UPDATE!!!

So.

It has been a crazy two days, scrambling to try and get ready for the ride. So the following:

Wall Versus Bonk
Wind: Cycling's Ninth Circle of Hell
I…Beg Your Pardon?
Training, i.e. The History of a Divorce

Will all be posted next week, post-race.

Survival presumptive. 

There will also be a post or two discussing the race itself aaaaand overnight camping.  I hear there are…cots.

Hmmmm.

AND WE RIDE!!!

😜

Donations:

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Cheryl_Masraum

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Steve_Masraum

Steep Hills and Concrete Channels: A Love Affair

Steve and I argue occasionally, as married couples do. These things are usually settled fairly easily by one of us ceding to the other, area of expertise dependent.

Usually that’s what happens. (Not always 😂). 

Steve happens to be the math guru.

When angles, distances, or complicated equations of the higher math variety are required, he is the go-to guy.

Now, considering our area of country, you’d assume our rides generally cover terrain that is well, flat. Not so! At least, not where we ride. Two bayous, back to back, provide us with quite a  surprising amount of elevational variation.

- I do not care for heights. 

- I do not care for speed. 

- I particularly do not care for heights and speed in conjunction.

Of the many things I have learned during this little adventure, one is that any exceptionally steep decline is guaranteed to dead end into an impossibly sharp turn. One that must be made in order to avoid ending up at the bottom of a channel.

Channels are made of concrete.

Often there is a little water.

(As if that weren’t enough, where there is water, there might be ducks! Mind, I have yet to see any, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there…lurking.)

There is one place on our ride that is, for lack of a better word, horrifying. 

Normally I would rather go downhill than up, for…well, surely obvious reasons?  In this particular instance I would rather climb that hill five times to avoid going down once.

I…so not kidding. 😟

As you perch atop that 45 degree angle and gaze upon the hard left turn required to avoid ending up plummeting to your death in a 30 foot drop, you might begin to wonder what atrocities you’ve committed during a previous lifetime that have gotten you to this particular place at this particular time.

Imagine this as endless continuous loop for your thrice weekly cycling experience.

Steve, in his willful ignorance, insists the downhill run is only 15 degrees, and the left turn, while sharp, would only entail a 15 foot drop if missed.

He is wrong. 

This brooks no argument.

Donations:

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Cheryl_Masraum

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Steve_Masraum

Ducks are a Hazard! I repeat, DUCKS ARE A HAZARD

I’ve never understood those people who are freaked out by birds. Something about their beady little eyes being all cold and reptilian, I guess.

I like birds. I mean, not in love or anything. I don’t practice bird calls or pepper the house with a bird decorated motif. 

But, yeah. Call me pro bird.

I now realize that stance was merely a circumstance of having little interaction with the bird population at large.

I don’t know where (or if) most of you ride. We spend much time on a couple of bayous. Which means water. 

There are…ducks.

At first, this posed no problem. Why should it? Aside from the occasional, “Oh, look! Ducks! How pretty,” there was really very little to say.

However, as I started logging more saddle time I started noticing. Things.

Like, the occasional duck who stood in the middle of the path and met your eyes. Defiantly. 

(There is nothing so defiant as the gaze of a duck!)

You could tell it was somehow…daring you.

Daring you to hit it? Come within snapping range? Kill yourself practicing avoidance maneuvers?

I DO NOT KNOW

Worse, there were the ducks who saw you coming and moved deliberately to block your path.

DELIBERATELY

It was…disturbing.

I don’t want you to think I’m maligning the general duck population.

These were rogue ducks

You could see it in their beady little eyes….

After several rides enduring duck bullying, a memory surfaced from my childhood. My grandmother had a duck. It used to chase my sister, cousin, and self out of our toddler wading pool.

Strangely, if memory serves, no one wanted to interfere with the duck. Excuses were made, along the lines of the duck being old and crotchety. 

Now, I see those excuses for what they were.

Duck enabling.

Or maybe, just maybe, they were just terrified.

Of the duck.

All that long-winded meandering boils done to one thing.

I get it now.

Those people that think birds are creepy minions of evil?

They were talking about ducks.  

Donations:

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Cheryl_Masraum

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Steve_Masraum

Humiliation 101

*flashing lights* 

Post change alert! 

Humiliation 101 is replacing The Three Ss: Sit Bones, Safety, Survival.

(Hey. I told you this was on the fly. 😁)

Sit bones will be covered in another post. Safety, meh. Survival? My expectations are low.

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk about passing. 

You’re probably wondering what I, the Queen of the Uncoordinated, could possibly have to say about the rules of passing other bikers.

Aaaaand, that would be nothing.

I’m not talking that kind of passing. 

I only wish I were….

- During our biking sortes, I have I’ve been passed by people who looked too feeble to stand alone unsupported. 

- A young lady five inches shorter and possibly seventy pounds heavier SAILED past me one day.  On a city bike. 

- Once…I was passed going uphill. By a jogger. 

Last weekend we went cycling with a local club. One of those rides where there are multiple groups. They offered a no-drop group. My choice. Naturally.

The next tier up was touted as riding in the 14 to 16 mile an hour range. In my innocence (long lost at this point), I assumed the no-drop group would ride at a more sedate pace, say…twelve miles an hour.

You know what they say about people who assume.

I started off third or fourth in line. No worries.

