this worrying about my heart rate zones and being recovered — or destroyed — depending on the day based on how many times my heart beats per minute. I can recall a time when none of that mattered. Every bike ride bike ride was magical. Maybe not magical, which feels too like a word belonging to the realm of religion. But its a word that will have to suffice.
Group v. Pack
There are two ways to ride with a group of people. The first is in loosely organized, meandering group where some may share the work, but others just sit in and get dragged along. These rides can be massive, like the multitude of rides that exist in Portland.
The second, is comprised of a group, but exists on another level. Once in a pack a solitary rider disappears and becomes a working part of a whole. Each part takes equal time at the front, eating the wind for its fellow parts. Then takes equal time tucked within the shelter of the other parts. To take a too short a pull or to drop the pace, increase the pace as you pull through, even to take too long a pull is to do a disservice to the pack.
It is the unwritten rule, but one you’ll be reminded of when you break it.
In the pack I lose all sense of my uniqueness. I am not special a little flower, with my bike specially made for me. I am not working on some story, or wrestling with some existential quandary. I just am. A mindful moment, surrounded by the sound of shifting gears, the chatting of the people in front of you. You, talking to your partner in the pace making without thinking about the words that are about to leave your mouth. You just are.
Later there are the pulls you took. The pulls others took. And that moment when the pack dissolves into coughing and spiting as everyone plays their hand for the sprint points. But in those moments there is no time to think about what’s happening, or what just happened. There’s only the moments of spinning your legs out at the back of the pack, or the half work of being in the draft and finally the moment where you first kiss the wind. Taking your turn at sheltering the pack.
A Beautifully Hard Lesson
It’s just after nine pm and I’m laid out on the floor of our kitchen like a boxer who’s just been KO’d. The smell of ammonia wafts up from my unzipped jersey. My quads have a dull ache so deep down it feels like its in my bones. Even after a slow ride home at recovery pace. I’m trying to explain to Signe what I went through, what it was like to finally race with the fast kids, but my brain is so addled from the hour of pain I can’t really think straight. The only thing that keeps coming up is that I have never truly raced until until tonight. Every race I’ve done for the last year and a half was less than the real thing. It’s the difference between slap boxing with your friends and stepping into the ring with Heavy Weight. In principle you are doing the same thing. In reality …
I was nervous before I rode out to PIR. I was looking for way out and it looked like the weather was going to provide one, but then it cleared up and I rode NW to the race instead of turning South and going home. Truthfully, the nervousness came weeks before, after I sent in my upgrade. I knew that once I was able I needed to leave the 3/4 race, where I could consistently take turns and still finish near the front, and jump in with guys who aren’t only much faster but know how to wait and conserve their energy.
I’ve been resting for the last two weeks and my legs are fresh, but not fully tuned. I know I’ve lost a bit of my top end, but I plan on just sitting in this round. I know the racing is going to be different and that I can no longer afford to be aggressive. So I decide to suck wheels all night.
Two laps in I’m breaking my own rule. The pack, a real one, slows as it comes around the front stretch of the circuit, I do not and drift toward the front.
A week ago I meet with a coach to discuss how I was going to get my legs in order for my late season goals. William’s instructions for Tuesday nights were simple:
“Get in a break and ride it till you pop, and you will pop. Then recover and do it again.” William told me
A nervous “Ok” was all I could muster.
Near the front his voice pops into my head as I watch a move try to go clear. I jump and place myself on the wheel of last guy as he moves across the road. A handful of seconds feels like a minute as I check over my shoulder for our gap. The move is shut down in no time and I watch another group immediately attack. There’s no chance of me making this move so I sit in and hang on.
Back in the pack guys ride much closer than I’m used to. I’d heard of riders who were capable of popping you off a wheel you considered yours without your notice. Which is what happens. I’m too easy a target and more experienced racers pop off my wheel time and time again. I have to fight to gain back whatever lowly places I lost near the back. Which is exactly where I don’t want to be.
