My name is Inigo Montoya
Yesterday I fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The
most famous is: Never get involved in a land war in Asia. Only slightly
less well known is this: Never get into a pace line with a rider wearing a sleeveless jersey.
If you got the mangled reference, congratulations- you're old.
I decided to ride the Foothills parkway outside of Knoxville after reading a couple short entries about it. The last time I was in the area, my riding range was limited because I didn't have a car, although I was familiar with the area. Only so many hours in the day. The accounts made it seem interesting enough, and so I piled the bike in the car and drove to see what it was all about. When I got to the start, a large group of triathletes was unloading to ride up the hill. I was invited to tag along, and I figured I would at least have someone there to pick up the pieces if the 12 hours of flying I had completed the day before completely trashed my legs.
As we started off, I fell in mid-pack, not knowing where I fit in. The rider ahead of me had a little tube of sunscreen on a carabiner hooked to his saddle, and I was left with the unpleasant image of Truck Nutz stuck in my head for a while. As the road immediately started climbing steadily, it didn't take long for the pecking order to establish itself. This wasn't a steep climb, but more like a steady grind. By the time we reached the first crest at 3 miles, there was 4 or 5 of us left. The front two were chatting away and breathing through their noses, and I was plugging away at or above threshold. I wasn't dying, but it had been a while since I'd done that sort of intensity and the legs were starting to eye me with quizzical looks. After the initial climb, a nice descent allowed for some recovery before we started a slightly longer grind that eventually shed 2 more riders. It was just me and the nose-breathing triathletes, and eventually I dropped off to save something, since I'd never ridden this road.
We re-grouped at the top, and while the rest of the group turned around or explored other routes, three of us continued to the end of the Parkway. It's been a while since I've done seven miles of more or less constant descent. Nothing steep, but it was pretty steady. My pseudo-carbon wheels accelerated easily for the first time all day, and I was air-braking and scrubbing speed to stay in line. Eventually I passed the lead rider and opened it up a little. That's when I noticed that my el-cheapo wheels had a tragic defect- they got a little squirrely at speed. Nothing major, so I played around with positioning and weighting to see how they were affected. This caused a little concern in those behind me, as I would speed up and slow down at odd intervals, and occasionally drift across the road as the wind hit me when the front wheel was less loaded.
Oh the irony- triathletes being concerned about the roadie's bike-handling skills. I don't blame them, although eventually I got a series of compromises ironed out to keep the wheels under control(ish).
On the return trip, the remaining nose-breather took off to catch up with some buddies we passed, leaving me and another rider to make the return trip. I decided to ride easier, settling into a tempo pace so I could reach the top with something left in the tank. The rider with me initially led, probably trying to keep up with the nose-breather, but eventually fell back behind me. I chugged along, occasionally looking back to see if he was still in sight. We each rode our own ride, and I stopped to wait at the top to make sure he was there. I didn't wait long, and on the final descent of the parkway we started catching up with other parts of the group.
Since we had only ridden 33 miles and this was my only full day of riding this trip, I felt like I needed to do more, so I said goodbye to the sleeveless masses and did a loop of the local back roads that I had explored years before. A series of punchy climbs eventually knocked all of the remaining energy out of legs conditioned by the trainer. I limped the rest of the way around, finishing up for a total of 50 miles. Not the big number I was shooting for at the start of the day, but it was what I had in the tank. Considering how long I spent at or above threshold for the ride, I figure I did enough and called it a day. I downed a quart of lowfat chocolate milk on the ride home, since my bottles were empty and I could feel my muscles starting to eat themselves.
My reward when I got back to my room? A steady, if unimpressive drip from the shower head. A call to the desk, an oh-so-satisfying baby wipe bath, a walk to the office, and a short relocation of all of my freshly-unpacked stuff was required before I had a working shower. As I squeegeed my sweat encrusted fat rolls, I reflected that I got more out of the day than I had anticipated, which in this case was a good thing.