Slowly. They began to pass. After the number of *passers* reached seven or eight, I began to get a bit…let’s just go with, concerned.

Turns out, the no-droppers, for some ungodly reason, try to keep at 14 miles an hour.

I am a 12 mile an hour rider….

However, no fear! The no-drop team has a cyclist in the rear, to ensure, you guessed it, that no one gets dropped.

I huff along. My little legs pedaling.

One of the front-runners pulls off. Flat tire. Rear team cyclist (the one whose supposed to make sure no-one gets dropped) stops to help.

I am now officially the *turtle*.

The now officially trepidatious turtle.

I managed to pretty well keep up until the mid-point when we broke for a rest. Barely. But…it was not pretty. No. Not pretty.

Once I dragged into the convenience store parking lot I immediately tracked down the group leader.

Me: I am having trouble with the speed.

Him: Oh? Really? 

He seemed…how shall I put it? A little lacking in concern?

Him: The ride back is usually slower.

Tone and manner remained a touch insouciant for my taste. Particularly since I was I had no idea where I was or how to get back to the start point.

Did I mention I had no phone?

(Yeah, yeah. I know.)

We start back. 

Immediately, I fell behind. 

HOLY CRAP 😳

What is it Scarlet O’Hara says in that moving scene where she renounces all future ties with any sort of morality in order to ensure she is never poor again? “As God is my witness…something, something.”

Me: “As God is my witness…just get me home and I’ll never…!”

(I’ll spare you the gory details. 😝)

The next couple of miles were hell. Particularly as the rear cyclist whizzed past me the first mile in. At which point, I, in a word, PANICKED.

For about ten minutes. 

It was about then I realized they’d left someone to babysit me for the return 18 miles. A very nice gentlemen, who’d passed me going out, and the self-designated slow rider of the group.

He was…72.

:headdesk:

*Turtle - for those not in the know, this means the last cyclist in the line. I am not certain, but I suspect it's not entirely complimentary….

Donations:

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Cheryl_Masraum

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Steve_Masraum

Come a Cropper

Considering my lifelong lack of coordination you’d think falling would be second nature. Not so. I avoid the falls. That’s not to say the falls avoid me, but I try to limit our acquaintance as much as possible.

To date, I’ve taken three tumbles while cycling.

One:

Some would take falling during a test ride as a sign. A little indication the bike in question might not be the bike for you.

Moi? Not so. 

After all, I survived. And with little injury aside from a scraped hand and bloodied knee.  True, I’d been wearing jeans at the time, so perhaps not the lightest fall on record, but still, it’s not like I broke anything.

I took it as a sign the bike was spirited.

With the benefit of hindsight I can see that might have been faulty logic on my part.

But…that’s how you pick a horse, right?

I bought her. 

Two:

Hmmm.  Sometimes one has information that is of a slightly delicate nature to convey.

So. 

• Say one was riding along and accidentally rode off the pavement into the grass. 
• Say one’s inexperience was such that one did not realize a certain angle was required to transition from grass to pavement. 
• Say in the resulting fall one did not ensure one’s…errr…nether regions…were fully disengaged at a safe distance from the saddle. 
• Say impact brought said nether regions and aforementioned saddle…together.

At speed. 😑

• Say one has another five miles to go before reaching an ice pack. 
• Say that disengagement during falls is now a top priority. In fact, the ONLY priority. 

Three:

Two words.

Clipless pedals.

First off, I want to say the name is just silly. Yeah, yeah, I get it, but the darn things still clip!

Second. Oh, boy. 

I had doubts about these little suckers right off the bat. In fact, so trepidatious was I that it was a couple of months before I worked up the nerve to clip. 

A little practice on the trainer. A careful dry run in a parking lot. Meh. Okay. 

We ride.

The first few stops went…okay. Not saying I was graceful by any means you care to measure, but I stayed upright. 

Slow down - Unclip right foot - Put foot on ground.

Couple of traffic lights. No problem. 

I started to breath a little easier. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad?

Next traffic light. I…am not entirely sure what happened. Leaning too far to one side maybe? All I know is it felt strange. I panicked.  And tried to release my left foot.

Nope.

*boom*

Hip. Meet curb. 

I am under my bike, both feet still clipped.

Let me just say that Steve is always talking about how tiny my bike is. Let me just say it did not seem tiny in that particular moment.

I was trapped.

And Steve, Steve, who is usually a jump-into-action kinda fella, just stood there, mouth hanging open, expression aghast.

(Cycling and open mouths. I really don’t get the connection, buuuuut there is one.)

I struggled. 

That means I flailed about. Pointlessly, though no doubt high entertainment for all the stopped cars at the intersection. 

Steve still stood. Gaping.

Me: Help me. 

(I might have snarled.)

He unfroze and between the two of us got me untangled and upright.

Steve: Are you okay?

Me: Shut up.

We finished up the ride, mostly in silence, before limping home. To the ice pack.

Turns out I’m not osteoporotic. At least, not yet. Huzzah?

Nothing broken, but stiff for days. And a bruise the size of a salad plate on my left hip.

Fricking curb. 😠

By the way, merely as a point of interest, Steve falls all the time. 

All. The. Time.  

Don’t tell him I said so. 

😝

*Steve was not familiar with the expression “Come a cropper”. For anyone else not familiar, it’s of British origin. Blame my addiction to out-of-date mysteries. 




Donations:

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Cheryl_Masraum

http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/Steve_Masraum