velotel
03-01-2016, 04:31 AM
Gray day, blue lurking somewhere above a steadily thickening skim of clouds, light flat and dull, temperature hovering around zero Celsius. To ride or not the question bouncing around inside my head. What the heck, might as well give it go, see if I catch an energy wave. If not, I can always turn around.
Check the tires, a bit low, pump ‘em up, 65 in back, 60 in front. Dressed in multiple layers of marino thinness for warmth and flexibility. A quick head fix and I’m off, rolling along the plateau, waiting for the signals, the ones my body sends to let me know what it’s ready for. The head’s floating, waiting to see what’s decided, thoroughly shirking any responsibility, just enjoying the buzz. Five K later, thin threads of an idea starting to gather.
Another K, a junction, left and up or straight and down. Inertia makes the call, straight and down, gravity calling. Acceleration, pavement a blur under the tires. The extra air must have made a difference. Or maybe the cold air’s faster.
Turns flowing one into the next. Lean left, right, left, right, on and on. Fingers floating on the brake levers, subtle squeeze from time to time, adjusting arcs. Into the last turns before the valley floor, thoughts coalescing for the return. There’s a small road climbing out of the village, not too long but richly imbued in pain. Main feature a 1300-meter long section averaging over 12%, a mix 7%, 8%, 9% plus ramps ranging into the upper teens. The steepest, longest ramp is the last. Totally dumb idea riding this. Way beyond my current fitness level. Better to leave it for another day when the form’s begging for challenges. I don’t.
First ramp, brutal but okay, around a bend into even worse then a flat in a switchback. Contemplate a rest stop. I don’t, into the next ramp. Then the next. Hit an easier section, only 10% or so. Bad sign when that steep is a relief, sort of. Look up, uh oh, bloody wall up ahead. Doubts about getting up it gnawing at the edge of my focus zone, that cone of vision I’m following up the road. Arms as tired as the legs, all four of them maxed. Make it, yes!
Half a K or so of flatness, even some descent, slow the breathing, maybe stop before rejoining the climb. Hit the junction with the road that will take me back up the mountain. No stop, just swing left and up. Feels like I got swept up in some energy tornado that’s totally out of my control. A strange feeling. It’s not like sensations of omnipotence are raging through me, not even close. Half the time I’m wondering how much longer I can keep this up. The rest of the time I’m a spectator enjoying the show.
Legs are hurting, I’ll stop at a flat up ahead, drink, rest before tackling the last two and a half Ks of 9% and 10% grades. Get to the flat, keep going, like I’m on some express train skipping all the stations, though here express doesn’t mean fast, just not stopping. Seems to be what’s happening today, nothing to do but ride it.
Get to the top, the junction I passed so long ago, the one where left was up, straight was down, only this time it’s right is up, straight is back to the house. Going right isn’t an option. I go right anyway, without stopping, like my body’s been invaded by some foreign force with an agenda I know nothing about.
Into another climb, only a K but lots of 8%, 9% to finish up what’s left of the legs. Over the top and into three K plus of mixed flats and ups to the col. The flats feel amazingly good, like floating in cool water on a hot day. The ups hurt, even the barely ups.
The col, a stop mandatory, temperature not far above zero, time to add clothing. Rather crazily there’s some part of me that resents stopping, like it’s ragging at me to get back on the bike and go, screw the extra clothes, forget the cold, just ride. Then there’s the parent side of me saying there’s going to be a price to pay for all this unrestrained exuberance, like seared muscles and cramps. Whatever, too late now. Anyway, it’s all downhill back to the house, or sort of downhill, some down, some up, some flat. Drink, add two layers, back in the flow, the bike flying, legs loving spinning big gears with little effort.
Closing on the home, surfing the speed junky rush, I fly by the house, can’t stop yet, still trapped in this energy tornado. Gotta do Pavarotti, that’s what I call it, the climb up through the village where I live. Road doesn’t go anywhere, just to the top of the village, three switchbacks, 60 meters of gain, 800 meters or so long. My traditional finish. There’s a house inside the last switchback with a bunch of hunting dogs. Every time I ride by, guaranteed, there’s this one dog who comes racing out of his shelter in full throat, letting the world know there’s a stranger on the horizon. I call him Pavarotti. He’s getting old. I’ll miss him when he’s gone. Today he’s still there, comes barreling out, voice in top form, lots of time to listen to him because now I’m slow, the tornado starting to collapse.
Hit the top, swing around, head down, back to the house, finished, in every sense. A crazy ride, one beyond my fitness level, except I did it anyway. Which is kind of where I am these days. I’m old enough that waiting for the right day, the right form, the right star alignment, is no longer a viable option. Wait and I could be too late, game over. If I’m going to do it, better do it now because tomorrow is nothing more than a vague concept, a house of cards built on sand. Rather incredibly, if there was a price for my foolishness, my body didn’t pay it any attention, just relished the residual feelings of riding a bike and riding it well. Or well enough. Can’t ask for more than that I guess.
