beaufrere@earthlink.net
Joined: 10 Mar 2007
Posts: 159
Location: On screen
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 Posted: Sun Jun 14, 2009 4:49 pm Post subject: WHY I RIDE... |
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Why I Ride
She was wearing another team’s uniform, but she was attractive as well as athletic, and so reminded me of my team mates: Elaine, Cindy, Jocelyn - Earl, on one of his sensitive days.
“I understand you ride for The Montclair Cyclists,” she said, making no effort to hide the derisive inflection on the word RIDE.
“That’s right,” I told her, struggling internally not to rise to the bait.
“Well, I suppose there’s a first for everything, isn’t there?” She wrinkled her brow in a funny way, signaling me that there was either a subtle sexual subtext to our dialogue, or I had once again inadvertently spit sideways onto my jersey without noticing it.
“If you mean did I ALWAYS ride with this team, the answer’s NO,” I told her, and the mere association of actually making that confession seemed to transport me to another place. The screen of my consciousness began to blur, and I heard again the voices of my team mates. Either I was suddenly flashing back in time or the guys were somewhere there behind us, simpering in the bushes by the side of the road. “I DIDN’T always ride with the team,” I repeated, and suddenly I WAS there, at the beginning of it all.
Because, in the beginning - that day buried now a full year in the past - it seemed so possible to be someone else, someone unique to our sport - someone who would ultimately bring honor to our club. Possible to be a Montclair Cyclist, yet not to ride with the team. Indeed, during my initial attempts, it was deceptively easy, particularly in those early spring work-outs at Brookdale Park, where the pace was moderate out of consideration for our new riders. There I was, stubbornly locked in behind Carmen’s wheel. Or Richie’s, or John’s. I was even able to take my turn at the head of the pace line, arms pumping, legs flailing out and up again in full stride, the metal of my cleats beating like some powerful metronome against the hard pavement of the road. I could, of course, also much more easily bend down without breaking stride and snatch up the occasional fallen pump or water bottle, jogging up effortlessly to a grateful team mate who was no longer obligated to turn around, dismount, and hold up the pack by retrieving it himself.
And this false sense of accomplishment actually carried into early March, when the rides lengthened and we headed out once again into the virgin expanses of The Great Swamp. Indeed, lulled into a false sense of the possible by my initial success, I had even taken to jogging astride an old frame Tim and Jeff had given me, so that just like every one else in the pack, I could reach down and pull a water bottle from the wheeless frame I I straddled between my legs. And just as I had hoped, in a matter of months, I had became not just another rider, but a name among riders. We would pass the red and white of Colevito, the members of their huge peloton waving in friendly competition to 25 or so Montclair Cyclists in the orange and blue. And still, panting hard perhaps, but not more than 20 yards off the last wheel in our pack, came I, the cantering clatter of my cleats announcing my arrival even before I was actually visible, the frame Tim and Jeff had given me surging with the motion of my stride like a broom stick clamped between the legs of a child playing horsy.
Ah, yes, those early cycle-less days marked the height of my elation, not to mention the zenith of my extraordinary cardio-vascular development. But there is many a slip between Garden State Cup and lip, is there not? How cold and stark the eventual arrival of racing season became for me! True enough, once the actual competition began, I was always the first off the line, what with not having to snap my cleats into actual pedals or even to shift gears. And yes, again, far from deterring me as they used to when astride a bicycle, corners became my friend, as I took them without slacking speed in the slightest, and it was suddenly I yelling out, “Hey, stop breaking, jerkey!” instead of being the jerkey in question. I should also add here that one could only pity the fools who attempted to elbow me in the sprint, as I was fully capable of reaching out to both sides simultaneously and knocking over two riders at once without even wavering in my own chosen path.
The problem was, of course, that criteriums one quarter mile or less in length were few and far between, and once I got beyond that distance, those who rode had a distinct – one might even say insurmountable – advantage in the endurance department, in spite of my ability to start and stop on a dime. And you have no idea of what it’s like trying to hold a pack during a 45 mile an hour descent on foot, no matter how much easier the corners are. Not to mention spending $35 per week on new cleats, a cost not even proximately compensated for by the savings in tires and tubes.
And so, one bleak day in early November this year, I showed up for Sunday’s ride on my bicycle instead of merely being harnessed to my frame. But I’ll say this. None of my team mates acknowledged the change, and I think that can only be because they respected me for what I had attempted, even if I had ultimately I failed. Also, even trying to compete as I did, all while holding a frame between your legs, should only be undertaken by a masters rider like me who’s already had all his kids.
But it all would have been worth it, if I had succeeded. Just to be able to turn to someone who asked, “Do you ride for The Montclair Cyclists,”
And to respond,
“Sort of,” with that proud and knowing grin on my face.
_________________
Barry
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