Chasing Pavements

The Tom Brown race has become my fitness barometer. It starts looming on my horizon in May and lurks between my conscious and subconscious like a spy. It  whispers cryptic messages to me as I ride, sleep and try to get through days. I hated the obligation until I was unable to ride last year and like most things when you lose them, it's value became crystal clear.

Leading up to the race I had lured myself into a false sense of bravado. I really thought I was getting fast. Then the BC crew read me the news on a medium pace ride. I fell off the back back like a drunk tourist on a cruise ship and watched in desperation as the wake trailed off into the night. I gave up and posted a desperate blog, thinking I had no chance. I did a few rides solo and picked out some lines and got back to basics. A week before the event things started coming into focus and I had a couple good rides. I knew I had no chance of placing but maybe I wouldn't be last.

The night before the race I crashed on the section of Caddy that I had been obsessing about most. This led to a long night of play, rewind and play again dreams, that robbed me of sleep. I woke up two seconds after my head hit the pillow in a frantic hurry that I could not extinguish.

I got to Tom Brown early but, I just couldn't find a place where the death fidgets would go away. I finally gave in and started warming up (an hour before my wave). On the line I was really jacked up and on the edge of needing defibrillation. A hand hit my shoulder as I staked out my starting spot. Jauncho's smiling face is next to me with (WHAT?) Bike Shop Joey in full Lycra. I hear laughing, indecipherable words, my name and more laughter. I look up to see Big Worm and crew pointing and giving me shit in full cry for all to hear. I realize everything is going to be fine, as I begin laughing uncontrollably.

(side bar) *I had asked the crew not to be encouraging but to pummel me with insults and venom on race day, a detail my damaged little noodle had forgotten till this very second.*

The gun goes off and I get a great start. There are a few really aggressive guys vying for the three foot opening we are approaching at about twenty two miles an hour, five abreast. I blink, hit the brakes, and two squeak by me. I'm fifth into the woods and I settle in and to watch the typical horror show that is the 40-49 beginner class. These guys are all fast but I swear they must never ride dirt. I would not be surprised at all to look up and see a guy in a matching day glow kit, riding at the speed of sound, with a white cane stretched out in front of him. If I wasn't so out of breath I would laugh. We hit the first multi use trail climb and (what a surprise) I go from first to tenth in the first half of the hill. I make it into the woods without losing anymore spots. I get through the tough sections of Caddy upright, despite a few near misses.

On the gravel climb to Tom Brown it is clear I am not going to be able to pace up to anyone, so I go into conservation mode. At the top of the climb, Big Worm and crew are shouting insults (as requested) and it makes me feel better going back to the woods. Once in TB the pack stretches out and I get picked off by a few more riders in and out of my class. I let them all by uncontested. At the BMX track I am considering all the great reasons I should never ride a bike again. I hear screaming. I hear my name. Is it the drill Sergeant from "Full Metal Jacket"? No, it is Big Jim spitting fire and demanding that I do not let him out run me up the hill, to the end of lap one. I am in agony as he screams in my face and I don't have enough air to howl with laughter, so I just pedal harder. I come by the BC crew tents (and the start/finish line) and I am greeted by what can only be described as a blood thirsty mob screaming insults that would make Don Rickles weep for humanity. Red Dragon flips a bird in my face. Men, women and their children yell in slow motion. They curse my family back ten generations. They are going to murder my children. It is as if the villagers that wanted Frankensteins death, are at the bike race. I am laughing as I go by, not at the insults, but at the confused expressions of people (that don't know the BC tribe) recoiling in abject terror. From this moment on, I am having a great time.

My first lap was respectable and on pace with riders much better than me. My second lap is an exercise in survival. I crawl on the climbs and get sloppy on the tight single track. I roll through the finish (in front of eight truly pathetic excuses for MTB racers, who should never darken the door of another event) in 18th place.

Monday felt like New Years Day. It felt like I had slayed a dragon and that I could push hard on rides again. The demon fear had been laid to rest. For the first time in a year I was not defined by some crap hand of genetic cards. I wasn't the "stroke guy" anymore. I was, as I have always been, a slow old guy in a beginner race. Mt. Everest (for better or worse) is where ever you place and climb it. Thank You (Deity of choice) for the great day.

I tacked my race number up in the garage. I know right where it is. I see it every time I pull in on my bike or in my car. Soon it will be just another piece of paper marking a hurdle in distant memory. I'm looking forward to that.


