the sunday breakaway streak

Yup, true to my predictably unreasonable and stubborn nature, I did that Chinese Bakery Ride again this past weekend and DID NOT GO TO THE CHINESE BAKERY. It’s a work in progress okay? [And by “it” I mean “trying new things and being more sane.”]
My excuse - like Mike’s last time - was that I needed some good coffee. Sunday morning, having left around 10am, I put myself in that stupid situation where I was battling joggers, bike commuters, and [the worst of them all] rental bike pelotons up the Westside Highway to the GW Bridge. My initial giddiness acceleration turned first into careful maneuvering around joggers deaf to the world around them courtesy of their iPods, then gradually into crawling along at 5mph behind three chubby tourists who clearly haven’t been on a bicycle since 1995. A third of the way up the Westside Highway, I, as usual, gave up. Though always hopeful that it wouldn’t take me over an hour to get over the bridge on a weekend morning, I again accepted that this would never happen.
Tired of weaving around things, I hung a left when I crossed the bridge, towards River Road, the nemesis to my flimsy thighs. 9W is awesome for relaxing, long rides, but like Derrick and Cassidy informed me, I wasn’t going to get any better or faster without experiencing some pain. And frustrated at getting dropped so easily on any climb, I had mentally resolved to climb those two motherfucking hills this weekend. So I can eventually not be such a pussy [I mean that figuratively].

I did it. I mean, it wasn’t pretty, but I did it. And by “wasn’t pretty,” I mean that my jaw was sagging, I was wheezing, and the only thing that got me up that mile long climb was the fact that there was a woman in front of me in a red jersey and armwarmers, who I resolved to keep, if not within three bike lengths of me, at least within sight. Weaving through the potholes, we both edged our way up the hill, almost at the same speed. I stayed behind her, and though I was convinced she would drop me, I miraculously maintained the same distance behind her for the entire climb. We both spun in our saddles and climbed out of the saddle and avoided the gaping holes in the pockmarked road. And before I knew it, we were done.
Maybe it was that red-jersey-ed woman, or maybe the it was the exercise-induced dopamine jumping around in my brain, but the climb seemed shorter this time, and I didn’t feel like I was going to die within the next 5 minutes. I even had this ridiculous thought like maybe I could climb some more. I ate a banana, wondered what I would do next, and then the peloton caught up.
Mike, Doug, and Francesco had met up with a few others the past two Sundays or so to do some faster rides. The first time, Mike and I had left at the same time, but riding solo, I had gotten a faster and earlier start. Pollo, who bumped into me first at the bridge, then into the guys sometime later, joked when he saw me later that day that I was in the breakaway. I had hoped for a repeat performance this week, but given my crawl up to the bridge, assumed that Mike and Co. [this time joined by David, who races for FGX Racing] were way ahead of me. Not so. My breakaway streak continues...!

I stuck around chatting to them for a while, and feeling ridiculously proud that I was able to do River Road solo, felt adventurous enough to try the Chinese Bakery Ride on the way back. The guys headed to Piermont [...then Nyack, and College Hills, and out into some alternate universe somewhere which translated into 7 hours of riding], and I headed west to Tenafly. Feeling drowsy, I figured coffee and a second breakfast was in order at Cafe Angelique.
It hit the spot. Then I hit a climb. And halfway up the first hill, I started to realize what a stupid thing I had done.
Coming off of a week of no riding, I was doing the hardest ride that I’ve ever done. River Road remains a challenge that I’m determined to conquer, but there was really no need to torture myself and do the Chinese Bakery climb on top of all that. While mentally I felt great, my muscles were just barely keeping pace. In fact, they were pretty much ready to call it quits, and I had a longer climb waiting for me.
Yeah, I considered it. I considered the shame involved in getting off and walking up. I weighed how no one would probably see me or know, and then thought about how embarrassed I would feel afterwards. I tried to cheer myself up that hill, and when that didn’t work so well, tried playing pop songs in my head. I thought about how I’d never done this much climbing on a ride before, ever, and how even if I had to walk the last few feet, it would be enough. But by then, there were only 10 feet left of the climb and though the grade was steeper, it felt more stupid to get off at that point. I remembered what Fritz said once, about the climb on River Road: “Just don’t ever get off your bike.”
When I got to the top, I wanted to almost cheer, or do Contador’s victory pistol thing, or even Andy Schleck’s cheerleader thing. I danced a little in my head, then coasted back onto 9W, over the bridge, and through the city. I was dead tired, but hadn’t bonked or otherwise tipped over in sheer exhaustion. All signs of a bike ride done well [although some might argue that a bike ride done well should always include vomiting mid-climb and legs so sore you can’t move after you get off the bike].