No pics, I just rode.
Check the tires, a bit low, pump ‘em up, 65 in back, 60 in front. Dressed in multiple layers of marino thinness for warmth and flexibility. A quick head fix and I’m off, rolling along the plateau, waiting for the signals, the ones my body sends to let me know what it’s ready for. The head’s floating, waiting to see what’s decided, thoroughly shirking any responsibility, just enjoying the buzz. Five K later, thin threads of an idea starting to gather.
Another K, a junction, left and up or straight and down. Inertia makes the call, straight and down, gravity calling. Acceleration, pavement a blur under the tires. The extra air must have made a difference. Or maybe the cold air’s faster.
Turns flowing one into the next. Lean left, right, left, right, on and on. Fingers floating on the brake levers, subtle squeeze from time to time, adjusting arcs. Into the last turns before the valley floor, thoughts coalescing for the return. There’s a small road climbing out of the village, not too long but richly imbued in pain. Main feature a 1300-meter long section averaging over 12%, a mix 7%, 8%, 9% plus ramps ranging into the upper teens. The steepest, longest ramp is the last. Totally dumb idea riding this. Way beyond my current fitness level. Better to leave it for another day when the form’s begging for challenges. I don’t.
First ramp, brutal but okay, around a bend into even worse then a flat in a switchback. Contemplate a rest stop. I don’t, into the next ramp. Then the next. Hit an easier section, only 10% or so. Bad sign when that steep is a relief, sort of. Look up, uh oh, bloody wall up ahead. Doubts about getting up it gnawing at the edge of my focus zone, that cone of vision I’m following up the road. Arms as tired as the legs, all four of them maxed. Make it, yes!
Half a K or so of flatness, even some descent, slow the breathing, maybe stop before rejoining the climb. Hit the junction with the road that will take me back up the mountain. No stop, just swing left and up. Feels like I got swept up in some energy tornado that’s totally out of my control. A strange feeling. It’s not like sensations of omnipotence are raging through me, not even close. Half the time I’m wondering how much longer I can keep this up. The rest of the time I’m a spectator enjoying the show.
Legs are hurting, I’ll stop at a flat up ahead, drink, rest before tackling the last two and a half Ks of 9% and 10% grades. Get to the flat, keep going, like I’m on some express train skipping all the stations, though here express doesn’t mean fast, just not stopping. Seems to be what’s happening today, nothing to do but ride it.
Get to the top, the junction I passed so long ago, the one where left was up, straight was down, only this time it’s right is up, straight is back to the house. Going right isn’t an option. I go right anyway, without stopping, like my body’s been invaded by some foreign force with an agenda I know nothing about.
Into another climb, only a K but lots of 8%, 9% to finish up what’s left of the legs. Over the top and into three K plus of mixed flats and ups to the col. The flats feel amazingly good, like floating in cool water on a hot day. The ups hurt, even the barely ups.
The col, a stop mandatory, temperature not far above zero, time to add clothing. Rather crazily there’s some part of me that resents stopping, like it’s ragging at me to get back on the bike and go, screw the extra clothes, forget the cold, just ride. Then there’s the parent side of me saying there’s going to be a price to pay for all this unrestrained exuberance, like seared muscles and cramps. Whatever, too late now. Anyway, it’s all downhill back to the house, or sort of downhill, some down, some up, some flat. Drink, add two layers, back in the flow, the bike flying, legs loving spinning big gears with little effort.
Closing on the home, surfing the speed junky rush, I fly by the house, can’t stop yet, still trapped in this energy tornado. Gotta do Pavarotti, that’s what I call it, the climb up through the village where I live. Road doesn’t go anywhere, just to the top of the village, three switchbacks, 60 meters of gain, 800 meters or so long. My traditional finish. There’s a house inside the last switchback with a bunch of hunting dogs. Every time I ride by, guaranteed, there’s this one dog who comes racing out of his shelter in full throat, letting the world know there’s a stranger on the horizon. I call him Pavarotti. He’s getting old. I’ll miss him when he’s gone. Today he’s still there, comes barreling out, voice in top form, lots of time to listen to him because now I’m slow, the tornado starting to collapse.
Hit the top, swing around, head down, back to the house, finished, in every sense. A crazy ride, one beyond my fitness level, except I did it anyway. Which is kind of where I am these days. I’m old enough that waiting for the right day, the right form, the right star alignment, is no longer a viable option. Wait and I could be too late, game over. If I’m going to do it, better do it now because tomorrow is nothing more than a vague concept, a house of cards built on sand. Rather incredibly, if there was a price for my foolishness, my body didn’t pay it any attention, just relished the residual feelings of riding a bike and riding it well. Or well enough. Can’t ask for more than that I guess.
No pics, I just rode.