Internal Detours

the 7th annual Martin Luther King, Jr. Day ride

2010-01-20T19:35:00.009-05:00

Ainsley had posted to Facebook (remember a time before Facebook? Or blogs, for that matter?) that he would be leading this year's MLK Jr. Day ride. For those who aren't former GCC riders or long-term followers of this blog, that's our little ride from scenic blink-and-you'll-miss-it Hodges, SC to Abbeville via the old route between those two bustling metropolises. After a leisurely lunch at Theo's, the route comes back via SC 20 to Central Shiloh Church Road to Gilgal Church Road to 185 before turning onto 203 for the climb up Dead Rooster Hill and on up to Hodges once more.

It's a fun ride, and most years it's pretty laid back. The first year it was me, Ainsley and his mother Vonona. I had my heart attack a couple of months later. In '05 Ainsley and I were the only ones out there, riding in brutally cold temperatures. The photos taken that day show me wearing a scarf wrapped around my head in full Mother Russia pattern under my helmet, while Ainsley wore his bio-hazard gloves for added warmth. In '06 we had a dozen or more riders. I missed '09 due to having a new baby in the house, and apart from my wife's really needing me there, who can ride when you never get more than two hours of sleep at a time?

I knew I needed to prep for the ride. Ha. So Ainsley and I met on Saturday for a ramble. I had adjusted my saddle again, trying to fix the problems created when my saddle nose suddenly started slipping the week before. I figured, hey, I can just kinda set it back by eye and go with it.

Heh.

So off we went, and while I felt like I was slipping forward just a hair, it was basically all right. We went out the trail and down Florida and off through Wisewood, just like old times. Out onto Scotch Cross Road, and then hooking left onto Norris for my first dirt road of the year. We turned right on the Canadian Mist Highway (so-named for the zillions of empty pint bottles that once lined the road's edge) and then right again onto Hitching Post Road (because you can never get enough dirt roads in on a Russ & Ainsley fixed-gear ride). We came back in on the trail and I had 20.73 miles, the longest single ride I'd done since August '08.

I felt like I was sliding off the nose of my saddle, so when I got home I went down into the basement and made my next compounding mistake - I just raised the nose of the saddle until I thought it looked right. Hunh. Then I went back upstairs and took a rest day.

Monday came, and my fabulous, loving, wonderfully patient wife Annie took the babies for the day while I loaded up the bike and my wool-clad self into the pickup truck and drove out to Hodges.

Ainsley had already arrived - he had ridden to the ride, and for the fourth time or so I thought, "Next year I need to do that." Bill Thompson was there, Dave Strawhorn was there, and Dan from the Laurens club. That was it, but it was enough. Nobody felt like hammering, we were all in a laid-back mood, and after waiting a few minutes more to make certain no one else was coming, we set off down the hill.

The saddle angle change had lowered my effective saddle height. Finally, I called a mechanical halt and we stopped long enough for me to raise the saddle maybe 6mm or so. Hmm. Okay, I thought, and we set off again.

This was NOT like the Saturday ride. I felt very slow and sluggish climbing up the hill to Klugh Road, and the long descent down to the bridge near the church on Old Abbeville-Hodges Road was a spin-fest I wasn't ready for. I still managed to hit 29 mph, and this with a 67-in gear, so it was my fastest spinning in years. Needless to say, the climb that followed was almost a relief.

But Dave was nice and hung out with me, and we rode with Bill Thompson, making sure we were all in sight of each other. And we were, and Ainsley and Dan stopped at the top of almost all hills and waited. We even had a nice long rest at the next to last intersection before Abbeville proper, right before the fastest descent and the climb up Cambridge Street. The final ascent into the town square found me riding at 5 mph. But I didn't get off and walk, because the old Scottish warning (I think courtesy Bob Reid) "Only lassies get off and walk!" was thundering in my ears along with the pulse hammering in my temples.

Over the brick streets then and down to Theo's, where food awaited us. I had a massive sandwich that couldn't be beat, we sat and peeled off layers of road clothes and generally brought property values down and had a great lunch discussion of what makes a good bike club and how to destroy one vs. how to nourish one.

The ride back involved more looking up ahead and watching friends wait for me. S'all right, they were really nice about it. Somewhere on Hwy 20, before we got to Central Shiloh, I felt my shoulders and arms and upper back really start complaining about my saddle height vs. my handlebar height. I hung on until we got to Hwy 185, then called yet another mechanical and rotated my bars up, making the ramps and hoods comfortable and stopping my forward slide, but at the cost of being able to use the drops. Sound crazy? Well, a couple of millimeters make a huge difference for me, alas.

So in we came, and I limped up Dead Rooster Hill and settled in for a slogfest. Bill wasn't too far ahead of me on the climb, and I caught him on the outskirts of town and we rolled in within a few meters of each other. I had something over 27 miles for the day, and I still felt it Wednesday.

And yes, I went back into the basement and dug out a measuring tape and a long spirit level and set my saddle just exactly so. So there.

cyclistcicles

2010-01-11T19:35:00.007-05:00

I emailed Ainsley and said, "Hey, are you up for a painfully slow, probably very short ride with a very out-of-shape cyclist?" And being the generous, kind, thoughtful friend he is, Ainsley allowed that he was - but family schedules meant we would be riding at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday.

Friends - we's in the midst of a cold snap. A very serious cold snap. All the good descriptors of just how cold it is are alas unsuitable for use by this recently minted family man, but take my word for it - it's bloody cold. How folks up North deal with this is beyond me.

At any rate, Ainsley and I hashed out the details. He proposed a ride to the bakery in Ninety Six, and I had to break the news to him that I am just not quite up to that yet. So we finally agreed I'd ride over to his house and we'd set off for whatever we could manage.

It was a balmy 21 degrees or thereabouts when I left the house, wrapped up in some serious wool - to wit, wool undershirts (plural!), wool jersey, cycle shorts, wool leg warmers, lycra tights over top of the lot, windbreaker, brown fleece balaclava, thinsulate gloves purchased for wear in Russia ... and it still wasn't enough. I stopped us at one point so I could don my fleecy ear-band thingy under the balaclava, because of all things, my forehead was freezing cold. Sheesh.

I rode Julius, the first time my dear old fixed-gear Mercian has been out on the open road for a fun ride in eons. I had the presence of mind to flip the rear wheel over to the 18T cog, a nod to my knees and low temperatures. A lower gear is good - my mileage for 2009 was something like 550 miles or so.

I found Ainsley in good spirits, and we chatted a moment while he added the final layers of clothes before we rolled off down Grace Street. It's been probably 18 months since I last rode with him, but I fell right in behind his wheel, then alongside, and we made our way downtown.

"Look, [name redacted] and his crew aren't out riding," he said.

"Nope. Wimps. Maybe they'll be out later," I said. "Of course, we are like the anti-racing set today."

We looked at each other. "You know, no one can see you grin when you wear a balaclava," I said.

Ah, be-fendered English fixed-gear bikes in winter. It's just so, so, so hopelessly British Isles, right out of a Patterson engraving - a very cold looking Patterson engraving. We stopped for my freezing forehead fix, then stopped again a moment later because I discovered I can't refasten my helmet straps while riding along wearing the Russia gloves. Ainsley showed pity on me and kept the pace down.

By the end of the good old rail-trail, I realized that two layers of wool socks in my normal cycling shoes wasn't really doing it for me.

"How about we go down the Canadian Mist highway and cut back in on Norris," Ainsley said. "We can get in some dirt that way."

I had to disillusion him. "I just don't have it today," I said. So we decided to take Florida Avenue across 34 and work our way back via New Market. We caught the light at 34 just right and cruised on across, and I settled in for the spin down the hill, my now ice-cube-like pedal extremities spinning the pedals around madly. I made it up the first part of the hill okay, then settled in, climbing while sitting on the rivet, hands down in the drops.

Suddenly, I found out why the guys riding fixed between the wars so often had the funky secondary pillar holding the nose of the saddle up from the top tube - my saddle slipped.

"Uh, mechanical," I said. So we limped across Marshall and pulled up onto the sidewalk. A few minutes later I had the multi-tool out and was cinching the seat clamp down as tight as I could manage it. The next hill, it slipped again.

"It's all right, Ainsley," I said. "I think I paid, like, $1 for this seatpost, with a saddle attached."

"Yeah, you got your money's worth," he said. I smacked the top of the saddle back into alignment and we limped on into town. A black cat dashed across the width of Main Street, dodging traffic and making it alive to the other side.

"I don't see [cyclist's name redacted]'s car over there," I said. "They're really not riding today?"

"It's only 24 degrees," Ainsley said, and we laughed inside our balaclavas.

I had a little more than 10 miles for the day. My feet needed a full half hour indoors before they felt normal again. My legs felt pretty decent, though, and I felt like I could do it again, depending on the weather.

Later Saturday, I discovered the seatpost was fine after all, and cinched it down hard. Last night, Ana said, "Hey, Ainsley's posted the MLK Jr. ride for this year. Are you going to ride it?"

Yes. This could be a lot of fun.

many months later

2009-03-10T13:30:00.009-04:00

Not much to report, cycling-wise, but much has happened in my life. I pretty much stopped riding anywhere but to work and back in early August, so I could help take care of young Eli. As we hit the last stages of Ana's pregnancy, I really couldn't go too far from home. So I rode Julius the Mercian fixed-gear to work and back each day and that was it.

Our daughter Claire was born in early December. It was a difficult labor, and Ana's recovery was long, slow and painful. Everyone is doing quite nicely now, but there was no time for anything other than babies and work. During the weekends and the long Christmas holidays I got a better understanding of what Ana does all day. With both a toddler AND a newborn, you get a break when both of them are asleep. What to do? Instead of Tom Ritchey's cycling choice - light, cheap or strong, choose two - you get the multiple babies choice - eat, sleep or shower, choose ONE. But be quick about it, because the babies are gonna wake up any minute now.

Then one day it's Spring Break, and you're home with the family ... and the weather's nice ... and your wonderful, loving, gracious spouse says, "Go ride."

So I did. Last Friday it was a short hop, my first pleasure ride in seven months. I wiped the dust off Belle the Rivendell and lubed the chain and pumped up the tires and headed out, taking the rail trail to Wisewood, then looping around to 225 and riding Florida Avenue end to end before working my way home past Sunnyside on Dargan Street. It was a whopping 12.9 miles at a blistering 13.8 mph, but it beats nothing anyday. I had mixed feelings - yeah, I'm slow and out of shape, but it still felt really good to be on a bike again.

