Yesterday was my first "cold weather" ride of the year. I was expecting a temp at the start of about 50F, heating up to 75F by the end if I was lucky. It was hard to choose what to wear, but I settled on running knickers over Trashy Cat satin shorts, a long sleeve jersey, Early Winters fleece jacket with windblock on the fronts of the arms and the whole front, and Mountain Hardwear windblock hat instead of a helmet. (Paved trail.) Oh, and stretchy gloves instead of bike gloves.
You can't imagine how much I look forward to my long rides- hours and hours of uninterrupted Podcast listening time. I confess, I am an addict. I leave one earphone out so I can hear my surroundings, but the talk of triathlon training, wine tasting, and everything bike is so relaxing and entertaining that my riding hours fly by, as long as I have my Podcasts. There's this one Podcast, Zen and the Art of Triathlon, where the guy often talks as he rides, and it's almost like I'm there with him, riding the dusty roads of Texas.
It seemed to take forever for daylight to arrive. I got packed up, and brought my Camelback just in case, though I don't drink that much in cold weather, and thought I could survive from one little store to the next with just a single bottle. The drive to the trail is about 50 miles, and I carry my bike on a rack. When I arrived at the trail, I took my bike off the rack and immediately discovered that the left aerobar pad had fallen off somewhere along the way. How disappointing- the aerobars were only a couple months old and fairly expensive. ($40 to replace the pad, it turns out.) Oh well. I decided against the Camelback, and loaded up all my snacks into the Bento Box. Should I take my little camera? No, not enough room. Never see anything new, anyway.
I can't believe how cold the wind is! I am so glad I am wearing all the windproof stuff. I had planned on riding about 60 miles, but with gas as high as it is, and the sun coming out and heating me up without broiling me like it does in the summer, I decide to do 70 instead. Passing a little park on the left, I see a bunch of food stands and carnival rides. The smells of Kettle Korn and barbecue tempt me as I pass. What is going on? Oh yeah, Cooter Days!
My bottle of Gatorade lasts through the first 35 miles, and I plan on stopping at a little store for a refill. Road shoes are not made for walking. Especially when, like me, you insist on putting on SPD mountain bike cleats so all your shoes go with all your pedals on all your bikes. My shoes are a pair of bargain basement Sidis from Sierra Trading Post. I couldn't afford the red Sidi Dom MTB shoes, so settled on a pair of road shoes. Some things I like- they are super light, very stiff, my feet take a lot longer to get numb, and they are roomy and stretchy and comfy. Some things I HATE. Like how you can't just step on the pedal and stick there until you can click in. You have to either hit the pedal just right, or the slick road shoe sole goes skidding off the pedal, and you rack yourself with all your might on the top tube- geez that hurts!!! Or how you can't walk up the metal ramp to your shed- it's like a skating rink. Or how, walking up to the store, little dogs run in fright from the strange clacking sound of your steps. I opt for a bottle of green tea, and take off home.
But soon I notice my right foot is really float-y. Like too float-y. I think my pedal spring must be getting loose, so I stop to check. But I can't even unclip that foot. So I have to take my shoe off. I turn my bike upside down in the grass. Apparently, one of the screws holding the cleat to the shoe has come off, and the other screw is loose, allowing the shoe to spin, but not unclip. A nice kid stops to help. We bust the shoe off, but can't get the cleat out of the pedal. An older man and his wife on their tandem stop, but are baffled. I shed layer upon layer of my windproof clothing, sweating now, and marvel at how the millions of ants I have planted my bike in aren't biting. Finally, a 71 year old man stops. He manages to get the cleat out, and even has a temporary fix! Yes, if you lose a screw from your cleat, the bottle cage screws are the same size. Amazing. He tells me that at age 71, he has just done his first Century ride last week. His average speed is several mph higher than mine. I am tired of elderly people kicking my ***!
I'm off again, planning to stop at a bike shop in about 10 miles for some replacement screws. There is a little traffic on the trail. I am coming up behind an odd-looking character. He is wearing what appears to be a floppy sombrero, long olive drab pants and a flapping, long-sleeve matching jacket. As I very slowly catch up to him, I see his bike careen off the paved trail, swerve wildly but not go down, and swerve back onto the trail. "Great save!" I plan on telling him as I pass. But my words die in my mouth as he glances back at me. His face looks like a skull surronded by long gray wispy hair. He wants to ride on the left side, but moves over to the right as I go to pass. Right as I pass, he swerves to the left, narrowly missing me. I accelerate, heart pounding, adrenaline rushing. Did he do it on purpose?
