*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….
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