Two laps after following my instructions I lose my wheel and I my nerves at the same time and fall off the back. I consider giving up, but I keep riding, alone with no hope of ever catching back on.
Two, or six laps later I get lapped. I hear the sound of incoming riders and look over my shoulder to see a break of four fly by. Followed fifteen seconds later by the rest of the pack.
“Fuck the rules” I think to myself. “I need more of what their dishing out.”
So I jump back on, unapologetically. I don’t have a shot in hell of being at the front for the sprint, let alone winning the damn thing so I see no problem with my less than legal move. What I want is the speed of the pack.
I hang on for two more laps suffering at the will and accelerations of guys pushing the pace at the front. They don’t know the pain they’re causing me. WHich is perhaps the way it should be. It hurts. A lot and I pop again.
I’ve been overly frustrated the last two weeks. I haven’t been riding much, the demands of a new job, one that requires me to be “on” all the time. Add to that a feeling of going nowhere lead my mind filters back to all the habits that hold me. The frustration leads to hatred, self doubt and my biggest fault impatience which stands hand in hand with impulsiveness. These last two weeks mean I’ve fallen back on some bad habits.
Laying on the kitchen floor all the frustrations I’ve felt over the last two weeks away from racing and training are gone. Maybe not gone, but emptied out and left to scatter across North Portland. All let out because the racing was too hard to hang on to all that extra life.
I sit up as Signe hands me a cup of tea. I talk about how guys rode closer, how the pace was faster, and how wheel in front of you would suddenly change. All of those things were/ are true, but what it boiled down to was that the racing was so beautifully hard that it demanded every part of me to just hang on and it wasn’t enough. There’s a lesson there I haven’t gotten yet. I’ll try to learn it again next week.
Honest Writing.
The Author of this blog loves honesty. Well, more so what comes from honesty. The ability to ask one’s self honest questions and leave yourself open to the answers is a pillar I have tried my hardest to base my life on. Its also something I routinely fail at. One should always set high standards for ones self. As such it helps to keep the company of people who do the same — even if it is only through the written word. There’s a lot of this kind of writing out there if you know where to look.
I have talked about some of these authors at great length and my comments on their work can be found in the archives. Note, not all of them are cyclist, or cycling writers.
One of these writers, who I’ve been reading for three years now, has taken a quantum leap in honesty department. That’s not to say she wasn’t there before — there are many posts on her blog that have caused me to check my own gut (which you should also check out). What I would like to draw your attention to here is the writing she has been doing for Peloton magazine’s website. The column, under the title Swift. Its true that Heidi Swift is a local writer, but this isn’t a buddy buddy Portland thing. I’ve actually never met Ms. Swift.
The writing she has been doing in the run up to her crack at riding this year’s TDF route is up front and honest in a way that most people aspire to. She’s not aspiring she’s doing it. If you start from the beginning, which you should, you’ll get the lowdown on the Reve Tour and their quest to raise money for Bikes Belong. A cause I would love to donate once I’m capable. A cause you should donate to if your income is even slightly higher than mine (which isn’t too hard).
It takes a lot of guts to be honest with yourself and it takes an even bigger leap to do so in public. You should reward Heidi by following along (and donating!)
Scardy Cat 3
I mistimed my upgrade from the lowly category 4s to the slightly less lowly 3s. One would hope to upgrade to a stiffer level of competition when they are feeling fresh and strong. I upgraded after I accepted that it was time for a bit of rest. Tonight I jump back into the fray at Portland’s Tuesday Night World Championships, in the 1/2/3 field. If I’m being honest, which we are here. Then I have to admit that I’m a bit scared.
To be fair, I have done some racing with 3s and a few training rides with riders of a much higher caliber than myself. Some of which has been at the Tuesday Night Worlds. But the 3s that hang out there are either sandbagging, or doing themselves a disservice by racing with the 4s. I know this because I did the same last year when I raced the 4/5s as a 4. That was after getting my hand burned in my first 3/4 race (psst. Which you can read about in “The Ride Journal” issue # 6!) That’s what I’m afraid of.