Later that afternoon we took the kids to Cambridge Park, where I encountered Tom Austin and his family. He was busy helping his daughters with the swingset, but he took time to talk with me about bikes gathering dust while us aging guys with babies need to stay young. We agreed that they don't get any lighter as they get older, either. It was good to see him again, and reflect back on his concern over my mountain biking when I first started riding again after the heart attack.

Saturday the babies were spending the day with their grandmother and Ana was going out of town to go shopping. I wanted to ride, but not by myself - Ana had the cell in the car with her. A few emails later I learned there was a benefit ride leaving the hospital at 11:00. Violating my rule of always riding to the ride, I drove down to Food Lion and bought some canned goods for the food drive, then ferried them and my bike to Self Regional's parking lot.

I had time to chill out and socialize some with folks I used to ride with all the time - Donnis, Jim Cox, Tom, Jeff "Pepe" Ronan, Dieter, John Lake, Mark the Engineer ... even good old Ernest, astride his magnificent old Polchlopek. I raved about it as always - an Italianate racing bike in its original stars and stripes paint job built in France by a Polish emigre is not something you see everyday. especially in South Carolina. Jackie showed up astride the '69 Mercian Olympic that Mike Melton rebuilt back in '72 or so, before I got it and had CyclArt powdercoat it and fitted it with good, retro parts.

Finally, it was time to take off. It was a leisurely, sociable ride, so we rolled out of the lot and went down Spring Street. We had police officers wave us through a couple of intersections before we turned off onto the rail trail. I rode briefly with a couple of different groups before settling in with the bunch that included Jackie and Donnis.

There was a loud report ahead of me. A second later, Ernest was slowing and pulling off with a blowout. I slowed long enough to learn he and his companions had all they needed to make repairs and headed on to catch back up with the others.

I didn't realize it at the time, but in hindsight something told me to go on up. I told Jackie I was on her left and accelerated. I want to say a couple of other riders were behind me, but I'm not sure, now. Anyway, a moment later I was about 30 to 50 yards ahead of that bunch when I heard the unmistakable sounds of people and bikes colliding and hitting the ground.

I turned and headed back. The first thing I saw was the distinctive forks of the old Mercian Olympic, holding up a dramatically taco'ed front wheel. Jackie was down on the left side of the trail in a near fetal position, while a lady I would later learn was named Amy was down with what emerged to be a couple of broken ribs. My understanding was that a rider in front and to the right of Jackie had merged inward on the trail, striking her front wheel and putting her down, whereupon Amy slammed into her.

Jim by this point was winging his way back to the crash site. After a moment, he headed back to fetch a car, while John Lake escorted the wounded to the trail head. I rode with a bunch of folks up to the end of the trail, where we waited for everyone to arrive. The ride leader (who I never got around to meeting) announced that he would take everyone back on in, as the ride was pretty much over. I told Dieter I would be riding on, and he volunteered to join me. Jim and Caroline Dennis, who had been well back of the action, caught up to us, and there was some discussion of different routes. It was decided that John would do a short ride with the Dennises, and Dieter and I would do a variant of the old Wednesday evening ride.

We waited until Jim had returned, all bikes were loaded up, and both Amy and Jackie were seated and en route to the emergency room before we set off. We wound up doing a slow little ride along the lines of 18 miles or so at 13 mph average speed, about what I expected. The route was a version of the old Wednesday night ride, I struggled up Scotch Cross road, thanked Dieter for the ride and loaded up and went home.

Sunday afternoon I snuck out for a sub-one-hour ride, taking Belle the Rivendell out the length of the trail before working in a loop that got me home in time to get cleaned up and take the whole family out to the park again. All in all, a good day.

See you out there on the road, with any kinda luck at all.

of Rivendells and rain

2008-07-27T21:47:00.002-04:00

So Eli went down for his nap and it was time to go ride. I went down into the basement and looked around at the bikes. It was Belle's turn in the rotation, I decided, so I pumped up the tires and headed out.

I was rolling into downtown when I noticed just how dark the sky was getting. Hmm. Still, I pushed on, because I wanted to ride. I shifted up onto the large chainring and settled into a rhythm, rolling down the rail-trail conversion. For the zillionth time, I noticed how stable and steady the Rivendell runs and thanked Grant Petersen for designing it.

I have moments when I think, "I'll never get to ride brevets, and Paris-Brest-Paris isn't going to happen for me. I don't need this bike." Then I ride it and think, "I really, really like this bike. How crazy it would be to let go of it."

I was turning onto Florida Avenue when the rain started, first as a drizzle, then picking up in intensity as I cut through Wisewood subdivision. I wound up taking shelter on a church's front porch. After about five minutes, it slowed down to a slight drizzle again, and I headed on out.

Water sprayed off my tires and all over my ankles and throughout the drivetrain. I have fenders for this bike, and for a couple of years they stayed on it constantly. I took them off so I could get ready to ride out West, though. Those lovely fenders are sitting hanging on a rod in the basement as I write this, and isn't that a foolish place for them to be?

I shivered a bit initially - I got cold waiting on the church's porch in wet cycling togs, even in July, but once I got back up to speed I warmed up. I left the chain on the big ring and kept switching back and forth between the 19 and the 21T cogs, occasionally dropping onto the 17T for the gentle descents. The sun started playing peek-a-boo with the rain. By the time I reached Highway 248 the sun was shining steadily. I did the old loop out past the high school -

But why am I writing about the route? It's the same route I do over and over again, because time is tight these days. It's bare maintenance mileage, and if I was one of those humorless geeks who takes Bicycling magazine seriously, I'd probably call it garbage miles. But any ride is a good ride, and this was a good ride by that measure, rain and all.

It started clouding up again as I got closer to Greenwood, flagging a bit on the climb up Lebanon Church Road, then picking up the pace again on the Canadian Mist Highway. The rain started again about the time I crossed Main Street and headed down Florida Avenue towards the rail-trail. I gingerly picked my way through the gravel in the turn onto the trail, then accelerated as well as I could. At one point, I startled what looked like a Disney scene - eight birds exploded into flight, while two squirrels AND a bunny rabbit raced off into the woods.

The rain slacked off again. I rolled home with 30 miles for the day - and an opportunity to clean road grit from the Rivendell.

The fenders might have to go back on that bike.

of pretentious restrooms and ungovernable mules

2008-07-22T21:51:00.011-04:00

Still living the life of a man with a very young son and a very pregnant wife - which, as a cyclist, means Saturday morning rides after Eli goes down for his nap and not much else.

A couple of Saturdays back, Ainsley and I met up and rode down to Ninety Six. I wasn't sure if anyone else would show, or if Ainsley would be there or not - but his sweetie was taking care of his daughter, freeing him up for a ride. Had I known he would have been there, I'd have ridden fixed, but I wound up riding Belle the Rivendell because it was her turn in the rotation.

I soon found myself grateful for gears. Ainsley's been getting in his week night rides, and even turning a 65-in fixed-gear with 35 mm tires, he made me work to hang with him. We did the usual route, because that's about all I do these days.

I foolishly suggested we try the new coffee house in Ninety Six. Mistake. When you show up at a coffee house at 11:00 a.m., and they don't have ANY coffee brewed yet - just flee, just flee. But no, we persisted, and wound up ordering coffee. Unfortunately, we discovered it was both weak and some sort of hazelnut flavored crap that overpowered what real coffee flavor was there. Most disappointing.

Before leaving I went to visit the loo. I wound up taking photos of it, because it was the most pretentious public toilet I'd seen in my life - and they screwed that up, too. Oh, yeah, fancy clear glass bowl sink, but it's right next to the same old funky gas station toilet that's been there since 1968 or whenever.

I meant it when I said pretentious - even more so than the men's room at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta, so rococo and Arabian nights in its look that I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking the attendant to point the way to Mecca, please.

Anyhoo, we rode on back in, getting me home by 1:00 with about 30 miles.

The following Saturday I rode downtown to meet Donnis and Connie and Vonona - only to discover they had already left. I was aboard Django the Peugeot, and grateful for gears and sewups and metric gauge Reynolds 531 that "planed" beneath me. You know, the whole "planing" effect, wherein the natural springiness of a lively steel bike works with the rider, as opposed to the brutal, unforgiving rigidity of modern bikes in which stiffness is equated with performance - and then people need carbon fibre and gel to absorb road shock. I gave chase about as well as an out-of-shape guy on a 40-year-old bike gives chase, i.e., I didn't catch up until the very end, when I saw them ahead of me turning into a parking lot. Still, I got in something like 25-28 miles - Django has no electronics still, and I wore no watch, for that matter. Not bad, and I'll take any miles I can get.

Last weekend I met Ainsley at his house, this time astride Julius the Mercian fixed-gear. We had high hopes as we set out for Ninety Six - but it was not to be. Before we got downtown, I was hearing a squeak I couldn't name, coming from somewhere behind me. It got louder as we went along, until finally we could stand it no longer. At the end of the rail trail, we stopped and discovered one of the cones in Ainsley's rear hub had migrated in, away from the locknut. Eek.

I leaned Julius against a post, noting the feral shopping cart guarding the trail's end. It was a Piggly Wiggly cart, from the store that was no longer there, a grocery conveyance with no parking lot to call its own, no place to call home. A sad and lonely existence, as Ainsley and I have noted before.

This time, though, we were out of luck. A pack of speedier guys (well, speedier than I am these days) rolled up.

"Look, homeless people," one said.

After noting our mechanical difficulty, one wag said, "well, you've got that book bag full of tools on your bike, Russ. Can I borrow a truing stand to fix my wheel while we're standing around here?"

"I'm sorry, it's behind the frame alignment table, and I don't think I'd ever get it back in place," I said.

After a moment, they sped off. Ainsley decided he needed to go back home to fix his bike, so I set off for Ninety Six alone. It was the usual thing, I suppose, down the long hill to Lowden Road, and then slogging up to Star Fort. After doing the usual route past the high school, up 246, then down the main drag, I headed for home.

On Lebanon Church Road, I looked to the left and realized that (1) there as a mule staring at me and (2) said mule was standing in someone's front yard, rather than in a fenced pasture. He was in a generous patch of shade, which he had doubtless gone to great lengths to get to. As I rolled up the hill pushing a 72-in gear slower than I wished to, I concluded he was onto something. As I sweated while doing same, I also suspected the mule was smarter than I am.

The rest of the ride in was anticlimactic, except for a final moment when it looked like I might meet my end at the wheels of a whole pack of feral shopping carts on Mineral Avenue - but no, I eluded them successfully. I wound up with 30.3 miles for the day.

Folly Beach vacation cycling, part deux

2008-06-28T14:31:00.008-04:00

When you have a 1-year-old and a pregnant wife, you ride when you get the chance, no matter how short a ride, or how hot the hour, or how touristy the route. You ride because you ride, because making perfect circles with your feet makes perfect sense to you even when no one else understands.

