Yeah, I Wanna Go

Today I woke up tired, stiff and famished after my long ride in the foothills. I went to Adalberto's, a Mexican place that I frequent, and bought TWO huge breakfast burritos. I ate them on the couch while watching the Giro d'Italia coverage on TV. It was way too much food, and I was quite full.

At about 8 a.m. I went out to do a short recovery ride on my mountain bike to loosen up. I only wanted to go for an easy spin, but things never go as planned on the WeeFun Trail.

I rode a mellow 15 mile-per-hour tempo up to Goethe Park, my turnaround point. It was warm, the air smelled fresh and clean, and there were lots of animals out. It was quite peaceful.

Shortly after turning around, two guys on road bikes passed me, and I decided to jump on the back and ride with them for a while. People draft each other on the bike trail all the time, and it's typically no big deal. Not today.

It really pissed off one of the guys. There is a small percentage of riders who only ride road bikes and have a strong distaste for mountain bikers. Had I been on my road bike, like yesterday, he probably would have welcomed me. But that was yesterday.

He said, "You want to go? Huh? You wanna go? Then let's go!"

He had a strong New York accent with the matching stereotypical attitude. He sprinted away with his buddy right on his wheel. Even though I was very tired from the day before, and so full from breakfast that I could feel the food right below my throat, I gave chase. This guy was being an ass, so I just HAD to chase them.

I caught back up to them without too much struggle, and the guy kept looking back to see if I had given up yet. Each time he saw that I hadn't cracked, he increased the speed. Soon we were doing 27 miles per hour. After about a mile his buddy couldn't take it anymore, and a gap started to form. I went around him and bridged back up to the jerk in front. He looked back, and I could see that he was surprised to see me and not his buddy on his wheel.

He increased the speed a little more, and after a minute or so looked back again. I looked him right in the eye and shook my head "no" as if to say, "Is that all you got?"

At this point he was "turning the cranks in anger," as Phil Liggett would say. I looked down to see that we were doing 31 miles per hour. Flying. My knobby tires buzzed like a hive of angry bees.

Not quite obeying the 15 mile per hour speed limit, we performed the giant slalom through bike trail traffic, scaring wildlife and sending joggers scurrying to the shoulder. This was stupid behavior, I know, but I wanted to kick this guy's ass.

My legs were really burning and it felt like I was going to puke very soon. I held on for about five minutes longer and then completely cracked. As soon as I fell back he slowed down, too, so I know he was right at his limit.

I held on to his wheel for almost five miles, though, so I felt like I made my point. I was hoping to see him up ahead waiting for his slow friend, but somehow I never saw either of them again. I wanted to tell him that I would have torn his fucking legs off on my road bike, but I doubt I would have said anything. Anyway, he probably knew the likely outcome of a battle on level ground.

I rolled up to my door with 21 miles, but fell far short of the easy recovery miles I really needed. Maybe tomorrow.

Later.

Blast From the Past

Back in our mountain bike racing heyday in the '80s, we also spent a lot of time training on road bikes as well. The quiet roads in the foothills were our playground, and we knew them all. For the most part we stayed in the triangle defined by our homes in Citrus Heights, Forresthill to the northeast and Placerville to the east. However, we often ventured far beyond those imaginary boundaries in search of tough climbs and sweet descents.

These days I rarely use those roads. The times have changed and nothing is as quiet or safe as it used to be. Traffic has increased and it feels like drivers are more aggressive and less patient. Still, every once in a while I get the urge to experience that kind of riding.

Today I rode from my apartment in Fair Oaks up Green Valley Road, climbed over Lotus Grade and rode through Coloma on Highway 49. As I looked up to the east, there it was in the distance: Marshall Grade. I gazed up at the hillside to see a road cut jutting up at a hideous angle as it shot toward the sky. Pain was on the horizon. From my vantage point on the highway, the grade looked pretty damn steep—worse than I remembered. I turned onto Marshall Road and hit the base of the climb, only to find myself having to shift into my 39x23 immediately. That is the gear I stayed in for the entire 2.5 miles.

Much like songs can trigger memories, rides often do the same. As I climbed, my mind flashed back to a ride I did with Steve, probably in 1987 or so, when we rode up Marshall Grade. We hit the climb and started to ramp up the pace. We shifted up a gear. Then another. And another. And another. Pretty soon we were hammering away in a 42x17 gear, flying uphill like madmen. When we reached the top, we high-fived and talked excitedly about how few mortals could have climbed with us. And it was probably true; that was a pro-level performance, if for only 2.5 miles.

Today as I struggled, I couldn't believe we were able to get into a 42x17 anywhere on the climb. It simply didn't seem possible. Whenever I think I'm getting fit, I'll go do that climb for a reality check. Right now I am not terribly fit. I did catch a guy towards the top who was suffering more than I, so that made me feel a little better. Schadenfreude is definitely part of cycling psychology toolbox.

After the climb I turned onto Greenwood Road, which is one of my favorites. I then took Highway 193 to Cool, then took Highway 49 through the canyon. After riding through Auburn I headed downhill on Auburn-Folsom Road all the way home.

I ended up with 78 miles, which is my longest ride in a couple years. It was pretty fun except for the broken spoke with 15 miles left. This is the fourth spoke I have broken in my rear wheel recently, and at this point I need to pony up for a new rear wheel. Riding home with a bent rim every few weeks is getting old.

Later.