I’ve trained with ones and twos many times. All have been great, but I can remember one ride in particular where I tried to hang on when the pace jumped. I’m stronger now, that’s for sure, but the feeling of that subtle shift those riders made has stuck with me. It was a thing of beauty really. As was the nuclear explosion when I tried to hang on.
So what’s the problem? This is what I wanted is it not?
It is, and the fact that I’m a little frightened about it is a sign that I need to be there. Not in the 3/4s where I know I’m capable of finishing in the top five. At this stage its unlikely that I’ll place that high in the 1/2/3 field, but the racing will be hard, which will increase my fitness for the big goals I have further down the road. Which is secondary to learning whatever I can about who I am by pushing myself harder than I ever have before. This is waht I’m here for. This is what its about.
Not my Ride
We moved slow. Well, slow for me but just about the pace of the people I always cruise past when I’m riding this stretch of the springwater alone or with a few teammates. I would have been frustrated by the slow pace if this was my ride. But its not my ride. We had planned, or at least talked about going for a proper hike, one that wasn’t within the city limits and would take longer than an hour to complete.
Then, over breakfast she somewhat sheepishly asked me if we could ride the route to her new job downtown instead of going for a hike. ” Sure” I responded. This would be easy enough, we’d just have to roll down the Springwater, early enough to beat the crowds of walkers, lolly gagers and small children darting their bikes from one side of the path to the other. Their parents bike handling skill only marginally better than those of their children.
On the way home I was a little bit worried we’d get a pinch flat. Her back tire really needed some air and we’re still just over four miles from the house. The Raleigh three speed I bought her for her birthday has a hub I could only hope to get off the bike if I had the size wrench I need to get the wheel off. But of course I don’t even have those. I haven’t had to carry a wrench with me since I stopped riding fixed, back when I was a messenger.
I rode behind her, always moving my gaze from the rear wheel to the little nub that holds the cable which moves when the gear lever is hit. I have my frame pump. Which might work, because sometimes the puncture is so small that you can kind of ride it out if you put some air in it. Then we rode through some glass near OMSI, but the tire persisted.
Then I got over the worrying and we just rode. For a while at least. Signe has had this bike for a year and half and we’ve done four rides together. The first was last August, on a recovery day. We went from the park end of the Springwater to the end near OMSI. The second time was probably around there, down 11th and up Rex to our friend Chris’ house. The third was just last week when we rode to the Westmoreland Dairy Queen when we decided we needed a more decadent treat than the better tasting soft serve cones on 17th.
This ride, our fourth was the longest. We went down the Springwater, past OMSI then over the Hawthorne bridge and down SW Natio Parkway. Then past the street we were supposed to turn down, because I was too worried about a car coming up from behind us close and spooking her. She’s an adult, she’s capable of taking care of her self, but I can’t help but fell this is my doing and I feel responsible for getting her to her new job safely, even on the day’s I’m not going to be there.
The next day, after a much faster team ride Joe, Crossett and spun down the path. I’m not sure how it came up but we started talking about the ride I’d done the day before. I explained that Signe got a new job, and that I rode with her to show her the way to her new office.
“An hour and a half for a twelve mile ride!” he said
“Well, an hour and ten minutes” I countered.
The three of us were easily going double that speed. I told him that the day before I was trying to not look at my computer, to not stress about the pace Signe and I were moving. What I failed to realize that day was that it wasn’t my ride, but our ride and the speed didn’t matter.
“No. Signe got a new job and I showed her how
Notes from Bike to Work Day
Today is Bike to Work Day. Which means just another trip to work for me and a lot of my friends. I don’t say this to be braggart, but just a simple statement of fact. It has moved from something that sets us apart to just something we do. Something that has weaved its self into the fibers of our muscles and the neropath ways of our brain.
My own bike to work days started at the end of summer in 2003. I started riding my heavy, department store Mongoose mountain bike down Detroit Ave from my parents house to my classes at Cleveland State. It was born out of vanity, and an attempt to hold on to a girl who was clearly bad for me. She told me I was fat, which was true, and that I needed to start doing something for myself. So I bought a bike and started the 6.5 mile trek to school/work everyday. After a two week trial run in August I was hooked. That enthusiasm, the lost weight, and a break up with said girl carried me through that first Cleveland winter.