With that in mind, and recognizing that now, in the air-conditioned comfort of my living room on my first afternoon back, the rides blurred together some, here is how the rest of my Folly Beach cycling time went. I would go in the morning, after Eli had awakened and eaten his breakfast. We were delighted that he made huge strides in managing finger food this past week, especially when eating toast. This is huge - it means we can set him up in his high chair and he can simultaneously feed himself at his own pace AND amuse himself for a considerable length of time while doing so. Those of you who have or have had babies will understand completely. Anyway, then we would troop down to the beach for a short, 20-minute or so tramp along the water's edge sans sunscreen. Badger 30 spf + baby + sand = messy meltdown in the tub with much wailing and gnashing of baby teeth, don't you know. After that, he'd go down for his nap and I'd change into shorts and a jersey and head out.

The route didn't deviate too much, really - I'd head west down Ashley, sometimes staying arrow-true all the way down to the county park at the west end of the island, other times winding around on the assorted parallels that started around 12th St. I came to know and love E. Cooper, just as arrow-straight and stop-sign-free, but with much less motor traffic. Erie and Hudson and Huron, how I love your little dumpy beach shacks, stubbornly resisting the march of the enormous beachfront mansions and balcony-laden condos. Not a single dog barked or chased me. Motorists all gave me 3-foot clearance or more when they passed me, and I returned the compliment when I passed them on the long narrow strip between 13th and the 1500 block.

I was surprised when I nearly collided with a rat down on W. Ashley, and concluded they were exceptionally bold due to a distinct shortage of cats - I saw exactly one during my whole stay there.

On my way out to the west end on Friday, I overtook this couple on recumbent trikes. The first time, I said, "hey, there's nothing to draft off of behind y'all!" They were amused, and told me they liked their low-riding machines just fine. We chatted briefly, then I pointed the old Peugeot back to the east.

I swung into the yard at Folly Beach Pedal Pushers, a combination bike rental and bike taxi service. The owner was a friendly enough guy wearing long swim trunks, a ponytail and many tattoos, who seemed genuinely sorry he didn't have any vintage French parts or leather saddles in his stockpile.

"Just beach cruisers and bmx, man. No older quality stuff, but thanks for asking." Foolishly, I neglected to get a photo of him with his velo pile - you've never seen so much scrap iron masquerading as bikes in your life.

Back down to the east end of the island now, passing one truck one morning, drafting off another on Friday. The big ring, the 52T, the dinner plate, whatever term you want, that was what I spun along on down that long flat with the prevailing wind at my back. I actually used the 52 x 14 combo, the top gear, 100.3-in, a gear big enough to win races when I was a small boy, and the old bike would leap under me until I tired and began shifting down, down to the 16T, then down to 52 x 18, something in the mid-to-high 70s, but still feeling good all the long way down to the barricade and the path to see the Morris Island lighthouse.

One morning I stopped and leaned the bike against a pole while I rested and swilled down plastic-tasting water from the bidon. Whups, I realized, Folly Beach is broken glass central. You've never seen so many shattered bottles in your life. Then I went to move Django and lo and behold there were three of the nastiest, gnarliest cacti you've ever seen in your life attached to my front tire. The thorns were sharp, slender, and longer than most sewing needles. I very respectfully detached them from the tubular, having visions of a puncture and a shame-filled walk down the road.

Our last night there, my brother-in-law encountered the cacti the hard way - as in, he deviated from the path to get a better photo, then looked down to discover his sandals were covered with the beasts. By the time it was all over, two of my sisters-in-law also had thorns buried in their hands and were waiting for the tiniest needles to emerge on their own.

Another morning I rode down all the way to where the pavement turned to sand and walked up the path, pushing Django through the loose sand up over the dune to the viewing spot. The lighthouse was cool, and I took a couple of classic bike-geek photos that would have been the very thing for a cover shot of Bicycling! magazine, back during the years when they had the exclamation point in the title.

Earlier today, we packed everything up and drove back, Eli in his rocket seat, trunk packed full beyond belief, and the ancient Peugeot strapped down to the rack. For a change, it didn't rain. On the way out of town I saw bunches of club riders heading out towards the island, humorlessly sucking each others wheels and dropping their buddies behind just like the bike magazines say you should do.

Total mileage on the bike last week for me? I dunno, maybe 60 miles or so over four rides. Who cares, right? Seek to amass, not miles, but experiences, and all that.

Folly Beach, or The Cyclist On Vacation

2008-06-24T21:23:00.005-04:00

We drove to Folly Beach to take part in the big extended family vacation. Seeing as this is a cycling-oriented blog, it's enough to note that it's been a lovely vacation so far, and it's nice to see everyone again.

On the road, it was my wife, our 1-year-old son and yours truly, with Django the incredible patinated piebald Peugeot PX-10E riding on the rack at the back of the Prius. Of course it rained with increasing heaviness as we approached the coast, finally just thumping down in great wet thuds on the windshield. I've learned the hard way that if I carry a bike somewhere on a car rack, it's gonna rain. This time around I had double-wrapped the saddle and saddlebag with plastic shopping bags tied 'round the seatpost. When we got to town, we called Ana's mother and learned that the keys provided by the realtors didn't work. Ahem. Ana's cousin managed to find a way in, and we were able to unload about the time the rain stopped.

The next morning I slipped out for a ride. I pointed the bike towards the western end of the island and found myself down in the drops and fighting the wind, going back and forth between the 45x20 and the 45x18, depending on the gusts. When I hit the tree-lined part of East Ashley, I was able to turn the bigger gear with greater ease.

At the intersection of Ashley and 12th, I slowed, waited for traffic to pass, and looped back for a second look. Yup, it was a bike in a trash heap at the side of the road, a yellow Specialized Rockhopper from 20 years back. No wheels, bottom headset race missing crucial bits, some rust, torn saddle - the usual. It had the infamous BioPace chainrings and a U-brake attached under the chainstays. I wavered - but no, it's not my size, I have enough bikes in the basement anyway, I'm on vacation, and this one time I could pass up the opportunity to trashpick a decent bike.

Of course, if it had been my size, say, or something old, French, and made of good tubing - but no, no. Ride on, and so I did, down the leafy tunnel of road past houses that became smaller and "shackier" as I approached town. I stopped for the traffic light, then bumped across the intersection and continued on. Finally, I reached the park at the end of the island. I turned around, and immediately could feel the wind at my back. Up onto the big ring, then settling into the 52x18, occasionally picking it up to the 16T during sustained gusts.

The tubulars sang, despite the bumpbumpbump of the lump in the back tire, and the old bike floated over the not-so-great pavement. Birds exploded away from the trashbins by the side of the road as I zipped along, occasionally overtaking couples and families on hybrids and cruisers and mountain bikes. I would occasionally see riders going the other way on road bikes or tandems, and unlike some areas, these riders actually waved - take note, Greenville wannabe racers.

I rode back past the house, bound for the other end of the island, the wind pushing me along, down in the drops and feeling nicely warm. Down past the last house to the cul-de-sac, and then working my way through the barricade and following the cracked old asphalt towards the beach, stopping where the pavement ended and turning back. I went back a ways and explored the side streets, digging the laid-back ambience and the older, funkier places before riding back to the house in time to watch my son play with his aunts and his grandmama.

I have no clue how many miles I had for the day - no electronics on this bike, and there's a lot to be said for that some days. No directeur sportif, nobody paying me to ride the bike, not even some jerk feeling the need to be alpha dog and lead a testosterone-fueled, drop-yer-buddies, eat-the-wounded, Buycycling-magazine-influenced hammerfest. Just one guy in this 40s riding a beat-up old racing bike like the one he wanted when he was a kid, and having a wonderful time.

The return of the Peugeot

2008-06-07T21:11:00.007-04:00

Earlier this week, I managed to hook up the brakes on the PX-10. Last night I went down into the basement and glued on the tires, wrapped the bars with some old Bennotto tape scavenged years ago, fitted toe straps with buckle pads, and attached a handlebar mounted bottle cage.

My plan was to ride the fixed-gear Mercian on today's ride with Ainsley. It didn't seem prudent to ride a bike that hadn't been tested yet. But after I put Eli down for his morning nap, the lure of metric-gauge Reynolds 531 was just too much to resist. I had time for a quick spin around the block, just long enough to tell me that I wanted to adjust the saddle height. I ran back down into the basement and grabbed a 12 mm box-end wrench, a 6 mm allen key, and a multi-tool and threw the lot into a jersey pocket. A second water bottle went into the middle pocket, and wallet and pencam went into the last pocket. I was going to risk it.

Heading back out, I ran into Ainsley. We both said hello to Dr. Fox, who was tending the edge of his garden by the road where we met, then bolted for downtown. Vonona drove up behind us on Grace Street and passed us at the intersection near the two churches. A moment later, I was working my way through the narrowing gap, then weaseling around the blocked-off area set aside for a vintage auto show.

We snapped a couple of shots while waiting for Vonona to unpack, and I adjusted my saddle angle and height for the second time that morning. After a brief discussion, we decided to set off for Ninety Six.

Going down the rail-trail conversion, I mentioned to Ainsley that the handlebars felt awfully narrow - which is period-correct, right? The drops might have been 42 cm, but the tops felt like 38s, which might have made Daniel Rebour happy, but the jury was still out for me. I also wondered if I had a bent pedal spindle, or if the bike was aligned correctly.

I wonder, now. Moments later, the bike felt - right. Like, really, really, just right.

"Ainsley, you know that theory that things take on aspects of their owner's personality?"

He nodded.

"If there's any truth to that, whoever owned this bike before liked to make it go fast."

And it was true. There's no telling where Joe B-Z got this bike from originally, but I know PX-10s from this era were popular with the Metropolitan Cycling Association back when. The ancient, battered Peugeot has the same vibe as Stripe, my equally battered old Mercian Colorado racing bike. It just wants to GO, even if I don't have what it takes to make it go fast.

Near the intersection of Scotch Cross and 25, Ainsley said, "Dog right." And sure enough, a middle-sized canine came rushing up, barking and running alongside for a moment before veering back off. I snapped something impolite at him, then realized what I'd said and laughed.

"Ainsley, I can tell I'm riding a Peugeot. I just cursed at a dog in French."

He thought that was pretty amusing. We slowed up and waited for Vonona, then headed down the long hill towards Ninety Six. When we passed Pembroke Road and started down the fast part of the slope, I dropped down into the hooks and shifted up onto the 52t ring. Again, the bike just wanted to GO, and was surprisingly stable and secure.

