Sunday, February 11, 2018

Wilbur ride, beet juice, old man power

021118



It’s all stress and response, really.  Stress, response, recovery, get better, stronger, faster, smarter, whatever.  That’s how the world works.  In every respect.  

We ride bikes very hard and it hurts and we sweat and we breathe and we do the chicane loop over and over and vo2 and threshold and zone whatever and then……….fast.  At least that’s what we hope.  

So I did a hundo plus nine last week with some pals and it was really sublime.  I needed the miles and the outside air, due to the many days of forced trainer time in the basement, so I did what anyone with a desire to ride but no plan would do….I called Bri.  Bri Clark is like the Master Control Program from the movie Tron.  She knows everything in the world and when tasked with something to do she moves at the speed of before you even thought of it.  I know that sentence made no sense but that’s all I have to describe her super-human powers of just getting things done.  And if you want to plan a route to Wilbur and back….well, ask and you shall receive…before you even hit send on the damned text button.  And what a route it was, I tell ye.  

I am currently looking at the pictures in my head that are floating around trying to describe the terrain upon which we rode and all I see is World War 1.  The roads were very crude and dotted with great big holes and rubble and i felt like maybe we would be better off on fat bikes…or dune buggies.  I gave up trying to call out pot holes and bumps because I think that those things were more prevalent than smooth tarmac for the majority of the ride.  And Bri planned this route!  I think she had our best interests in mind when she planned it but I don’t think she accounted for the sheer magnitude of road work that our great city was currently stitching together.  No one could have, mind you.  Indianapolis (and probably most major cities at this point) will, from this point on, be in a perpetual state of Orange Barrels and frantically waving hands as it valiantly tries to keep up with the absolutely horrifying rate of road degradation and general aging that naturally happens to all cities but that no one ever wants to acknowledge.  I bet there was a time when one could ride a bike from the north side of the city to the south right through the middle and not even worry about constantly looking down and calling out road hazards to ones cohorts.  But I also bet that that was in the 1950s or something when the world was a much cooler and docile place and everything was black and white and Opie went fishing with his dad, the Sheriff.  And just like that…I went off topic and the paragraph got way too big and confusing.  Let’s start over:

I originally wanted to write about training and racing because that is what is coming up really soon—Spring is just over the horizon and that is when a particular group of grown men will break out the clippers and razors and shave their legs and pretend that they are the local Legends of the Road and carbon fiber.  And it will be fun.  I always enjoy that time of year.  It is refreshing and difficult and many a leg will burn but man oh man do we all enjoy that bike racing stuff.  And that’s all fun and well and good but I need to tell the story of the ride to Wilbur with the crew.  

We started out from Hotel Clark with a decent group:  myself, Harry, Bri, Betsy, Bob Brooks, and Jim Creamer.  All capable of riding a hundred miles and all in decent shape.  We hit the road and straight away Bri and I were two up and riding a decent tempo up front for the first 45 minutes or so.  We went down Spring Mill because of some problem with the Monon Trail or something…I don’t really remember what it was.  Harry mumbled something about it but I was cold and really just wanted to pedal so as to warm up so I did as I was told.  So down Spring Mill Road we hustled.  Not much conversation, strangely enough, at first.  We pedaled smoothly through the maze of roundabouts of which Carmel is made and pointed our way toward Broad Ripple.  Bob was talking about beet juice and CBD oil and I was casually listening when the first wave of pot holes started to appear more and more frequently and I knew then that the ride had begun in earnest and that now I had to actually pay attention to things.  

We began to point out holes and bumps and dead things and eventually made our way through the Ripple and into the Downtown area of the city, through which I absolutely abhor riding…BUT….Bri made the route and she knows all and I follow orders now instead of giving them and so we rode through the grit and grime and holes and bumps and dead things and strange people with dull eyes looking at us through the windows of their hazy old houses like hungry lizards peering at passing flys (flies? fly’s? —what is the plural of fly?).  Past the Monument and the Courthouse and the bricks and tall buildings and shadows.  You know…downtown Indy is really an interesting place if you take the time to look at it in depth.  There are all sorts of little hideaway stores and pubs and tiny restaurants and shops built into the remnants of the many old and wildly unique structures and edifices that stand guard around our proud little big city.  The bold and vibrant colors of Mass Ave and the Cultural Trail and the Bohemian vibe of Fountain Square…the sour smell of city grime.  It’s all amazing and old but packed with New and we rode through it all and the air was warming up and I felt great.  And then! …we got smacked in the face by the South Side.

The city was behind us and suddenly we were on Bluff Road and there was what appeared to be a sort of suburb or something on the left and a big open stretch of grassy field-land and long-ago abandoned concrete foundations on the right.  The roads were somewhat better here and we could keep the speed up but I knew what was coming up pretty soon and there is no way to get to Wilbur but through a bunch of big hills and old roads and on and on we went.  