I came home, plopped down on the bed after my post-ride-shower-that-will-always-feel-better-than-even-the-most-awesome-bubble-bath, and fell asleep after reading the last few sentences of Bill Strickland’s newest book, Tour de Lance. Though I don’t remember it, I’m sure I dreamed of bikes and the Schlecks, Contador on the Col du Tourmalet, and a road bike that just might fit.

i'm a loaner, dottie, a rebel

A friend once told me that I reminded him of Pee Wee Herman, “but in a good way.” I’m still struggling to figure that out; whether it was some sort of compliment, whether he meant that it was clear I was in line to inspire some limited edition dunks, or whether it was an honestly blurted out sentence followed by damage control. That was over a year ago, and I remain, as ever, completely confused.
He didn’t know then, and neither did I, that I would be dreaming of a red and white bicycle within the next few months. A steel IF Crown Jewel, in fact; mostly red [like Pee Wee’s], with a dash of white, maybe a touch of black. Classic colors because I hear that custom frames, like wedding bands, are mostly forever.

And like ideal husbands, in my mind, the Crown Jewel was smooth and perfect; like so perfect that I would never want to ride anything else and everything else would feel unnecessarily harsh due to its shoddy craftsmanship. Nothing, even a carbon fiber bike made by 8 year old South Asian children carefully selected by Pinarello for their dexterity, would ever compare. It would accelerate at the flexing of a muscle and would take me to far off places like Belgium, France, the Netherlands, and even Tokyo. We would be together, forever, and it would be the only bike I’ll need for the rest of my life. Sure, there might be something carbon in the later years of my life when my mid-life crisis hit, but out of a burning building, I would only grab the IF. In fact, in my imagination, I would even run into said burning building to carry out the IF: pristine and sparkling, ever ready to sweep me off my cleated feet, albeit with some melted tires.
All of which was sort of silly and purely the stuff of dreams because I had never ridden an IF before. Actually, my rides have been limited to one steel Bianchi single-speed which feels like it was made from water pipes, one aluminum track bike, and one handmade aluminum Cyfac that’s too big for me but has Campy Record on it. So, yes, I based my dreams on the opinions of friends who either work at IF, have IFs or who have ridden an IF. Great sample pool, I know.
But as luck would have it, last week, a green Crown Jewel arrived at NYC Velo. A demo bike for a potential IF buyer and built up with Dura-Ace. With a 47cm seat tube and 51 top tube, it was a touch too big, but something I could get my leg over, and when offered for a road ride upstate, I immediately accepted. I may have asked my customary, “really?” but it was with the intense hope that yes, really, I could take this out for more than just a spin around the block.

Late Friday morning, pedals screwed on, saddle switched out, and appropriately dressed, I headed out with Mike up 9W, the goal being the Palisades Market, maybe Piermont if we felt like it. It was little-ring-sitting-in riding for me; maybe taking it a little too easy but paranoid about hurting my leg so soon after getting back on the bike. The rear gear got switched up and down, up and down, Shimano apparently making more sense to me than all that Italian stuff that requires opposable thumbs. The bike, though obviously heavier than carbon fiber, was nothing like the steel I’m used to; it’s solid but doesn’t feel like there’s a dead body attached to your rear wheel. There was no conscious realization that it was steel or that extra effort was required to ride it. Light enough on the flats and secure on the descents, with gears that didn’t question my constant shifting, it was a lot of bike.
But it was a lot of fun bike, which was new and different, too. There wasn’t the terror of not being able to stop [I’ve given up on halting the track bike, quite honestly] but that’s not to say it’s a slow ride. Even in the little ring, with legs that have almost forgotten how to pedal, it required only a little pushing to kick up the speed to 22mph. And with no need to worry about how to slow down, it fed a desire to go faster and longer and up and over bigger and bigger hills. It got me to the Palisades Market without killing my knees or legs or lungs or heart. And I had it going even faster on the way back [although, yeah, that tailwind helped out, too].

It was over all too soon, and I almost didn’t want to return it. Actually that’s a lie. I didn’t want to return it, period. I wanted to ride it again the next day, and the next day, and the day after that. It didn’t even fit, which was the weird thing; I’d never felt such an attachment to something that was obviously less than perfect, that didn’t quite conform into my mental image of how things should be. It was clearly too big, but here I was, finding it difficult to say goodbye to something whose purpose was to fulfill a temporary curiosity; a loaner.

A few days later, I heard that little bike had changed. Narrower bars, shorter stem, the works:
“It’s different, now. You should try riding it again, next time you’re in town.”
Me and that little green loaner? That rebel?
Oh, I’ll be on it again, luck permitting. We’ve got some big adventures to live.