velotel
04-20-2013, 11:20 AM
a good ride, totally different. Started off following bike paths. A surreal experience. Like riding through a movie of what the future will be like. A perfect bike path, concrete, curving past perfect homes surrounded by large gardens, following streams, linking homes and schools and shopping, never crossing a road, always an underpass, amazing. Met joggers, walkers, mothers pushing baby carriages, fathers doing the same, everyone smiles, says hello to four cyclists dressed in black tights and rolling fast. So many changes of direction, changing bike paths, had no idea where we were. Started feeling like I was falling down Alice's tunnel.
Bike paths left behind, or dedicated bike paths because all the roads seem to have large shoulders reserved for cyclists. Rolling past subdivisions, past small shopping centers, road straight and wide. Heading east into a flat land, flat all the way from Colorado to the Mississippi River. But only from a distance. Up close the land rippled and bunched up and swaying. Road straight, flat, two lane if it were marked. It's not, hard to paint dirt. Red dirt, packed, smooth, fast. The smoothness ends, mini waves scattered across its width, washboard but not quite, not yet, but heading there until the graders come out to iron out the wrinkles.
The four of us rolling fast, floating left and right, searching out the smoothest lines. On either side huge homes surrounded by vast properties. Not farms, just homes on lots and lots of property. Big homes, most look like they could easily be 500 to 1000 square meters. Some imposing, standing proud on a rise, making a statement. Some more modest, but modest only relative to the others. All far from town, nothing nearby, no bakery people could walk to, or even ride to, no stores, just prairie measured out in mega pieces for people to build homes on.
Started feeling like we were on a training ride, getting ready to ride the paves of Belgium. Always searching for the smoother line, holding on, big gears, spinning fast. In Belgium the riders cling to the edges, to the margin between the paves and the dirt. Here the cars do the same thing so no part of the road really escapes getting hammered by fat tires and powerful motors. Lots of drivers don't know exactly where the right edge of the their car is so more often than not the smoothest line was right along the edge between the dried and packed road surface and the sloping shoulder still wet and slippery from the snow.
Slowly we change direction until we're headed straight at the foothills, the mountains behind lost in low clouds, the foothills looking dry despite the snows. Small, low trees scattered, giving each other lots of space to drink from a land that sees little rain. On the plains the roads are flat and straight, not even a hint of flowing with the contours, bulldozers and men with instruments focused on straight lines.
A slight bump and we're on pavement, heading into the hills and turns. Mat and his friends are fast, steady. I'm forever dropping back as I relax and wait for my oxygen content to climb back up, the muscles recharged. Then I accelerate, slowly but steadily closing on them, chasing them down. I catch up and keep going, riding the momentum, physical and psychological, I built up catching up. I fly by and slowly roll ahead until the energy burns up, oxygen depleted. They roll by, I watch them go, waiting for my recharge.
The road starts to climb, not steep but steady. I'm off the front, don't know how far, too hard trying to look behind me with an eye that doesn't see much. I hear a sound coming up fast, here they come again only this time they're coming fast and hard. Nope, not them, some guy in a time trial bike tucked in, pushing hard. A serious rider. I press on. More noise coming up fast. Still not them, just another time trial rider, another serious rider. Then they're there, the three of them, cruising by, smooth, steady.
Into some serious climbing now. I'm riding well, not as well as the three of them but not so much slower either. Feeling much better than I thought I would after yesterday's ride. That one wiped me out. Apparently less than I thought because the legs have recuperated. At least some. By the top I can feel the tiredness starting to dominate. It's all downhill, or almost all downhill. A fast downhill, we're scattered out, each following his own line, feels good. Back into town, Jim asks Mat if he has beers at the house. A positive response. An instant, standing acceleration as the three of them shoot off, sprinting for the cooler, still miles away. I watch them go, pedals happily on the medal of the moment, nothing more to give. End up on the wrong side of a stop light. A long stop light. An amazingly long stop light. Could have read a book while the light was red.
