Epic

 

In his book, Bobke II, infamous former pro-cyclist, Bob Roll, relates an epic ride he took over a snowy mountain pass in New Mexico. Originally planning a ride over the Jemez mountains, to be picked up on the other side by friends and driven back home, he miscalculated both time and distance, made a series of mistakes that each compounded on the previous one until he ended up hopelessly lost, trudging through knee-deep snow for hours, in the middle of the night, always believing he’d reach paved road on the other side, just around the next bend, or over the next rise.  His planned 5-6 hour ride ended up being a 17 hour survival ordeal.  Yet not once did the stubborn Irish/American cyclist contemplate turning back.  Instead he plod stubbornly forward until he self-rescued himself and did reach dry pavement again.  Somewhere in the early am, two astonished strangers in a pick-up truck came across him on a lonely back road, frostbit and hypothermic, and gave him a ride back to civilization.

There have been other epic rides in pro cycling.  Greg LeMond’s eight second time-trial victory in the ’86 Tour de France.  Lance’s 7 Tour victories.  Andy Hampsten taking the leader’s pink jersey in the ’88 Giro d’Italia while honking up the infamous Gavia pass, in a blizzard.

I’m no pro-cyclist, though I did race triathlons and a few amateur bike races back in the day.  Waaayyyy back in the eighties that is.  Ironically, though I came from a competitive swimming background and was an above average runner, it was my weakest link, cycling, that I loved most of triathlon’s disciplines. It’s the oneness with the machine, the glide, and wind rush, the acceleration as one stands on the pedals to honk up a climb, the centrifugal balance of two wheels on a hairpin downhill…it’s a buzz that I’ve stuck with all these years after my racing and serious training days were long since passed.  Through the last couple of decades I cycled both my road bike and my mountain bike with equal passion and joy; I loved the smooth speed of the road bike and the jaunty liveliness of weaving through and over rocks and roots and muddy puddles on the mountain bike…even pedaling around town in my flip-flops on my fat tired beach cruiser could make me feel like I was 12 all over again. 

I was not so dedicated or serious about my cycling after I stopped training, but it still felt good to get out there and spin the pedals.  These last few weeks, I feel immensely fortunate that I did keep it up with varying degrees of focus and dedication all those years…if not, I might not have pulled off what I did; I might not have had the legs…

I never planned to be a bike commuter; riding for me was for fun and fitness.  But in the last month, I’ve had two cars go kaput on me and I’ve been forced to find other means of transportation.  I’ve bummed a few rides to and from work, but mostly it’s been me, the train, and…my bike.  I only live 3.5 miles from the train station so the 15-20 min. ride is not a huge inconvenience; the expense of travelling from Wells ME to Exeter NH is however.  Not to mention the inconvenient train schedules.  I had to leave home far earlier, and arrive home far later than I was accustomed.  Waiting by myself in the dark at the Exeter station to be picked up at 12:30 am was not fun.  Spooky enough on its own, one night I had to verbally parry a drunk buffoon who was making rude remarks.  I knew one wrong word or tone of voice might have escalated the situation into something ugly…but he stumbled off into the dark, leaving me alone again. 

The train didn’t arrive in Wells each night until 1:00 am and then I had to ride in the dark to my house.  My bike was not set-up for commuting, especially after dark; I found an old red reflector and bolted it to the seat post and duct-taped a led flashlight to the handlebars and voila!  Actually, riding home in the early am darkness, sometimes moonless but on two glorious moonlit nights, was kinda surreal, and cool.

Last week though, when my new/used, POS car was in the shop having its head gasket replaced, riding my bike ceased being a novelty and became a necessity.  I have a home-care client that lives a few towns over.  Without a vehicle, I had to hop on my old, single speed Nishiki Colorado mountain bike and pedal for an hour and 40 min. each way to make it to and from.  I might have shaved twenty or more minutes off that commute if my road bike hadn’t had a flat tire that I hadn’t the funds to fix.  Me and the Nishiki were it. 

The first day I approached my ride as an adventure.  I was on the road a little after 5:00 am.  There was a light, foggy mist and for the first half of the ride, it was kinda neat, riding along in the pre-dawn quiet of the day.  Then the mist turned into a steady rain and it was still kinda cool, if a little less comfortable.  I’d ridden in the rain before, no biggie.  I arrived at my client’s home, a bit wet, but invigorated.  Two hours later, after bathing, dressing, and feeding her, then seeing her off to day-care, I was back on the bike.  It was pouring rain by this time.  The rain persisted for the remainder of the week.  I rode every day, in the deluge.  It ceased being adventurous, novel, and invigorating.  It became a soggy, slog of necessity.  It wasn’t fun, it just was what it was.

I calculate (don’t know for sure cuz my bike computer is broke) that I rode about 120-130 miles last week, between my home care client’s house, and two different train stations.  All of it, in the pouring rain.  Most of it, with a back-pack laden with food, shoes, and my work scrubs for the nursing facility that is my primary job.  All of it was on my single-speed, 21 year old mountain bike, with fat knobby tires that are well suited to single-track trail, but ill suited to miles and miles of road pavement. 

In that week, I saw a gorgeous glimpse of pink sky for a few seconds the first day.  I saw a deer run across the road ahead of me on another morning.  I dodged many, but not all of the slugs and road worms that had slithered onto the pavement to escape flooded topsoil.  Some ended up in my tires, and flung up to stick and dry on my frame.  I got splashed by a truck passing by that (purposely?) nailed a large puddle as I was abreast of his vehicle.  I strained a quad from climbing some steep, steep hills.  I rode past misty forest lands and tranquil reservoir waters.  I rode past bucolic farmland, complete with the pungent scent of manure.  I rode past a mucky tidal river and a large barn in which was conducted the business of restoring large wooden and fiberglass sailing yachts.  I rode past the Grain surfboard shop that constructs gorgeously beautiful hollow wood and epoxy surfboards.  I rode through residential areas and along wooded roads, and a few stretches of busy commuter road.  I rode, and rode, and rode…

I did accept a few offered rides, breaking down my bike and stuffing the frame and wheels into back seats and trunks.  But mostly I was on m own. AndI got very very tired, but not once did I quit, or even contemplate turning back.  I kept going, like the stubborn Irish/American I am.  And while my rides might not be as dramatic as Bobke, Lance, Lemond, or Andy’s, it was all pretty darn dramatic to me…just my knobbly legs, and my trusty old Nishiki, and miles and miles of road.  Epic.