Relative Something

Yesterday was a blue-sky day if ever there was one. With all of Cyndie’s cousin’s families reuniting together up here at our lake paradise, there was a huge variety of options for activity. I volunteered to take cousin Heather’s husband, Jack, out biking in the woods. Here is a picture of what I saw while following Jack through the woods:

You may notice he is not visible. That’s what I saw of him most of the time we were riding. Finally, I would catch up to Jack at the major crossings, where he was nice enough to wait for me so we wouldn’t have any confusion over which option of route we were choosing. He was always smiling and far from short of breath. I was quite the opposite. 

In contrast, here is the view that Jack had of me, when he paused to glance back before beginning to pedal. We had an absolute blast together out there. The woods of Wisconsin were in particularly fine form. Never mind the mosquitoes.

I can’t figure out what it is about Alberto Contador that explains why I find it difficult to appreciate his incredible abilities as a mountain climber. If you don’t know who he is, you have not been paying attention to cycle racing in the last few years. Ever since Lance Armstrong retired from racing, and even after he returned to try again, Alberto has been the strongest climber, and as a result, the man to beat in the big races. So why don’t I like him? I don’t know. But doesn’t every drama need a villain? I will let him be mine. I’m cheering for Andy Schleck, a guy whom I used to hope would fail in his attempts to challenge Lance. Now I wish for him to somehow find a way to out-smart the wily Spanish rider, Contador.

In the race yesterday, they climbed a mountain where the ascent was longer than the distance I ride to work, and they did it at a faster speed uphill than I can ride on flat terrain. I’m pretty sure I could ride faster if people stood on the shoulder of the road along my route and shouted encouragement. Oh, and if they cleared all the cars off the road and let me blow through the intersections, that would help a lot, too.

You know, if I had throngs of excited fans cheering me on during my work day, I think I could accomplish a heck of a lot more than I otherwise normally do.

Unfortunately, my new hero, Andy, suffered a bad shift of gears just as he was kicking in with a monster acceleration at a key moment of the climb. To make it even more heartbreaking, it appeared he was about to achieve a gap on Contador. Instead, he needed to get off his bike to put his chain back on the sprocket, while the group of key competitors raced right on by, countering his attack with one of their own. As they were pulling away, Andy fumbled with his chain and then he needed to put in an incredibly intense effort to limit his losses on the descent. It wasn’t enough, and the overall lead, signified by the honor of wearing the yellow jersey, passed from Andy to Alberto.

Some people question the sportsmanship of attacking a competitor who has been compromised by a mechanical disruption. Right or wrong, as Alberto stood on the podium, in the ceremony which bestows the yellow jersey, he was roundly jeered by the crowd.

Today’s situation didn’t do anything to dispel my disdain for the Spanish leader of Team Astana. Ultimately, I hope the better man wins.

The month of July, to me, means Tour de France. The attention this particular bike race draws is unmatched by any other, and the camera angles provided on the television coverage are astounding. It feels like you are right there to witness every aspect of this race. If you have ever spent long hours on a bike, you can sense what the professional racers are going through. It adds a lot to the experience of watching the broadcasts of the stages.

There is no denying a positive effect that watching the race inspires in us novices when we get off the couch and out on our own bikes. In our minds, it seems like our riding is pretty much the same thing as what we’ve seen of the race, just on an entirely different scale of difficulty. Those racers function at a level that is worlds beyond what the rest of us experience.

Moving from bike racers to the general population, there is a significant difference of abilities in the full spectrum of bike riders in a community. Too often, I feel like the act of riding a bike gets generalized when it comes to making decisions about design of roadways and trails. The same thing seems to happen for people developing opinions about riders and their behaviors. As I ride my bike to and from work, competing with rush-hour traffic  and struggling to navigate the variety of hassles –natural and man-made– that tend to get more annoying each day I face them, I find myself doubting that anyone beyond a select few really understands what it is like.

One obvious hazard is caused by drivers who take offense at sharing the road with cyclists. That is compounded by road shoulders that have suffered from neglect to the point of being unrideable. Many a day of commuting, I find myself wishing I could bring along a city planner on the ride and let them experience what it is like to ride with a purpose, at 16 or 18 mph, and dodge damaged asphalt, sand piles of runoff from rain showers, broken glass and debris, and encroaching overgrowth of vines and tree branches, to finally reach a busy intersection with no button to trigger the light to change.

If I was simply out enjoying a stroll on my bike, I would not likely choose these routes. Kids playing on their bikes don’t ride these routes. Bike trails to the park are a wonderful idea, but they don’t support riding at commuting speeds and rarely lead to the obvious destinations of someone riding to work. I wonder how many of the people who question why a cyclist would ride the road, instead of a trail, in communities where there are many cross streets, have ever pedaled their bike at 18 mph. It’s a no-brainer, trust me.

It may not be the Tour de France, but biking to work can be its own endurance test. I don’t have what it takes to race. Some days, I find I don’t even have what it takes to bike to work. In July, I find plenty of inspiration from seeing what the professionals endure, to help me push on against the relative hazards I face.