Ainsley took the long way into town, while I escorted Vonona in past the golf course. A few minutes later, we pulled up at the bakery. I snapped a couple of pix of the bike, doing what I could with the pencam. We hung out waiting for Ainsley, who wound up getting a package of their fresh sticky buns and a loaf of bread - and yes, it all fit into his Carradice saddlebag.

I asked the proprietress about whole wheat stuff and was told they're working on it. I'll keep my fingers crossed - local whole wheat bread could be very good. After a while we mounted up and headed back towards town. I fiddled with the shifters, finding the crossover point in the gearing and grateful I'd ridden fixed as much as I have. It occurred to me that of all the PX-10s I've had, this was the only one I'd ridden with stock gearing. I had a few sloppy shifts - 30-year old Atom freewheels don't always mesh well with modern chains - but in general, everything worked very nicely.

As always, with any new bike I have to come up with a name. "Django" seems to fit, and this bike is a keeper. Repeat, a keeper. Just really nice handling, and lots zippier than people give PX-10s credit for - especially the ones with original geometry unchanged from c. 1953. It was a pleasant ride, and I wound up with something around 25 miles for the day - sorry for the lack of precision, but I haven't fitted any electronics to the bike.

tubulars

2008-05-30T20:59:00.003-04:00

I still haven't glued the Panaracer tubulars onto the Peugeot's rims, but I did have time to go through my stash of old tubies. Surprise, surprise, surprise - I appear to have some good spares!

Well - sort of. What I've got is an ancient Gommitalia with somewhat abraded sidewalls but a good rimstrip that holds air. I've also got a pair of Continental Triathlons left over from the last time I rode sewups, which means they've been kicking around unused for seven or eight years. They both were rebuilt by TireAlert, which means the rim strips are a little dodgy. That may not be TireAlert's fault - apparently, Continental's tubies are noted for being hard to fit with new rim strips. At the same time, I still remember July 4, 2000, when I spent almost an hour in the sun picking damaged rimstrip bits off my rim so I could fit a spare and ride home from the middle of nowhere, Abbeville County.

There's a third Conti Triathlon, but it appears to be shot, and has no rimstrip. Adios. And finally, there's a nice Wolber that Dieter gave me that needs yet another rimstrip, but appears otherwise sound and whole. At any rate, I'll have something I can strap up under my saddle when I ride out, just to be sure I can crawl back home in the event of a flat.

All of this is a real flashback. I first started riding tubulars in, what, 1978? 1979? I remember the bike - my much-missed Puch Royal X, the first bike I ever had with a Reynolds 531 frameset. It was pretty much an Austrian version of a PX-10, even down to having less than perfect finish work and white paint that chipped if you looked at it crossly. I'd been riding the bike's stock wheels, which were frankly pretty junky. Normandy Sport hubs laced to basic Weinmann 27-in clincher rims. I'd been trying to use the newly introduced Michelin Elan tires, and no one was telling folks that those required a hook-beaded rim. I was having lots of blow outs - heh - and finally decided, enough. I'll go to tubulars.

I had my first sewup wheels built by George Crook at Bikeways of Atlanta, the same guy who sold me the Puch. They were Mavic Montlhery eyeletted rims built up onto Weyless sealed bearing hubs, a pretty trick combo for the time. The hubs were considered suitable for riders weighing 155 or less, which worked fine for me at 125, my adolescent weight. The tires were Hutchinson Super Sprints. The standard tires on assorted French and English bikes, the Super Sprints were much maligned. Mine worked beautifully, especially the front one, which had a latex tube. It was the only Hutchinson I ever encountered with one of those.

Later on, I tried early Panaracer nylon tires. Too fragile. I didn't get much use out of my first one, which succumbed to a sidewall cut. The funky black Wolber I used on the back for a while worked pretty well, at the expense of being really ugly. I think those were on the tires that were on the Puch when I sold it in '87 to buy a Fender Vibroluxe Reverb amplifier.

When I got back into the cycling world, and tubulars, I bought some cheap Clements, basic vulcanized rubber things. They were okay, and I can't remember where those went. I know I used them on various PX-10s and Gitanes I had, and I think I was using some on my old Trek fixed-gear c. 1999. Then I got out of the tubular world sometime in late 2000, and went to clinchers only.

Sure, I didn't have to sew up tires after repairing punctures. But I missed the springiness of tubies. I just hope I feel that way the next time I have a flat somewhere with one ...

a new bakery run

2008-05-24T21:09:00.003-04:00

I met Ainsley at his house a few minutes before 10:00 Saturday, and we talked of many things while he finished getting ready. We made good time through town and worked our way out to Scotch Cross Road. Of course we had both left our cameras at home, so we missed the chance to get a photo of the first really good snake of the year - a juvenile black rat snake, I believe he called it.

We did the traditional route down Scotch Cross, then right onto Lowden and out by Star Fort and thence into town by the high school. The new bakery in Ninety Six is all right, but nothing really called to me. I wound up getting a cup of coffee (which was coffee, but that's about all I could say for it), while Ainsley got himself some sort of sticky bun and a loaf of fresh bread to take home. The latter fit almost perfectly into his Carradice Barley saddlebag.

We lolled for a few minutes drinking our coffee at one of their outdoor tables before riding back home. The only dog we encountered was a female pitbull who ran along with us, wagging her tail the while despite our earnest efforts to shoo her back home. She eventually turned for home, and we worked our way back through sometimes stiff winds.

This afternoon I managed to get into the basement for an hour and a half. One sub project has been to free the 14-23T freewheel from the loose Normandy Sport hub that was thrown into a deal I did a while back. It is the proper, correct freewheel for the PX-10, but some prior owner had clipped all the spokes while leaving it all hooked together. Eek. I wound up lacing up some spokes on the non-drive side to an old rim, and lo and behold, it worked. A little Tri-Flow squirted into the freewheel and it sounded reasonably good and went onto the sewup wheelset.

I have plans for the hub, sort of. What I really want is the axle and its spacers. I've got a set of mismatched clincher wheels that would work nicely on this bike, and swapping out those parts and a little tweaking will set me up for whenever I locate a trailer to tow Eli around in.

I broke out a used but still serviceable chain from the used bin and hooked it up. Shift cables came out of the stash pile, and the Simplex derailleur system worked - flawlessly. I was kind of surprised, but the rear needed only the tiniest of tweaks to shift perfectly. It had been a long, long time since I'd worked on a pushrod front Simplex, but once I remembered how to hook it up it all came together nicely.

Time to rob the bike Dieter gave me for its tubulars. They're not glued on yet, but they're in place and the bike looks like a bike, for the first time in who knows how long. All that's left to do is glue up the tires, fit new brake pads, cables and housings - and go ride it in all its battered Gallic glory.

episodic cycling

2008-05-20T20:34:00.002-04:00

Lots of things change when you live with a baby and a pregnant wife. Way down on the list, but appropriate for this blog, is cycling time. In essence, there isn't much time for it. I manage the commute easily enough. The weeknight rides are kinda out for the time being, though - I come home from work and take over childcare from Ana to give her a break. By the time the boy goes down for the night, it's 7:00.

One of my duties is taking him out for a leisurely journey in the stroller. It's okay, and I think most days he likes it well enough, but I think we both might like it better if I acquired a cycle trailer and pulled him along in that throughout the neighborhood. He doesn't like it that he can't see me while he's traveling around, and while my back and legs and a drivetrain might be boring, it still might be reassuring. For my part, an hour or so riding at low to moderate speed in the area neighborhoods beats walking.

I do get to ride on Saturdays, so long as I wait till 10:00. This gives me a chance to keep Eli from when he wakes up sometime until he goes down for his morning nap. Ainsley rode fixed with me the week before last, as we did the traditional loop, including Star Fort and the high school jog. He had his daughter last Saturday, so I wound up riding solo aboard Belle and repeating the same route.

I need to find time to stop into the new bakery in Ninety Six sometime soon - maybe this Saturday ...

paving part of the commute

2008-05-06T21:33:00.002-04:00

So, yesterday morning my boss came out of her office and said she had to move her car from where she'd parked it behind the library. It seems the city is reworking some sewer lines, and one of them runs along the length of Sproles, then up Lawton. Uh oh.

Going home for lunch yesterday I weaseled my way down the narrow strip of asphalt they hadn't yet ripped up, bumping over the grooves they'd cut to make the new stuff adhere better. Coming back to work was more interesting. They were using some machine that carved up asphalt and created huge black clouds of dust. Forget that. I decided to hop up onto the sidewalk, then muscled my way up the steep little dirt hillside to the loading dock, rocking over the roots and transitioning up onto the ramp.

I had a flashback to six or seven years ago and falling down after botching a crossing of a tree branch - now I was mixing cyclo-cross moves, trail riding, and fixed-gears, making the 28mm tires do what they were meant to do.

Today was even more interesting. The surface as I rode in a little after 7:00 was scarred and striped and grooved, full of old patches uncovered by the road work. I stayed loose and spun my way along and nodded to the guys in hard hats setting up for the day. Coming back home for lunch today involved going down the dirt hillside, then back to the service entrance for the dining hall. From there, over the nice new sidewalks with their sharp turns (watching out for pedal strikes!) and over the nice new footbridge that leads to the back of Centennial Hall. Across the parking lot, down Barksdale to its dead end on Henrietta, then home from there. Not too bad, and that's how I went back to work after lunch.

Ah, but when I left for the day today ... they'd finished the paving. I rolled out the back driveway, and lo and behold, they'd fixed that nasty transition between street and entryway. Smooth, easy, no more swearing under my breath when someone parked one foot further forward and forced me to bunny hop or post over the gap. Buttery smooth.

The asphalt was still slightly tacky under my tires, and there was a little clattering of tiny pebbles kissing the insides of my fenders, but the road was smoooooth.

Let's hope it stays that way for a while.

Big reveal, & back in the basement after a long and full absence

2008-05-04T09:43:00.003-04:00

Time to catch up. You may have noticed several comments along the lines of, "life is too full right now," or "lots of things going on." I didn't want to say much online, as it could potentially cause problems for us - but now the process is complete and I can do the big online reveal.

Ana and I adopted a baby boy from Russia, a process that has pretty much governed our lives for the last year or so. Eli is home and doing very nicely, thank you, and growing like a weed. He'll be one year old before too much longer, and we're absolutely delighted to have him here. He's a sweet kid, with lots of personality. He sees everything and is adjusting rapidly to his new life. He's still a little leery of having his bare feet touch the grass in the front lawn, and don't get him too near bushy green plants, as they spook him right now, but he LOVES riding in the stroller around the neighborhood. Here's a photo of him with his proud papa.