Now I am riding scared. The trail is empty except for me and Creepy Guy. But geez, he's riding a million years old Kmart mountain bike, held together with duct tape. He's about 60 years old, or maybe just looks it. Never-the-less, I decide to book out of there. I'm riding as fast as I can without collapsing- 17, 19, 21 mph. I'm breathing like a racehorse. I'm pretending I'm in a race. Then I come to a tore-up road that I have to cross. My plan to veer off to the right doesn't pan out- there is an eight-inch drop down to the gravel which I am afraid to do on a road bike. I unclip (thank God my cleat holds!) and hurry across the two-lane lime rock road, heedless of traffic. Get on, take for freaking ever to clip back in, and set off at a fast pace. And guess who passes me, glancing back with his skull-like blank expression. Creepy Guy.
Ok, I have a new plan. I will drop back, let him go on. I observe his strange passing etiquette several times. Ride on the left, move to the right to allow someone to pass, swerve suddenly back in front of the bike that just passed. Ok, maybe it's just his thing. I almost start to relax. I am wondering how women protect themselves from someone on a bike, who can out-ride them. Pepper spray? Taser? :-) Finally, civilization. Creepy Guy, who has been gradually slowing, takes a hard left down a sidewalk into town. We're right in the middle of Cooter Days. I keep going to the bike shop a block further, and turn off the trail. Creepy guy, having circled around behind me, goes careening past.
Now I am officially scared. I go into the shop, ask for a bottle cage screw. I ask if they are familiar with a strange-looking man in a floppy, wide-brimmed hat. Nope, never seen him before. I explain that he has been following me. They apparently don't want to discuss it. I drag myself out of the shop, and scan the crowd for signs of the man. I don't see him. I have 15 miles to get to my car. I worry about the last seven miles of the trail, through the woods, ending in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere, where I am almost always the last car to leave. I fantasize about asking someone for a ride to my car, maybe even offering my last $8 as payment.
But I decide to tough it out, die at the hands of a serial killer if I have to. I ride about a mile, and see the familiar sight of a sheriff's car, coming down the trail! I am filled with happiness. I stop next to him, and he continues to talk into his radio. "Yeah, they're coming now. I have the Field Service Techs waiting for them at the road crossings." Is it a gang of creepy guys, with a SWAT team preparing to intercept them? The deputy finally turns his attention to me. I describe Creepy Guy. He hasn't seen him, but will watch for him. He says "If I were you, I'd get off the trail for ten or fifteen minutes..." (but I already have, I think, at the bike shop) "...there's a cattle drive coming."
What??? Yes, now I see there are a bunch of horses across the road, on both sides of the trail. I cross to their side. 100 feet away, I see even more horses, and a milling herd of longhorn cattle. Good thing I didn't bring my camera! I edge even further into the trees on the side of the trail. The cattle ooze off the pavement to my side of the road. I cross to the other side. They are about 50 feet away. As soon as I settle in, they swarm over to my new side. Cowboys whoop at them, and a few strays trickle in and out of the trees. I cower (is that where that word comes from?) back even further into the trees. Soon the cows are even with me- big liquid eyes showing fright. This is not routine, and they definitely aren't expecting a strangely-dressed being in the woods. (I know how they feel!) I call out to them- "Hey cowies, it's ok, I won't hurt you, it's ok, go on." You can see it in their eyes, they aren't really sure I'm safe to pass, but there are men on horses and barking dogs and they have bigger things to worry about.
The passing of the herd has lightened my mood. I forge on, kind of fast, but saving some reserve speed just in case. Not that it would do any good. Lance Armstrong can catch me any time he wants. Out in the middle of nowhere, I glance behind me, and have quite a shock before my brain can compute that the quickly-approaching rider is actually another one of those elderly speedsters in a bright yellow and black jersey, not a flapping swerving creepy guy. I try to keep up with him the last five miles, but can't quite do it. Still, through extreme effort, I keep him in sight until the last mile. I wonder how far a human scream will carry.
Then finally I am back safe in the parking lot, and Yellow Man is packing up his bike, and Nice Mom and Kid are trying out roller blades. I am safe at last.
Nanci