W.B.Z.N.

Paranoid

I haven't slept for three days.

My taint feels like someone hit it with a sledgehammer.

I have spent $150 on bike repairs this week.

My legs hurt.

I have tried three different tire/tube combo's and two different Camelbacks.

I can't get enough water into my body.

People I normally like are now the enemy.

Must be race week.


W.B.Z.N.

Hallelujah

OK it wasn't intentional. As my ole Dad used to say "don't sell the farm!". Well I sold the farm last week after a crap ride. Yesterday I had my best lap of Tom Brown since my return. It's a funny little coinky dink that it happened on race week. I am thinking I may not get last.

My back is doing some kind of lumbar altered states routine, but that's getting better. It follows tradition that I suffer some bizarre aliment on race week so I figure it is a harbinger of good.

I gotta find a line through the rough part of Cadillac, but other than that I am pretty sure I can do two laps.

Stay tuned sports fans.
W.B.Z.N.   

The Fool On The Hill

Decline is a gradual thing. A vine that starts small and then inexplicably takes over the side of the house. In my head, I still think I am a happening guy. I'm a drummer, a skateboarder, surfer, etc. I put on my denim leisure suit and strut through my day to a disco soundtrack. The sound of laughter fades in from the rear, until it envelopes the entire sound stage. I get a glimpse of myself (sans denial goggles) and realize I am a walking cliche of what once was, or may have never been, cool. I am invisible to the opposite sex, and the target of mockery.

Well that the was the scene I watched, and the dialogue I heard, as I played back the dailies from yesterdays drama. Lets start at the beginning...

Paul is receiving unsolicited (is there any other kind?) advice from me about cornering and braking. He made a little bobble and his nerves were messing with his technique. I'm nervous that I'm going to get dropped on what Big Worm had sold as a chill recon of the race loop. After a few more helpful tips, Paul grabs some brakes and lets me go by. Moto Jason is showing me the front half of his bike on every corner. There is an unspoken tension that I imagine horses feel right before a stampede. At the top of Cadillac, before the first downhill, I am right where I want to be, behind Big Jim and Worm. This is the only section in town that I consider myself an "A" rider. In between the two sections I ride well are some technical climbs and some washed out, tight corners that make my gas light come on. I hang on almost to the last gazebo before I have to give in and let Steve A and Moto Jason, go by. It takes a while for Paul to catch me, but he does and I get out of his way too. The rest of the ride is a series of regroups where the boys dutifully sit up and wait for me. Out of pride and obligation, I squeeze out two laps, but any thoughts of racing are dashed.

We all expect to get old and to lose something in the process of aging. Somewhere in the back of our minds we know it is coming. It doesn't prepare you for the actual event or knowing things will never be the same. People frequently tell me I am lucky: doctors, relatives, co-workers, and my long suffering wife. A thirty eight year old lawyer, with the same condition as me, died a week before I had my incident. There were also a lot of people who didn't have strokes, and I would rather be on that team. I never wrote on my life list that I wanted to be the luckiest stroke/PFO survivor. Forgive my ingratitude, I am working on it.

It has been exactly one year and ten days since my stroke. I wrote a few half hearted attempts at putting a brave face forward and left them in and around the virtual waste bin. Facebook had a one of my posts from one year ago, in the margin of my page today, and it read:

"It is all I can do not to suit up and go ride today. I am trying to be patient. I am ready for the next step. I really just want to ride. Go get some dirt for me!"

There were endless replies of support. I was embarrassed at how quickly I forget. Even though I woke up with my face, right arm and legs numb this morning, I realize as I write this, I am lucky. I still have a lot to learn about my new parameters. I hate seeing my friends ride away, but watching from the woods is better than wondering what they are doing from the couch. Forgive my greed, my denial is strong. I hope to find some grace in all this, but like everything else, I am slower than most.

W.B.Z.N.

Acrobat

I have a lot on my mind this fine morning. There is a lot on the scale that needs to be reckoned with. I am trying to make my way through the world and not let the cynical prick that lives in my head, come out and talk. He is a Bastard and only remembers the things that hurt me. Sometimes he serves me well, but it is best if he stays locked down.

I don't want to hate people. People that speed to stop signs. People that eat yogurt and steer with their knees. People that kill cyclists that I know. It is hard to see the other side. It is the most human thing to do, but God help me, it is so very hard.