And all you cycling folks out there - yes, he does seem to have strong little legs, but it'll be a while before he's out there riding around. I do plan on seeking out a baby trailer of some sort or another for him, though, as he really likes riding in wheeled vehicles. I'll find something, and then he can ride around the neighborhood in style. Oh, wait. I'll be pulling him behind one of my hopelessly retro bikes, so style goes right out the window, doesn't it?

I'd better get used to pulling babies around or carrying them and caring for them in general - turns out that Ana's pregnant. Surprise! So we'll be bringing TWO infants into our home in 2008. And, no, we don't yet know if we're expecting a boy or a girl, so those of you out in blog-reading land will have to just wait a while, just as we're getting to wait a while. Patience is a virtue.

Oh, yeah - this is, in theory, a cycling-oriented blog.

Apart from commuting, the only riding I've done in many weeks was the last two Saturday mornings. I slipped out last week aboard Julius, and rode with Connie, Jan and Barbara until Ainsley caught up to us. We had let the fast group go on up the road, figuring (rightly) that their pace would be a bit much for us. I, at least, knew I didn't want to dawdle too much. We did the usual loop out to Ninety Six, taking the old route down Scotch Cross Road and looping out Lowden road to Star Fort before taking on the little jog out past the high school. When we stopped at Star Fort, there were a couple of re-enactors hanging out at the old tavern. While we were relaxing, one felt the need to touch off his long-barreled flintlock - you know it's a flintlock when it makes the distinct two-stage tish-boom sound. It gave me a chance to tell the story of Ken Henderson taking target practice in his back yard in Ninety Six with a .75 caliber Brown Bess musket, the city police officer, and the legal definition of a firearm. We headed on soo after, but we were too late to stop at Hardee's, as they'd stopped serving breakfast biscuits. Ainsley and I sighed deeply and pointed our Mercians towards home. I had a little over 30 miles for the day when I got home.

Wednesday I did not ride - Eli was having a bad day, and Ana needed some backup in dealing with him. We had finally gotten him to bed and were about to eat when Dieter and Ainsley showed up. Dieter had crashed his old, too-small Daccordi, and had replaced it. When I asked if he was interested in selling me the sewups from it, he offered to give me the whole bike - and here it was. I thanked him, and need to thank him some more the next time I see him. The parts kit on it is mostly older, 7-speed era Dura-Ace, and therefore obsolete in most of the world's eyes. However, old Stripe the '82 Mercian Colorado racebike is sitting in the basement, and those Dura-Ace parts would be a nice upgrade I could use to keep him up and running smoothly for a couple more years. Yeah, I've got Campagnolo parts for that bike, but I was planning on fitting those after I get Stripe repainted and realigned for use with a wider rear hub - with one child here and another on the way, I suspect that project is going to have to wait for a while. The tubulars, complete with the spare, are bound for the Peugeot project - we'll get to it, I promise.

Yesterday, I knew that Ainsley would be occupied, and Connie and Donnis were allegedly going to be unavailable. There had been rumors of folks gathering to ride off-road at 1:30, but that doesn't work too well with Eli's current schedule, so I rode Belle downtown to see if anyone else wanted a 9:30 ride. Nyet.

So I rode alone, back out the same old route I've done zillions of times before. I took it easy, focusing on a smoother pedal stroke and just sitting up and admiring the countryside. I wound up down in the drops a bunch to cope with the wind, and was grateful for derailleur gearing for a change. I'll admit it - some days I'm not completely up to the epic, heroic, stoic fixed-gear experience, at least not after the first full week home and working with a new baby in the house.

I shifted up onto the 50T chainring on the way down the driveway and stayed there the whole ride, shifting around a small range from the 17 to the 23T cogs. Part of it was laziness, part was being used to standing on the bike after riding fixed gears, and part of it was preparing myself for the Peugeot PX-10 project - more on that below.

I stopped at the traditional point at Star Fort and looked around. No re-enactors touching off flintlocks, nobody wearing a bonnet, just a ranger zipping around in a golf cart. Feh. So I mounted up and headed into town, hooking a right and hitting 246 for the run into Ninety Six proper. I didn't have time to check out the new bakery on Main Street - maybe next time. Instead, I put my head down and settled back into the drops for the ride back. I finished with something like 30.3 miles for the day.

Last night, while Ana chilled out and watched ETV, I went down into the basement and worked on the fabled Peugeot project. There's a little rush, now - I want a bike I can take with me on this year's beach trip, and this is the likeliest machine, and the least likely to be stolen.

I had gone back and forth on how to do this build for a while, torn between another fixed-gear as a backup commuter, the idea of a multi-cogged freewheel bike without a derailleur (a la racing bikes in the '20s), or using the collection of appropriate French parts to build it up as a period correct, if unrestored, 10-speed. The last course of action won out - despite the scars and wear and rust, it's a proud old bike that ought to have at least a couple more seasons as a rider.

Lo and behold, I got the vintage Simplex SLJ rear derailleur to mount correctly - I had been afraid it was missing pieces. After breaking one pushrod Simplex front derailleur and coming up with a home-brew mounting bracket for another, I found an unbroken, functional third unit in the parts box. Success! The Stronglight 93 cranks went on to the original pattern bottom bracket (later on, I'll get the right tools to mount the Phil Wood BB with the French mount rings I got off eBay). I pulled the chainrings and tweaked the spider some to get rid of some runout, and I suspect I'll do that once more before all is said and done.

The shifters and cable stops went on correctly. After looking over my options, I fitted the 13-21 SunTour narrow 6-speed freewheel to the rear hub. The wheel placement has to be just so, or the dropout adjusters will foul the edge of the mechanism. I've already trued the wheels, so I just need to clean the rims and glue on the tubulars. I also fitted the Mafac brake levers to the bars, finding a sweet spot that isn't too far down the curve to be useful, but lets my fingers reach the levers while in the drops.

the end of an era

2008-02-07T20:44:00.000-05:00

I know I'm late in posting about this - but Sheldon Brown has passed on.

Sheldon's writings were an integral part in my return to cycling. When I bought the '62 Dawes at the Anderson Jockey Lot and got it home back in '97, I had no clue what I really had. I went online and boom, there was the Harris Cyclery site with gobs of information about vintage British lightweights and Sturmey-Archer gearhubs.

I browsed around the site for a while, and got suckered in by Sheldon's fixed-gear information ... and never really looked back. Within weeks I had purchased a battered old Raleigh Lenton frameset from Jim Cunningham at CyclArt, and soon thereafter built up my first fixed-gear. The crucial bit was an 18T SunTour 3/32-in cog I ordered from Sheldon himself.

Who knows how many times since then that process was repeated? A ramble through the fixedgeargallery site would probably unearth hundreds of incantations of Sheldon Brown's name - which doesn't even get into the numberless legions of single-speeders and gearhub folks and even derailleur-equipped cyclists who, either directly or through his writings, he helped along the way.

Ainsley and I pondered it the other night and concluded that he probably put more people on fixed-gears than has been seen since the late 19th Century. With time, I think he may become one of the all-time most influential cycling writers ever, period.

Tomorrow, as I do every day, I'll ride to work. The bike will be fixed, of course. And my original 18T SunTour cog from Sheldon will be waiting on the off side in case I need a lower gear.

Here's hoping his writings, like those of the late Ken Kifer, will be maintained on the internet for many years to come, and that future cyclists will come to enjoy his work as much as those of us who already know it, and mourn his loss.

time to spend some money

2008-01-30T22:29:00.000-05:00

Last night I rode one of my shortest trail rides ever. I arrived at the Rock in time to talk with David Strawhorne, who was finishing up a ride. After a few minutes, I called Ainsley and found out he wouldn't be able to make it. Dang. Then Ashby and his crew came out of Blair Wood. I wavered, but decided, nah, I'll just go home.

Pepe and Grattan showed up, and Pepe said they were riding to Fell Hunt Camp and back - so if I headed out immediately, they'd look out for me. Sounded good, so I set out - and immediately noticed my lights were kinda dim despite charging all day long. Hmm. By the time I reached the top of the hill, the trail was getting hard to follow easily. When I reached the T, I went left and stopped at the gravel pile where the road was maybe 20 feet away. Jim Cox and John Lake came up the road and turned back onto the trail on their way back to Fell. A minute later, Pepe and his crew came charging up. I told them I was going to take the fire road back to my truck.

By the time I got to the bottom of the hill, my lights looked like cigarette ends in the dark. Time to start pricing new lights, as my cheap-o rechargeable unit is dead, dead, dead.

This afternoon I came home and found a new Miche bottom bracket waiting for me in the mail. Down to the basement I went. It helped, but did not completely eliminate the eccentricity in my chainring's operation. Hmm. I wound up using a combination of rubber mallet thumps and judicious filing on the spider to tweak and tune it. By the time I was done, it was about as good as it's likely to get. I'm not yet sure if it's the chainring or the spider, but I'm sure I'll start tweaking it again at some point.

a cold day's ride

2008-01-21T18:11:00.000-05:00

Today's MLK Day ride was the coldest one since we started doing it in 2004. In 2005, Ainsley and I were the only ones willing to brave freezing temperatures. Today it was beyond freezing and (for Southern boys) downright brutal, with temps around 25 degrees. Ainsley won the toughness competition - he rode to Hodges from Greenwood, when it was still around 18 or 19 degrees.

This is a great little ride, really - we leave Hodges, a classic blink-and-you'll-miss-it town, ride down a scenic back road, and have lunch in Abbeville. Then we ride back. Simple enough.

We sat in my truck's cab for a couple of minutes, just in case anyone else showed up. Nope. Wimps. Finally, we set out at 10:10, down the long hill to Blue Jay Road, across Pickens Creek/Klugh Road, and down the length of the old Abbeville-Hodges Road. The new asphalt starting around Stephenson Road was much appreciated, and we made pretty good time.

While we were still on Blue Jay, I said, "I know this is the traditional thing to say on this ride, so - have you noticed that it's kinda cold?"

Ainsley laughed. About two miles later he looked over at me and said, "Hey, have have noticed that it's cold?"

I was grateful for all the layers I had on - sleeveless wool undershirt, long-sleeved wool undershirt, heavy wool long-sleeved jersey and a windbreaker. I would have used my tights over the wool leg-warmers I had on, but after a few miles my legs warmed up. I had fortunately worn two pairs of wool socks, with pieces of paper folded over my toes between the layers. My toes were almost warm enough, which was a nice thing.

Ainsley charged up the last hill into Abbeville on Washington Street, also known as Highway 203. I took a more leisurely approach - actually, I was suffering like an animal on that particular hill, and chose to do the old Reginald Shaw method of seated climbing and "turning 'em 'round," a la the CTC in 1948. I caught up to Ainsley in the parking lot of Theo's, our luncheon destination.