This year I have not been eating breakfast before most of my rides.  Actually I have not been eating breakfast before rides for quite a while.  But this day I did.  And I felt really good on the bike so I was generally on the front whenever I could be.  Bri also seemed to be feeling good.  I could tell by the look on her face and the insistence on 21+ for the pace.  Harry did his usual thing of fooling around somewhere near the caboose (that’s what she said) for the most part but when it was his turn to pull he was Steady Eddy and the speed would neither surge nor slow no matter what the incline of the road was.  He is the worlds biggest bluffer and do not ever believe it if he tells you that he is “retired” or “out of shape” or “training for TRIRI this year” because he can and will still make you hurt badly on any incline short of 45 degrees.  And so he hit Observatory with much gusto and panache and seemed to want to punish us for something.  I only had a 23 tooth so I had to stand up and pedal hard so I did and went pretty fast up that hill and what the hell was that surface?  It sure as shit was not pavement.  More like a crumbly sort of loose black silty stuff.  It wasn’t really hard and it wasn’t really soft which made it feel like riding on a dirt road but with a little more traction.  That first hill was steep and I could tell right away that not all of us were going to be happy three hours from now.  

You can tell you are getting close to the hard part of the ride when you get to Mann Road and start to make your way through Mooresville.  Mooresville and the surrounding area is made of hills.  There is no flat.  You either are climbing or descending and usually you are in some sort of danger, be it a savagely eroded road surface or one of the many wild and irritable feral dogs that roam around Morgan County.  Luckily we were un-molested this day and were free to enjoy the suffering of Robb Hill Road and the run-in to Wilbur with not much trouble.  Oh yeah, wait, Robb Hill Road…and I only had the 23 tooth and so I had to stomp up those hills and it reminded me of when I used to ride there when I was younger and not eligible for masters racing and I did what was called “training” because I wanted to be a good bike racer.  

Now by this time I could tell that Jim and Bob were somewhat irritated with the pace up the hills and were huffing and puffing a little bit.  Betsy was a champ and was climbing well and so was Bri.  I was content to just go as fast as the 23 would allow me to but Bri insisted on going a little faster so I had to keep jumping back up and by the time we got to the little corner store in Wilbur I was feeling pretty beat up.  

So we get to the store and we all get our little snacky cakes and energy drinks and I think someone even bought a slim-jim which is very gross but to each his own and we sat in the sun and rested for a few minutes.  Then I glanced to my right and saw Thomas Revard and Seth Worthington and company. They were probably on their hundredth mile or so and just getting started, and I knew right then and there that I was old.  Pro cyclists…..

Aaaaaaand so we started back to our destination which was home and food and comfortable seating and my legs just felt marvelous, for real!  I actually felt like I might be able to do bike racing if need be.  And that made me want to go fast.  And so I did.  And so did Bri.  And then we found ourselves alone without our compatriots and where the hell did they go?  Turns out they took a short-cut because they are outright ninnies and didn’t want to climb up one more hill for fear of terminal hammy cramps or something.  But, we eventually found them and started back toward the South Side and the border of the city and the safety of flat roads and the ride started to feel like it was settling down and we were all good.  But then I heard something strange.  It was a sound like some sort of a very old machine with a lot of pulleys and wheels and cranks and metal all creaking and groaning and shuddering and demanding that we Slow Down!  And What?  Was someone shouting something?  I turned my head around and realized that it was in fact Bob Brooks and not an old decrepit machine that was following us with a bunch of rusty old bits and pieces wanting to give us tetanus.  

Bob was clearly cooked and the look on his face was obviously one of dread because his eyes had actually sunken to the back of his skull and all he could see was a long dark tunnel with a little piece of pizza hanging from a string at the end of it.  He was long gone into that place where all bonked cyclists eventually end up…it doesn’t really have a name but that doesn’t matter because it definitely has a personality and there are rules in there:  no talking, no help, no smiling or laughing and SLOW THE F__K DOWN!!  But keep pedaling!  Do not stop pedaling and what is the quickest route to my refrigerator and food.  That is where we left Bob and I believe he made it home but I’m not entirely sure.  I offered him a gel but he just flailed his hand at me and made a sort of choking sound like a dying bullfrog and rode on.  And so it went until we made it to the Monon Trail and the safely of fine asphalt and hundreds of people with dogs on long leashes.  I left the group at 136th street and the famous eight-circle roundabout that goes under 31 that as far as I can tell no one in their right mind knows how to navigate.  I just sort of count to three and go as fast as I can in as straight a line as possible from one end to the other and hope that no Carmel soccer mom in a huge black SUV doesn’t blast me to smitherines.  

I’m getting tired and I know that last paragraph had very poor grammar but I just don’t care.  It was a great ride and I think I will do it again this Wednesday with Andrz-too many consonants in a row in his name and whoever else wants to ride with us.  Maybe Felipe or Kevin Noone.  If anyone want to find me in the next few days I will be at Gray Goat Bicycle Company trying to convince the world that tubular tires are still the shit and I am the best at sticking them to your rims.  

Your pal,


Twisted Richter