They're gone. I roll along in a daze of happy tiredness. Turn left where I think maybe I should, go straight, just rolling along. Finally realize I don't know where I am. Just keep rolling, thinking I'll see something that looks familiar. Except it all looks familiar, just the names on the streets and mailboxes change. No idea where Mat's house is. Okay, no problem, when lost just go to a known point, in this case Vecchio's bike shop. Downtown, easy to find downtown. From there back to the house will be easy. It was. Get to the house, the three of them in lounge mode in the sun. A fine ride.
Bike paths left behind, or dedicated bike paths because all the roads seem to have large shoulders reserved for cyclists. Rolling past subdivisions, past small shopping centers, road straight and wide. Heading east into a flat land, flat all the way from Colorado to the Mississippi River. But only from a distance. Up close the land rippled and bunched up and swaying. Road straight, flat, two lane if it were marked. It's not, hard to paint dirt. Red dirt, packed, smooth, fast. The smoothness ends, mini waves scattered across its width, washboard but not quite, not yet, but heading there until the graders come out to iron out the wrinkles.
The four of us rolling fast, floating left and right, searching out the smoothest lines. On either side huge homes surrounded by vast properties. Not farms, just homes on lots and lots of property. Big homes, most look like they could easily be 500 to 1000 square meters. Some imposing, standing proud on a rise, making a statement. Some more modest, but modest only relative to the others. All far from town, nothing nearby, no bakery people could walk to, or even ride to, no stores, just prairie measured out in mega pieces for people to build homes on.
Started feeling like we were on a training ride, getting ready to ride the paves of Belgium. Always searching for the smoother line, holding on, big gears, spinning fast. In Belgium the riders cling to the edges, to the margin between the paves and the dirt. Here the cars do the same thing so no part of the road really escapes getting hammered by fat tires and powerful motors. Lots of drivers don't know exactly where the right edge of the their car is so more often than not the smoothest line was right along the edge between the dried and packed road surface and the sloping shoulder still wet and slippery from the snow.
Slowly we change direction until we're headed straight at the foothills, the mountains behind lost in low clouds, the foothills looking dry despite the snows. Small, low trees scattered, giving each other lots of space to drink from a land that sees little rain. On the plains the roads are flat and straight, not even a hint of flowing with the contours, bulldozers and men with instruments focused on straight lines.
A slight bump and we're on pavement, heading into the hills and turns. Mat and his friends are fast, steady. I'm forever dropping back as I relax and wait for my oxygen content to climb back up, the muscles recharged. Then I accelerate, slowly but steadily closing on them, chasing them down. I catch up and keep going, riding the momentum, physical and psychological, I built up catching up. I fly by and slowly roll ahead until the energy burns up, oxygen depleted. They roll by, I watch them go, waiting for my recharge.
The road starts to climb, not steep but steady. I'm off the front, don't know how far, too hard trying to look behind me with an eye that doesn't see much. I hear a sound coming up fast, here they come again only this time they're coming fast and hard. Nope, not them, some guy in a time trial bike tucked in, pushing hard. A serious rider. I press on. More noise coming up fast. Still not them, just another time trial rider, another serious rider. Then they're there, the three of them, cruising by, smooth, steady.
Into some serious climbing now. I'm riding well, not as well as the three of them but not so much slower either. Feeling much better than I thought I would after yesterday's ride. That one wiped me out. Apparently less than I thought because the legs have recuperated. At least some. By the top I can feel the tiredness starting to dominate. It's all downhill, or almost all downhill. A fast downhill, we're scattered out, each following his own line, feels good. Back into town, Jim asks Mat if he has beers at the house. A positive response. An instant, standing acceleration as the three of them shoot off, sprinting for the cooler, still miles away. I watch them go, pedals happily on the medal of the moment, nothing more to give. End up on the wrong side of a stop light. A long stop light. An amazingly long stop light. Could have read a book while the light was red.
They're gone. I roll along in a daze of happy tiredness. Turn left where I think maybe I should, go straight, just rolling along. Finally realize I don't know where I am. Just keep rolling, thinking I'll see something that looks familiar. Except it all looks familiar, just the names on the streets and mailboxes change. No idea where Mat's house is. Okay, no problem, when lost just go to a known point, in this case Vecchio's bike shop. Downtown, easy to find downtown. From there back to the house will be easy. It was. Get to the house, the three of them in lounge mode in the sun. A fine ride.