Forget sandwiches - today they had a nice board up with several specials. Ainsley chose the Chicken Marsala, while I went for the Fettucine Alfredo Chicken. Yum, especially on a cold January day. We sat where we could watch the bikes, peeling off a couple of layers of clothing to keep from overheating.

The food was ridiculously good and plentiful, complete with nice presentation. Ainsley could look past my shoulder at the bank sign, and he kept up a running commentary on the heat wave outside as the temperature finally climbed above freezing. We talked at length about life and children and cycling, with a special emphasis on the hair-shirt qualities of riding fixed-gears in sub-freezing temperatures. The good old boys didn't stare at us too much as we sat dawdling over our lunch.

Finally it was time to leave. Before we could pull out, though, I had to stop and fix a loose toeclip. My gloves were too thick to manage the multi-tool in, so my hands got good and chilled to the bone as I made repairs. We rolled back out of town on 203, following it all the way back to Hodges. Along the way, we saw another rider, but weren't able to catch him before he turned off on Stephenson heading towards Due West. Some other time, I thought, it's bloody cold.

We slogged on up Dead Rooster Hill and headed into town. On the flat stretch near the town limits sign, Ainsley had the only bad motorist interaction of the day, with a driver of a luxury automobile determined he would pass a truck while coming towards us. He finally backed down and got back behind the truck by the time they passed me, but apparently Ainsley had felt it necessary to indicate to the driver that he was number one.

We stopped for pix in scenic, bustling downtown Hodges. The solid sheet of ice in the back of my Ford Ranger had started melting, so we picked spears of the stuff up and tossed them.

"I saw an episode of Mythbusters where they were exploring whether you could kill someone with an icicle," Ainsley said.

"And?"

"You really can," he said.

Then Ainsley rode home, while I wussed out and climbed into my truck and drove back to town.

2008, to date

2008-01-20T16:59:00.001-05:00

Okay, so I'm slack. I haven't yet gathered all the data and done the math to determine 2007's mileage - but I can estimate it was something like 3,100 miles, which isn't bad considering how much was going on last year. Figure in the sale of one house, the purchase of another, home renovations, living in an apartment for a while and two moves, along with some other matters ... well, it gets kinda hard to get out and ride sometimes.

I did, however, get a few rides in earlier this year, including a couple of leisurely fixed-gear rambles to Ninety Six and back and several woods rides aboard my battered old Trek single-speed. The most memorable of the latter was the Tuesday night Ainsley and I set out from the Rock. Ainsley was irritated because his new light system hadn't held a charge, so he was wearing his older helmet-mounted light. I hadn't charged my lights enough, it seems, and they started to fade out at the T, so we stopped and jury-rigged Ainsley's spare lights onto the Trek and pushed on. We made it to the road right before the last section and turned back, only to find ourselves on the Memorial Bridge section with dying lights. Right on cue came Pepe and Grattan, with superior lights to guide us in - thanks, guys.

Yesterday was a wash for riding - rain that allegedly would be followed by snow, so I wound up taking Julius the Mercian fixed-gear down into the basement for some long deferred maintenance. It had been a year or more since I'd had the chain off, so off came the cranks, the chain went into some hot soapy water, and months of mud and grit were washed off the bike. I noted the bike has traveled 8,007 miles in the five years I've had it, with about 5,500 on the current chain and crankset. The left bottom bracket retaining cup had worked itself loose, but I think it's tight enough for Monday's ride. We'll see.

damp ride dodging golf balls and roosters

2007-12-31T10:20:00.001-05:00

I rode alone Saturday. I'm assuming the holidays and the dampness kept everyone else indoors. When I set out, there was still a light but steady drizzle, and I considering going home. I'm glad I didn't.

I set out on the Ninety Six loop, a ride I've done more times than I care to think about, down the trail to Florida Avenue, then through Wisewood to hook up with Scotch Cross Road. The drizzle stopped after about 20 minutes, though there was enough water and mud on the road to keep things damp despite my fenders and front mudflap.

No matter. There was a car waiting to trip the light for me at the intersection with 25 South, and I headed on down the long hill at a relaxed loping pace. Under the flat grey sky, everything looked painted, with certain stretches of the roadside resembling backgrounds from various works of art. I rolled on, turning the 70-in. fixed-gear and hearing the swishing of my tires on damp pavement where it was smooth, and rumbling a little over the patches and broken-up sections.

At the bottom of the long hill I turned right, heading out Louden Road with an eye out for coyotes. I saw none, but did wave to a couple of hunters standing in a field talking. I grunted up the two hills on Louden fine, standing for both of them, and pulled in to the parking lot at Star Fort. I took a minute to remove my leg warmers and shove my jersey sleeves up my arms before heading on. At the edge of town I turned left, skipping the loop extension that goes by the high school and heading for home.

The houses that used to be the homes of generations of bike-chasing pitbulls looked empty. It felt a little colder and a little damper now, and the promise of the sun had slipped back into the clouds. It peeked out a little just as I rode past a rooster standing near the road, red comb and all, looking just like the old corn flakes emblem. Of course my camera was at home.

On the flat next to the golf course, I could hear clubs striking balls. There was a line of guys out practicing their drives, and the course was littered with yellow golf balls. Unfortunately, there were a lot of those same balls on the road's shoulder to my right, and I felt my shoulder blades tighten each time I heard a "thwack!" behind me, anticipating a wild shot caroming off my helmet.

Luck was with me, and I rode safely past the course. A moment later I turned right and started the climb up Lebanon Church Road, where my favorite Australian cattle dog no longer runs along beside cyclists, happy to have someone to run with - I hope that dog is okay somewhere. I turned left onto the Canadian Mist Highway and headed for home. I had mud spattered all over Julius the fixed-gear, mud on my leg warmers and shoes, and 28.5 miles for the day.

the return of the pocket camera

2007-12-01T21:48:00.000-05:00

It was brisk this morning when I headed out for the traditional Saturday morning club ride. I wore wool - sleeveless undershirt, scratchy jersey, moth-holed leg warmers - and some seriously warm gloves. By the time I got downtown, as always, I was a bit too warm. Fortunately, I had other gloves in my capacious saddlebag.

Connie and Donnis were already there, wondering if I was going to make it on time. I apologized for my tardiness, then hung out as tires were pumped up, helmets forgotten and remembered, and bikes were readied for action.

As we set off, we were joined by Fred. He hadn't been on his bike in a while, so he opted to ride with the touring bunch instead of with the hammers. I managed to get a picture of him as we rolled out along the rail-trail conversion. Moments after the photo above was shot, he picked up the pace - enough that Donnis was having to work at it to maintain the speed.

We turned left and went through Wisewood and eventually down Scotch Cross Road, a route I've ridden a zillion times. At the intersection with Highway 25, I was just too slow with the camera - we crossed paths with a truck hauling a trailer full of really impressive goats with huge, curling horns. Donnis and I conferred - goat hair, goat faces and ears, but what was with those horns?

At the bottom of the big hill, we turned right and headed out Louden Road. In about the same place I saw a coyote a few months back, I looked up and saw Fred all but nose-to-nose with a cow. Again, too late to catch the look they shot each other, but time enough to capture an image of the bovine menace.

Connie wanted to know if we should go back and shoo the cow back into its pasture with its buddies.

"Well, I usually use a golf cart and a broom," Donnis allowed. She shared that she used to help get Big Red the Bull back into his pasture, until the day Big Red raised a Ford F-100 up onto two wheels while on his way back into his enclosure.

"I decided then and there that I was done with herding Big Red," she said.

Jim Cox and Chris caught us on the Canadian Mist Highway, and we rode in together listening to Jim's review of the newly-opened pub Orde's of England. Alas, their location is not one that lends itself to the classical pub hopping via bicycle.

I had 28.5 miles by the time I got home.

The decline and fall of the Greenwood Cycling Club

2007-11-21T17:23:00.000-05:00

I pulled the plug on the Greenwood Cycling Club's website today.

I'm still angry about it. Sure, I understand that lots of the folks that used to keep things running have married or started families - I'm in there with them. I get it that many of us no longer have the time to devote to keeping a full-blown, active club going.

But it really, really didn't help that several former members, and one in particular, basically sabotaged the efforts to get the club back on its feet and running. One of the biggest problems was that there was a subset that was recruiting new riders and having them ride with them, while implying that they were the real GCC, and not the folks who were still officers, or were leading rides that took care of newbies. They were - and are - more into riding "fast," when and where they wanted.

You learn a lot about people by who they hang out with - or ride with.

It'll be all right, ultimately. The remnants of the club will reorganize into a smaller, less-formal association. We'll probably be part of the next club that forms around here in a few years - bike clubs tend to be cyclical around here (sorry 'bout the pun).

But it's gonna suck when someone gets hit and really hurt and there is no organized voice in these parts to stand up for them.

Now, then - where were we?

2007-11-19T19:58:00.000-05:00

The theme of rides over the last couple of months has been - coyotes.

A few months back, I was riding down Louden Road near Ninety Six on a Saturday morning. I was descending the next to last hill when I saw something dash across the road in front of us. Dieter didn't see it at first, but I did. I noted that it had stopped at the edge of a a field - and yep, it was a coyote.

The first time I had ever seen one was in Warner Robins, Georgia, back in '87 or so. I hadn't seen a coyote since then. I was a bit surprised to see this one.

So you can imagine my surprise when, oh, maybe two weeks later, I was climbing up the hill near Dungannon, out on Klugh Road. It was hot, and I was just scorching along at 8 mph. Ainsley and the other riders had gone on ahead, so I was dead last.

He stepped out of the tree line, just walking towards the road. He started to cross the ditch and saw me. Black, lean, built for speed, and utterly, totally calm.

He raised a paw and I said, "Don't. Seriously, don't." So he stopped and watched me as I rode past. I looked back over my shoulder and watched him as he walked - note, WALKED - across the road. For his part, he looked over at me every so often, in an unhurried way.

So, two weeks ago, Ainsley said, "I could use someone to ride with." So I went out with the beat up old Trek and learned that Ainsley had a coyote incident the week before.

"I had stopped over on the red clay section," he said.

"The roller coaster?"

"Yep," he said. "I was tightening up my seat post bolt when something about that close (he indicated 30 feet or so) cut loose with a howl."

"That would get my attention," I said.

"Especially since it sounded like it was following me for a while," he said.

Then last week in a conversation with Tom Austin and Gratin Smith, it emerged that one area rider had encountered a coyote that had to be discouraged with rocks from coming too closely.

