Solo Training ride, Tucson
I arch my back, lean in, roll my shoulders and reposition myself on the saddle. The road ahead is straight and flat; it disappears directly into the horizon, tall mountain peaks on either side. I breathe long slow breaths. The air is dry and cold and tastes like the damp brown desert floor. I feel its sharp fingers deep in my chest. My nose runs; my eyes water. My legs draw smooth powerful big ring circles. My wind jacket flaps lightly, the tires gently hum. There is no traffic, only broad comforting desert silence. The sky is a low, crisp blue. I’m wearing a hat with no helmet, leg and arm warmers, a thermal vest under my jacket and over-socks.
It’s February. I’m perched on the bar tops, hands together, arms straight, head up, alone, in the middle of a 120-mile day, in the middle of a 500-mile week, towards the end of my second consecutive 2000-mile month. I have adapted easily into the monk-like lifestyle of a professional cyclist; embracing the solitary training rides and repetitive dull aching in my thighs from endless base miles as conformation of progress.
I look down; my glasses lightly fog then clear as I look up again. I am suffering gently, silently; penance for the transgressions of my previous life, lost in my thoughts, each pedal stroke a subdued caning and simultaneous absolution. I press on, supple spinning feet reeling in the horizon. The mountains sigh in the distance, the cacti pay no mind. The Circle K gas station sign in the distance is a speck, then a dot, then a destination.
I stop for a Gatorade and crackers, the kind old lady behind the counter asks how my ride is going while I fill my bottles in the sink. I sit alone on the curb outside, chewing, drinking, staring at the snowy mountaintops in the distance. The bike leans quietly, patiently, waiting.
I stand, my legs quiver like fragile sticks holding too much weight. I heel cleat hobble to the bike, direct it forward with a hand on the bars and smoothly swing onto the saddle in one motion. The effortless movement is precious and I smile with it; only 3 more hours to go.
Morning commute
It’s dark when the alarm goes off, dark and cold. The air wraps my chest when I pull the covers; the hardwood floors sting my feet. I stumble into the front room to get dressed for my morning commute. It’s an hour on the bike, an hour on the bike at 4 in the morning, an hour on the bike at 4 in the morning in January, in the Midwest, in a below zero blizzard.
It takes 15 minutes to put everything on: base layer, thermal layer, wool sweater, wind suit, wool socks, toe covers, booties, balaclava, hat, gloves, mittens, glasses, scarf, backpack.
My pedals bang the door on the way out; the freezing air fills my lungs for the first time, my glasses fog instantly. I switch on my headlights, kick the snow off my cleats, clip in and roll down the driveway. I gradually gain momentum, my glasses clean, my eyes water, I see my breath in the headlights, I push the pedals, I move into the dark and I smile because I’m the only person alive.
The snow is 6 inches deep, I relax arms and let the front tire find it’s own way; I lean into the pedals, into the saddle, into instinct. I’ve beaten the plow again which makes the tree canopied country road mine. I make squeaking compressed first tracks directly down the middle of the road so the plow driver can see it when he comes through.
I hear deer running next to me in the darkness, I hear my breath, I hear the snow scrape my fenders, I hear my tires meander, I hear the darkness. I turn over the pedals and I move forward and I move forward and I creep slowly through my headlight tunnel and I dream about the reasons and I consider the options and I smile, and I smile, and everything slows to the pace of heavy lazy snowflakes sparkling in my cold air headlights, and the world is a beautiful place.
Crit Crash
With 5 laps to go, speeding around the second to last right-hander at 40mph, poised perfectly on the inside with the sprinters, the two riders in front of me suddenly locked bars, swerved sharply to the left and instantly cleaned out my front wheel.
My right hand hit the ground first, still holding tightly to the bars, then my hip and thigh slammed and skipped off the pavement. I could hear the crash unfolding in dramatic slamming cracks and wailing brakes off to the left as I rag dolled briefly through the air after the initial impact and somehow landed on my back atop a rider-less bike. At that point I became a passenger, trapped on the grinding metal sled, speeding helplessly towards something the race organizers determined dangerous enough to duct tape an old blue mattress around.