Doesn't mean I'm cutting off my sleeves, though.
If you got the mangled reference, congratulations- you're old.
I decided to ride the Foothills parkway outside of Knoxville after reading a couple short entries about it. The last time I was in the area, my riding range was limited because I didn't have a car, although I was familiar with the area. Only so many hours in the day. The accounts made it seem interesting enough, and so I piled the bike in the car and drove to see what it was all about. When I got to the start, a large group of triathletes was unloading to ride up the hill. I was invited to tag along, and I figured I would at least have someone there to pick up the pieces if the 12 hours of flying I had completed the day before completely trashed my legs.
As we started off, I fell in mid-pack, not knowing where I fit in. The rider ahead of me had a little tube of sunscreen on a carabiner hooked to his saddle, and I was left with the unpleasant image of Truck Nutz stuck in my head for a while. As the road immediately started climbing steadily, it didn't take long for the pecking order to establish itself. This wasn't a steep climb, but more like a steady grind. By the time we reached the first crest at 3 miles, there was 4 or 5 of us left. The front two were chatting away and breathing through their noses, and I was plugging away at or above threshold. I wasn't dying, but it had been a while since I'd done that sort of intensity and the legs were starting to eye me with quizzical looks. After the initial climb, a nice descent allowed for some recovery before we started a slightly longer grind that eventually shed 2 more riders. It was just me and the nose-breathing triathletes, and eventually I dropped off to save something, since I'd never ridden this road.
We re-grouped at the top, and while the rest of the group turned around or explored other routes, three of us continued to the end of the Parkway. It's been a while since I've done seven miles of more or less constant descent. Nothing steep, but it was pretty steady. My pseudo-carbon wheels accelerated easily for the first time all day, and I was air-braking and scrubbing speed to stay in line. Eventually I passed the lead rider and opened it up a little. That's when I noticed that my el-cheapo wheels had a tragic defect- they got a little squirrely at speed. Nothing major, so I played around with positioning and weighting to see how they were affected. This caused a little concern in those behind me, as I would speed up and slow down at odd intervals, and occasionally drift across the road as the wind hit me when the front wheel was less loaded.
Oh the irony- triathletes being concerned about the roadie's bike-handling skills. I don't blame them, although eventually I got a series of compromises ironed out to keep the wheels under control(ish).
On the return trip, the remaining nose-breather took off to catch up with some buddies we passed, leaving me and another rider to make the return trip. I decided to ride easier, settling into a tempo pace so I could reach the top with something left in the tank. The rider with me initially led, probably trying to keep up with the nose-breather, but eventually fell back behind me. I chugged along, occasionally looking back to see if he was still in sight. We each rode our own ride, and I stopped to wait at the top to make sure he was there. I didn't wait long, and on the final descent of the parkway we started catching up with other parts of the group.
Since we had only ridden 33 miles and this was my only full day of riding this trip, I felt like I needed to do more, so I said goodbye to the sleeveless masses and did a loop of the local back roads that I had explored years before. A series of punchy climbs eventually knocked all of the remaining energy out of legs conditioned by the trainer. I limped the rest of the way around, finishing up for a total of 50 miles. Not the big number I was shooting for at the start of the day, but it was what I had in the tank. Considering how long I spent at or above threshold for the ride, I figure I did enough and called it a day. I downed a quart of lowfat chocolate milk on the ride home, since my bottles were empty and I could feel my muscles starting to eat themselves.
My reward when I got back to my room? A steady, if unimpressive drip from the shower head. A call to the desk, an oh-so-satisfying baby wipe bath, a walk to the office, and a short relocation of all of my freshly-unpacked stuff was required before I had a working shower. As I squeegeed my sweat encrusted fat rolls, I reflected that I got more out of the day than I had anticipated, which in this case was a good thing.
Doesn't mean I'm cutting off my sleeves, though.
Comments
Post a Comment