I don't want to be afraid on my bike. It is my church, my therapist, my one place where the internal dialogue goes quiet. The worst days on the bike are better for my soul than the good days I do not ride. It is always good to go ride, but now I ride with a ghost. Every time a car passes I feel the chill of his death. I think of sons living with no father. Every time I ease onto a road with no bike lanes, I have fear I have never had before. I have never been a victim of discrimination, this is all new. Twelve years I have been riding, but I feel the hate now. Even when they don't yell, crowd, beep their horns or give me the stink eye, I feel it. I know they are not bad people. They are just angry about their own ghosts. They are letting their cynical bastard drive.

It is no coincidence that I am commuting this week. Because I am alive and can ride a bike, I feel as though I should. I should ride as much as I can. I should ride on the road with my fears, with my hate, with those that hate me. I am going to ride because that is the only thing I can do that feels productive. It's my road too. I paid my share, and then some.

Tomorrow, lets ride.


W.B.Z.N.

Ride

I will admit I romanticized my memory of commuting. To be fair my old ride was three miles and my current commute is five. I distinctly remember it being an easy ride, and it was almost entirely on trail.

Now I must be in actual traffic. The same traffic that I can barely stand in my car with the A/C and my Jeff Buckley Pandora station, at just the right volume. The Tazo Awake brewed to perfection in an aluminium cup resting snugly in my holder. I scream at the top of my lungs for people to stay in their lane, to go, to stop, as they approach stop signs, at salt flat speed. Ya! That's how I feel in my F*+^%$# car!

Oh! I forgot what it's like to be out of the saddle, grunting up a climb, when you are barely awake. To have that heavy pack smoldering on your back. The joy of sucking exhaust from the tip of a Suburban, driven by woman on the phone, waiting to turn right, parked in the bike lane. The sphincter tightening sprint down Park Ave. Most of all, I forgot the judgemental stares of the smokers outside the basement entrance to my office (really a converted storage closet...but hey it's a corner and has three windows!).

The worst part is the laundry. I usually wear jeans a few times before I wash them and twice on dress shirts. I hate doing laundry. I edit audio on a computer in an office that's kept at whale hunting temps all day. Pit stains are not a problem. After the 25 minute jaunt to work by bike, you sweat for about a half hour after you change, and all the clothes require cleaning, EVERYDAY! I use twice as many bike clothes, since I am still doing the same after work rides. That means I hit the end of my clothes in two days. You have to get everything together the night before because being late on a bike means being REALLY late. Nothing makes the smokers happier to see you in the clown suit, than the additional bonus of getting to glance at their watch, raise their eye brows and ask if you are off that day.

I do enjoy it. It's nice to have ten miles in at the beginning of group rides. At this point the benefit is not apparent, but I feel different. I love looking at houses. I love that dawn patrol feeling. Yes, I love riding in traffic. I can't explain it. It's a rush. Something is wrong with me....as if you didn't know.

W.B.Z.N.

Secret Of Life

When I bought my first bike (twelve years ago this week) I tried to commute everyday. I used Fern Trail as my route. On dark mornings I held a Dewalt flashlight and later Velcro'd it to the bars. I wore surf baggies, hiking boots and cotton T's. I will never forget how hard core I felt, pumping out 30 miles a week.

What a life saving habit cycling has turned out to be. Since those halcyon days, I have bought eleven bikes (for my family and I) and became a junky. I took my kids out, walking behind them at first, then riding in the granny gear for years. My oldest gave it up early (after realizing he couldn't stand the sound of my advice) and is now a swimmer. My youngest has the bug and now drops his old man on a regular basis.

After getting lapped by the entire cycling community at the Dirty Thirty dirt crit last night, I figure its time I merge into traffic again. Number one sons car blew up and he and I are sharing my car. He needs to swim early and get to his lifeguard gig so I tossed him the keys and I will be commuting until further notice.

Even though I got my ass whipped last night, it was my first five day week with ten hours of saddle time. I was really shocked how slow I was last night and to be honest, it took a while to shake it. It is always better to think you suck and find out you are fast. Thinking you are in shape and getting rocked, is a little tougher to choke down. Still, I am going to call this week a victory. I have only been back on the bike four months, and I never thought I'd ever get back to where I am now.

Point it down the trail or road, throw a leg over, and turn the pedals. Say something supportive when you come around on the right.

W.B.Z.N.