Thursday evening, June 17; the last night of tenting on this year’s Jaunt with Jim bike camping adventure…

By the time we started walking to dinner, the first hints of big weather began to appear in the sky over the bluffs. I fretted a bit over having left my jacket in the tent, because it looked to me like it would be raining by the time we were ready to head home. Turned out, it wasn’t moving quite that fast. Well, the storm hadn’t moved in yet, but the threat seemed to be building significantly. With the storm looming, we were informed that it would be a better option to head back to our tents, and the shelter of the school, than to linger long in the restaurant.

During that walk back, I peeked into some of the buildings along the main drag and discovered that the town of Rushford still hadn’t completely recovered from devastating floods that had occurred 3 years ago. The people here had an understandable apprehension when the weather gets intense. Reports were coming in that Lanesboro had received 65 mph straight-line winds and 1 inch hail. We were advised to take down our tents and move into the shelter of the school building.

I asked Jim if the directions were mandatory. He admitted that they were not. I chose to stake down all the lines of my tent and snugged everything tight. A short time later, there came additional urgings from the town Mayor that we all leave the tents and move into the school. Thus far, all we had seen from the storm was lightning and thunder. Out of respect for Jim, the local authorities, and the rest of our concerned bikers, I and the others in the tents around me agreed to step into the school, to wait for the worst.

It was all rather anti-climatic. After about 30 minutes of waiting through bouts of wind, rain showers, and lightning, all of it less than threatening, we went back to our tents. I did hear moments of intense pressure on the rainfly from wind-blown rain, but my shelter performed as it was designed and I was lulled to a pleasant night’s sleep.

In the morning, as per usual, Jim’s wake-up whistle appeared at 30 minutes past 5:00. When Jim reached our vicinity, he asked for Rich, who was in the tent directly next to mine, and I heard Jim ask a favor. He was desperately interested to learn if the trail ahead would be littered with downed trees and the bridges dangerously slippery, before sending the group off after breakfast. He was hoping Rich could make the ride to Lanesboro before 7:00, and then phone in a report.

It was a lot to ask, as it meant leaving as soon as possible and without breakfast, and riding at significant pace to cover the full distance in that constrained amount of time. Sounded like good adventure to me. I volunteered to go with him.

I don’t know if it was a good thing or not that we had just ridden this same route the day before in our quest for additional miles. The morning clouds were touching the ground and we collected moisture of the prevailing mist as we rode. That combined with the significant sweat we generated by striving to work hard enough to cover the distance in the allotted time. With our vision diminished by the conditions we raced along to judge the acceptability of the trail.

How do you test a wet bridge deck for risk when you are in a rush to check for fallen tree limbs on the miles ahead? Beats me. We finally gave up on the plan of reaching the destination of Lanesboro in time and stopped to call in our findings. There were a fair number of sticks and small debris to contend with, but nothing stopping our progress. Rich specifically detailed the two bunnies and deer in two different locations, but word is they didn’t make Jim’s announcement to the group when he finally gave them the go ahead to proceed down the trail.

About a mile later we came upon the first downed tree across the trail. Luckily, it was mostly dead and we were able to snap the wrist-sized limbs off. That done, we combined our strength to lift and roll the remaining portion enough to clear the path. All that was left while we waited for the group to arrive behind us was to find breakfast in Lanesboro. We were directed to the only place with cars parked in front of it. Of course! (As in D’oh!)

On the second to the last day of our week-long bike trip, there were rumors of a potential for afternoon or evening storms. We were aware of this because after so many days of rain, we had become fixated on finding a forecast of sunny weather. When that forecast for sun finally arrived on Wednesday, it came with the caveat of less friendly weather to follow. So, even though the day appeared harmless, with plenty of sunshine, many of us shared an inkling that it wouldn’t last.

We reached our destination that Thursday morning in the amount of time it usually takes us to get to our first break. This was a short day. We had been warned that the available grass area for our tents outside the Rushford school was pretty small and advised to place our tents as tightly as possible. We made it our first priority to get the tents established, before a small number of us set off to add miles by riding the Root River Trail to Lanesboro for lunch. Julie was dead set on showing us the fantastic burgers available at Pedal Pushers Cafe. I think we all appreciated her initiative. Personally, it was their hand-dipped deep-fried cheese curds that won my highest praise.

The next battle we faced was deciding about dessert. We all knew the pie shop in Whalan was almost too enticing to pass up, but Rich chose not to wait and settled for a pretty incredible slice of chocolate cream pie at Pedal Pushers. The group splintered a bit on the return ride to Rushford. As we passed Whalan again, Tim and Julie stopped to indulge at the Aroma Pie Shop, where the hummingbirds feeding just outside the window are as plentiful as the varieties of pies. I had an alternate agenda driving me to get back as soon as possible. I wanted to catch at least the second half of the afternoon’s World Cup match.

It was a pretty hot and sunny afternoon, especially in comparison to the damp, overcast weather of the previous days, and our little extra jaunt for lunch meant we were now approaching 60 miles on the day. When I pulled into Rushford, I was ready to be done. Luckily, I immediately found Rhonda crossing the street and she directed me to the most likely bar where people were watching the game. As a person who doesn’t drink alcohol, I found myself in more bars this trip than I usually visit in a year. I was very hot and thirsty, and I gladly put my trust in the bartender to serve me up a safe concoction to sooth my ills. It was heavenly. Being able to watch World Cup games with the select few riders sharing this common interest, and who had somehow found each other in the same places each day, made it truly special.

At this point, all was calm on the weather front. That was going to change…