I'll try not to be lunch.

place-holding, or overdue blog catch-up time

2007-04-08T21:24:00.000-04:00

... Let's see ... since February 25th we've sold our house, moved into an apartment, and signed a contract on another house. I've managed to get out on a couple of rides, but I've consistently left the camera at home. Updates to this blog will be sporadic and fragmentary for some time to come, I'm afraid - but bear with me, it will be back up and active in a few months!

later, potaters ...

catching up in late February

2007-02-25T22:31:00.000-05:00

Oh, man, is this ever overdue!

First off - the MLK Jr. ride went well, with decent turnout. We met in Hodges and did the route without any major hitches, riding in better weather than I feared we might have. It was the warmest MLK Jr. ride to date, and here are some pix to prove it.

For those of you who wondered - yes, I did go back and buy that Gibson J-45, which has a lot to do with why I haven't been posting so much! It's a lovely guitar, especially now that I've cut the string slots in the nut down to where they belong to get the action where it belongs. It's felt like a timewarp machine - I keep looking down at my hands while playing it and wondering if it's 2007 or 1987, it looks and feels that much like my old ones from the 50s and 60s.

Yesterday I got out for the club ride. We had a good turnout - Big-Ring Jim Cox, Tommy D., John Lake, Connie, Donnis, Drew, Denise, Bill Thompson, and two new riders, Alex Gonzales and Ms. Howard, whose first name escapes me now. Ainsley showed up aboard his fixed-gear and rode sweep with me.

Along the way out the trail, Ainsley and I discussed his recent rides. He had gotten out on Monday and ridden a metric - then rode Tuesday night with the A-Team in the woods.

"So, lad - did you suffer?" I asked.

"Yes, I did indeed," he said.

"But did you suffer mightily?" I asked.

He affirmed that he had.

"I'll confess, I'm not quite sure I'm up to speed on the rankings. Isn't it, suffered mightily, suffered epically, and suffered heroically?"

"Well, Tuesday night wasn't a long enough ride to have been epic, so I'll go with suffered mightily," he said.

We stopped at the end of the trail for a quick mechanical, then set off for the traditional Wednesday night route. Somewhere in there, we split into three distinct groups. Riding sweep, we still wound up being the first ones in.

new year's day ride 2007; upstream swimmers

2007-01-01T20:58:00.000-05:00

We were up late last night, which meant we got up late this morning. It was raining pretty steadily on the back deck, so I ate my oatmeal and took my time starting my day. I never bothered to shower, but lolled about the house in fleece sweats until it was time to put on some cycling togs and get ready for the new year's first ride.

It was still drizzling, and I wondered for a moment if I should take my rain cape. I decided not to, instead choosing my yellow nylon shell that is somewhat water-resistant, worn over a wool undershirt and my tattered, 20-odd-year-old Cinelli jersey with the repairs and patches it got after I crashed my Bianchi Pista in 2000. My good old Sergal leg warmers and a headband under my helmet completed my ensemble as I pulled Julius off the rack and fitted a bottle and a frame pump.

I made decent time, arriving at the fountain right at 1:00 p.m. Bradley was there, as was John Campbell Lake and David Strawhorne. I hadn't seen him in ages. We were actually in the lot across Court Avenue from the fountain, but we're talking less than 20 yards here. Ainsley rode up from his office aboard the Death Trap.

I asked how he was doing, and he mentioned he'd had a long night Saturday. When I expressed my curiosity, he removed his jacket and his long-sleeved jersey and pulled up the left sleeve on his T-shirt.

"Wow!" I said. "How long did that take?"

"Oh, about four hours," he said.

It was a most impressive tattoo, particularly coming in the wake of a conversation Ana and I had the night before. I had mentioned that the two things I had considered and ultimately rejected were piercing my left ear to wear a big shark tooth dangly earring and getting a tattoo.

The koi, Ainsley explained, had special significance. According to Japanese folklore, if a koi successfully swam upstream and back up the falls to the source of the river, it would be transformed into a dragon. Apparently, the tattoo artist had been impressed by Ainsley's calmness during getting his first ink - especially when it took four hours.

"I told him some folks think I'm a glutton for punishment," Ainsley said.

I thought about some of our fixed-gear excursions, and how Ainsley had recently ridden fixed in the Spartanburg area, and decided that was an apt description for a fellow upstream swimmer.

We waited for Jim Cox to show up. He had been most insistent that the ride start at 1:00, rather than 10:00. There were cell phone calls, and some driving to and fro, but no dice - or rather, no Jim. While we waited, the drizzle stopped, the clouds starting rolling off, and layers of clothing were removed and tucked away. After waiting half an hour (I looked, and I'm not exaggerating), we headed out.

Strawhorne had never ridden the Wednesday night ride, so we gave him part of that in reverse, riding out through Wisewood out to 225 and thence to Scotch Cross Road. My 67-in fixed gear meant I got to spin like a banshee going down the long hill. Near the bottom I was going 30 mph, which is the fastest I've ridden a fixed-gear less than 70-inches.

We took the John Lake Loop out towards Star Fort, swapping stories and joking. Bradley snuck away to go for the city limits sign, prompting first Strawhorne and then Ainsley to try to run him down. I don't think either of them managed it, though. After the usual turn out past the high school and up to town near the Hardee's, we turned into the wind and headed home.

I started joking with Ainsley about Jim's occasional non-communicativeness.

"I mean, I get it. We're guys. We're not supposed to be too communicative. But seriously, I wonder if this is getting out of hand," I said.

Ainsley allowed as that might be the case.

After a moment, I realized what the problem was.

"Of course, the information could be so confidential he has to keep it a secret from himself," I said.

We worked our way back up Lebanon Church Road, avoiding dogs (though we did encounter a bad pitbull on Golf Course Road on our way out of town) and other problems. Once on the Canadian Mist Highway, Bradley took off again. This time, only Ainsley pursued. I sat in behind Campbell Lake and took shelter from the headwinds while discussing hub bearing adjustment with Strawhorne.

Eventually we made it back to town, where we learned Jim had come looking for us after we left and had then headed on. On that note, I rode home, winding up with a bit over 30 miles for the day.

a little about mileage and a lot about guitars

2007-01-01T11:08:00.000-05:00

I didn't ride Thursday night - life trumps cycling sometimes. Saturday's ride was shorter than normal - I got in 21 miles. Sunday, we rode muddy fire roads in the rain for 9 miles. So I wound up riding 4,483 miles in 2006, which is 483 more than my initial goal for the year, but 17 miles short of my amended target. I'm fine with it, and it's more miles than I've ever ridden in a year, and hopefully next year I'll top that and then some.

Friday we drove to Greenville for a little shopping trip. First stop on the list for me - Guitar Center. I'd never been to one, and I was feeling the hungries for a guitar, even if I was only looking. I'd been thinking I wanted to check out a Gibson ES-165, because I've been drifting into a somewhat jazzier sound since, oh, 1997 or so. The other guitar I wanted to check out was the Taylor T5, which has a pickup system designed by Dave Hosler, formerly my all-time favorite luthier and guitar problem-solver who once had a shop in Traveler's Rest, SC.

Yes, there were walls of guitars in the place. Once upon a time I could have spent hours and hours in there, but Friday I wasn't up for that. After a couple of minutes of walking around and seeing things like a "relic" treatment reissue '59 Fender Bassman amp and the tower of imported Fenders, we stepped into the "quiet" room.

Acoustics everywhere. Martins, Taylors, Breedloves, and who knows what else. And over in the corner, like a siren song, were Gibsons. I had to wait a moment to get around a guy playing his way down the wall before I could try the first one, a reissue of the legendary Advanced Jumbo from 1936. I had seen the original prototype of this guitar from 1935 at a guitar show a decade back, but I'd never actually held or played one.

Of course I had no flatpicks, so I went fingerstyle. It had power, sure, but it was boxier than the Taylor I've been playing for the last decade or so. I hung it back up, played a Breedlove just long enough to be underwhelmed by it, and then my hand just kinda went into the bottom corner and took hold of the plain-jane Gibson J-45 and lifted it off the peg.

I've only owned one J-45, a 1950 that had been professionally refinished before it came to me. It also had massive structural damage that I'd had (expensively) repaired by Bob McIsaacs' shop in Atlanta. Its power was compromised by the inevitable thinning of its top by refinishing. At the time I was still doing solo acoustic gigs using PAs, and fitting a pickup system to it would have been challenging.

All the same, it was a magical instrument that forever changed the way I heard and played guitar. It was my favorite instrument to take to Macon during the time I was visiting Steve Belew and soaking up all I could of his guitar style, and through him the style of the Rev. Pearlie Brown and other Georgia street-singers.

It opened my ears, too. I'd progressed from a Japanese Martin copy to a '60 Gibson LG-2 small-bodied acoustic to a Guild grand auditorium with a cutaway, the closest thing to Richard Thompson's Lowden I could afford. The J-45 lacked the sheer raw punch of the Guild, but it had the richest, smoothest bass I'd ever experienced, and had a lovely balanced quality to its sound the Guild couldn't match. All of that led to my having the Guild tweaked and tuned a couple of times by Hosler before finally breaking down and buying a huge rosewood Taylor 815C cutaway jumbo that has been my primary guitar since late 1995 and my only steel-string acoustic since 2000.

I wound up giving that 1950 J-45 to my brother Mark, who's a much better guitar player than I'll ever be. He hadn't had a really nice guitar since the late '70s, and I knew he'd give it a good home and cherish it and love it.

All of that flashed through my mind when I took the new J-45 off the peg Friday. The minute my left hand curled around that neck, I felt it. I sat down and played, experiencing a neck that felt soooo comfortable and handfilling, not at all like the sometimes-too-skinny Taylor neck or the extremely tapered neck on my old blonde Telecaster - no, this was a neck like the one my old J-45 had, a solid, substantial chunk of mahogany that invited hours and hours of playing without hand cramps.

The sound I sought was there, too. Yeah, it was still a new guitar, and the top still needed hours of playing in to bring it fully to life. Yeah, I only played it for a little bit, with other people playing in the room. I didn't use a plectrum to drive the top hard and see if it would go there - but in just a few minutes, it whispered to me of its promise of being an incredible guitar. Not really thinking too much about it, I hung it back up. I wasn't looking for another acoustic guitar, right? I had a big, flashy, well-broken in Taylor, right?

We walked back out into the noisy shop. Pat, a long, lean salesman, asked if he could help, and I mentioned Taylor T5s. He brought one out of the back, an amazing koa-topped number that I picked idly for a moment and handed back - $3,400 is more than I want to spend on a guitar, ever. He came back with its less expensive variant in a maple top that was visually stunning.

Ana thought it was a beautiful guitar, and when Pat mentioned that Guitar Center has its own charge card, she said, "You can do that if you want to." After a moment, I suggested trying it out in the quiet room.