Now I’ve ridden through every kind of weather imaginable. Through six inches of snow, I’ve delivered sushi in summer downpours and spent long twelve hour days breathing in the exhaust of a thousand cars, buses, semi-trucks. I built friendships on those commutes, learn about what I will and won’t put up with from angry motorist, and uncountable lessons about life. All things that I probably wouldn’t have learned without a bike and those friends.
At first I used it to set myself apart, now its just become something I do, and I like it better that way.
Refresh Pt 2
I spun out the bay door through our small parking lot and out into the street. My morning ride in was marred by tired legs and a groggy head. Surprisingly, after a day of work my head is clear and my legs are starting to feel fresh again. Its truly warm for the first time in a long. Neither arms or legs are covered, my jersey is totally unzipped. The sun is warming my skin… this is what I’ve been missing.
My legs are unshaven, a sign that that I had stopped caring and that it was time for a break. The bag on my back is stuffed with my clothes from week now passed. Tucked into the folds of the clothes are the tools I need to rebuild my bike, tools I barely know how to use. Most are self evident, and I can figure them out. Like the bottom bracket tool, and the cable cutters, easy. The make shift headset press? Need a little more time with that one. Concerns about my ineptitude are put aside for now. Now I’m just happy to ride and enjoy it.
For the last few days I’ve left the computer at home. I have no idea how fast I’m going, how far I’ve traveled, or what my average or current heart rate is. I’m soul riding as one of my co-workers calls it. Whether its because I’m without that computer, or because my mind is free of actual training I don’t know, but today the world of my commute feels more alive to me. At NE 53rd and NE Glisan a young woman with an orange top is stopped in the turn lane waiting for the light to turn green. She hold a cigarette in her left and while her right hand bangs out the beat to the song on the radio. Her windows are up, so I can’t hear the tune, but she’s signing along with her whole being. Her enjoyment brings a smile to her face as I recall all the times I’ve sung along with radio. All the times I’ve felt something that strongly. She doesn’t notice me looking at her, but I start to feel bad about my voyeurism. The light turns green and I pedal myself out her life.
Further down NE 53rd two kids are playing in their yard, which is elevated above the side walk. They charge toward the hedges at that mark the drop off and one tackles the other just before edge. The mother, of one or both the boys jumps up from her gardening yelling “NO! You can not …”. Then her reprimand of boys being boys is lost to my ears.
This is the first truly warm day in a long time. The temps hoover near ninety and it shows as I ride through the Clinton St neighborhood. Guys stand at the picnic tables outside bars, beers in hand, t shirts, shorts and flip flops. Two women walk by in sundress, sandals on their feet and purses slung over their shoulders. The notice that summer is slowly coming lifts my spirits a bit more. Warmer weather and fresher legs are in my future.
Refresh Pt. 1
I’m still in the nebulous phase known as the “Transition period”. Two weeks ago I was starting to feel like getting out on the bike was a chore. Something I had to do and not something I wanted to do. Still, I continued to ride after I decided to take a break. Truthfully I didn’t want to pay for the bus, which adds about thirty minutes to my commute (if I’m lucky. The trip home often takes longer). Add that to the five dollars a day it cost to ride public transit and we’re talking about some serious cost in time and money. Anyway…
Last week I was still feeling a bit run down. I just didn’t want to ride.
Then Friday something clicked. The ride into work sucked, I was pissy and … I don’t know what. I just wasn’t having a good time. The ride home was different. It could have been the rough day we had in customer service. It could have been that the sun was out and my arms and legs were bare. It doesn’t even really matter.
I rode home, in the sun, just happy to be on a bike. Which was a big step from the way I’d been feeling a few weeks ago.
The last two days have been the same. Beautiful weather and good feeling in the legs. I think its calledrest.