Back we went behind the big glass door to plug it into a Roland acoustic amp. Apparently, the pickup system on the T5 cannot be safely played in all settings through a tube amp - a bit off-putting for me, to be honest. But I tried all the settings as best I could, fingerstyle again, playing mostly the jazzier bits. The acoustic sound was all right, but still pretty much the basic piezo quack. The neck pickup only sound was nice, the middle position was kinda reminiscent of a Telecaster, and the fourth position had a Gretsch-y quality that Ana really liked. The last position, meant to be a Les Paul-ish sound, might as well have been blocked off, as I'd probably never use it.

It had a lovely action, the usual fast, skinny neck that Taylor has built its reputation on, everything worked nicely, my wife was saying it would be okay if I wanted to go 3 grand into debt to buy it with an amp, and the salesman was ready to start paperwork.

An older guy who had been playing guitars in there the whole time we were in there caught me in a moment between playing and asked me to play a guitar he was holding so he could hear it better. I took the proffered instrument, a basic Breedlove, and played through a chord progression. It was a crap guitar, I thought - a big dreadnaught with no bass or punch and lots of tinny treble, with a low E that buzzed on the frets. It was a lot like the Washburn I'd gladly traded of many years earlier. The older guy thanked me and took it back, talking about how he really could afford anything in there, but he just liked the cheaper ones better. More power to you, I thought, and picked up the Taylor again.

It was pretty. Glossy. New-age, high-tech approach to a stage guitar and all that, and it would do a bunch of sounds which could be good in a home-studio setting. I thought about the salesman's comment when Ana suggested I try it out - "I'm married, and I already know it's better to ask for forgiveness than permission, so when she offers permission you jump on it."

I handed the T5 back and said, "I need to think about it." We chatted a moment more, and then we left the quiet room.

In the car on the way to the bookstore, I finally figured out why I didn't buy the T5.

"It's not just the money, and it's not just the fact that I need to be playing more to justify spending that kind of money," I said. "The Taylor didn't say, 'take me home.' It's a nice guitar, and maybe someday I'll own one, but that one didn't speak to me."

"Oh," Ana said. "I completely understand, and in that case, no, you did right not to buy it."

A moment later I said, "Now, that J-45? That guitar spoke to me."

holidays; vest pocket predators; a nasty crash for Campbell

2006-12-27T19:59:00.000-05:00

First the holidays loom large on the horizon; then they tower over you; then you dash like a mad thing through them, hoping everyone is properly and adequately taken care of. Good luck with that.

But first we have to go back in time and play catch-up. A couple of weeks back, there was a lovely Saturday ride with a large batch o' folks. I finished up the ride with Ainsley, Connie and Donnis. We were discussing crashes in the woods while we rode along. Ainsley had the best story - he had nearly crashed while trying to avoid hitting a shrew in the trail.

"I hate to sound dumb," Donnis said, "But what's a shrew?"

"It's a small venomous mammal, about so big," Ainsley said, holding up his thumb and forefinger to convey teensiness. "They're predators."

"Vest pocket predators?" I asked.

"Precisely," Ainsley said.

"What do they eat?" Donnis asked.

"Insects, frogs, mice, rats ... they're venomous, and they'll bite rats that are ten times their size, then follow them to where they've died and eat them," he said.

I carried this conversation home to Ana, whose initial response was, "They're not rodents?"

"Apparently not. They're venomous mammals, and their teeth are not rodent-like," I said.

"Oh."

So the next afternoon (Sunday, Dec. 17, the day of Grattan's party that I missed, dang it) I was in the woods on my faithful beat-up Trek converted to single-speed. Initially I was with Ainsley, Connie, Donnis, Vonona and Jim, but when I got to Memorial Bridge, I went a bit up the trail by myself so I could pull over for a natural. I rolled back down to find Tom Austin, Mark and Tim from the speedy bunch known as the A-Team had joined the multitude. Ainsley took off, I hopped onto his wheel, and I thought we were all together again.

Nope. We had the A-Team guys behind us, "encouraging" us to ride faster. So I dug deep and made the blue beast go as fast as I could manage - unfortunately, a bit faster than my skills set could handle.

The subject of shrews came up, which meant that I was relaying the conversation back and forth between Ainsley and Tom. Tom also thought that shrews were rodents. Ainsley replied that no, they're mammals.

"So, do you believe Ainsley's crap about this?" Tom asked me as we headed into a steep, fast set of switchbacks that descend rapidly.

"I'm maintaining a diplomatic silence on that one," I said, just as I snagged a vine on the extension of my Brahma bar and went down in a heap, sliding for a surprising distance.

There was silence for a moment. I think I was actually more amused than anything else, and commented on how when there are enough dead leaves and pine needles, you can slide very nicely and absorb impact. Then I noticed the top half of my Vetta cycle computer was gone. We scrounged around and found it, and it all reassembled and worked - but I had lost the official record of my mileage on the Trek to date - only two weeks away from the end of the year, dang it. (I've since reconstructed it enough to know that I had at least 515 miles on that bike, which lets me calculate from what the mileage was on Jan. 1.)

Oh yeah - about shrews? Go here - they really ARE mammals. So there.

Off we went, having yet another great spill when Ainsley went down in the new gravel at the start of the last section leading to Fell Hunt Camp. It was a slow speed, no harm, no foul moment. When we got to the end of the trail, I draped myself over the bars and panted for a bit until my headache settled down and my blood pressure was back in a gentler range - those boys go faster than I can manage. We regrouped at the kiosk, where Tom hefted Ainsley's battered Diamondback conversion and suggested a faster, newer, better fitting bike might benefit his speed.

We let the A-Team guys go on ahead for the trip back. I did a lot of stopping and tightening of the headset by hand, as it had loosened up considerably in the hell-for-leather trip out. I wound up with approximately 16 miles, but can't be certain - computer problems and all that, you know?

I did some reconstruction of mileage charts on Sunday, going back to earlier notes and recalculating things. For fun, I refigured my total year-to-date mileage and discovered I'd ridden 4,373 miles as of December 17. I'd already surpassed my (admittedly conservative) goal of 4k miles in 2006 - could I go 4,500 or more?

I did a Tuesday night ride on the 19th, again riding the Trek, but with the headset retightened and the computer reset. Ainsley wanted to push on all the way to Fell and gone, but I needed to get back at a decent hour, so we turned around and headed back in. I had 11.8 miles for the evening.

Wednesday marked my last commute of the year, ridden aboard good old Julius the Mercian fixed-gear. The decision a couple of years ago to try to ride to work every day possible, rain, shine, hot or cold, has paid off for me. It's worked out to be something on the order of 650-700 miles a year in short hops. I'm attributing that and dietary changes to my managing to avoid getting sick this year.

Thursday Ana and I went to Raleigh to see the Monet in Normandy exhibit. I initially went because I know she adores French Impressionist painting and I thought it would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for us to go see it. We drove up U.S. 1, avoiding the doubtless over-crowded interstates, and made our way up to the state of my birth.

Along the way, we enjoyed the mix of stuff you'll never see when on restricted access four-lanes. My favorites were the bad Christmas decorations. We particularly enjoyed the conflation of Santa with the Nativity - nothing quite like the Adoration of the Reindeer, especially when gift-bearing snowmen are present.

The exhibit was wonderful - 50 Monets in one place. We were in the first batch in when the museum opened at 9:00 a.m. Through a happy set of accidents, we wound up seeing the exhibit in reverse chronological order, starting with later pieces. Those were Ana's favorites, and mine as well. I especially enjoyed the Mornings on the Seine series, and my absolute favorite was the Morning Mist from that group. There was one spot where you could stand at the end of a partition about 40 feet away and get a perfect view. I returned there a couple of times, really enjoying the piece.

We spent an hour and a half walking around the Monets, going backwards through time, then selectively going back to pieces we liked and looking at them again. People were coming into the exhibit in waves, but no one was in a hurry to leave. By the time we decided to head out, folks were lined up five deep.

We strolled through the rest of the Museum, admiring but not in love with the Spanish religious paintings, turned off by much of the modern stuff, but quietly enjoying the Greek vase paintings. I looked at their Egyptian stuff, which I can dig from a historical perspective - but the Egypt of the Pharoahs always feels creepy to me, and probably always will.

We stopped for lunch at the Spartacus Grille, where I discovered a little slice of heaven. I adore Greek food. It's one of the few cuisines that I can dive in without reservations about fats, overly processed stuff, etc. And bless their souls, the Spartacus was a Greek place with a buffet. Yes, I made a pig of myself. Yes, I had three plates. And yes, the food was excellent, and I go a long, long time between Greek restaurants, so I have no shame at all.

Saturday I rode with the club aboard Stripe for the out-and-back run to Cedar Springs. I lagged a bit, but managed to finish with the bunch. Ainsley met us at the end with his daugher Miranda, and presented me with a batch of sugar-free ginger cookies (which were ideal with coffee as a post-Christmas Dinner dessert). I learned he had succumbed to temptation and had purchased a new KHS Solo-One single speed mountain bike. I think this leaves me as the last guy out there on a beater conversion.

I wound up with a hair over 35 miles for the day and got home in time to run errands and deliver presents. As always happens when I ride Stripe, I wondered when I would get around to putting the cash together to getting that bike repainted properly - it really does ride well.

Sunday and Monday were something of a blur, what with doing Christmas supper with my parents, then going to Ana's parents' place, then Christmas morning with our new nephew ... plus other meals, snacks, gatherings, socializing, all packed into a 48-hour period.

We had decided to ride out of Ware Shoals on Tuesday, so I dressed up in wool and loaded Belle into my truck and headed for that town's lovely old 20's high school. I was the last one there, but they hadn't taken off just yet. Jim and Bradley Cox were there, as were Zac and John Campbell Lake (the ride organizer), Bill and Andrew Evans, and Ainsley.

We had a few moments before we headed out. I admired Bill's new Carradice Barley in green he had strapped to his B17 on his Quickbeam, we chatted for a moment about the weather, and then we were all off, heading out onto the route I last did back at the beginning of the month.

I think it's Mill Street, which turns off of Main right around Katherine Hall, the old recreational center of Ware Shoals. Whichever street it is, you go right and then rapidly you go down, and fast, descending from pretty much the high ground of Ware Shoals down to the public park along the Saluda River as it pounds over the rocks, negotiating a wide curve to the left and then dropping even faster down to the bottom, where a stop sign awaits you.

I saw Bradley and Zac and Andrew charge off down the hill like the speedy young racers they are, with Campbell in pursuit, followed by Bill Evans. I passed Jim before the curve, tucked in and started descending, taking a second to glance back to be sure I had room. Ainsley and Jim were far enough back that I could ride freely. I looked ahead, about to go into full aero crouch in the hooks, and saw Campbell standing up right and slinging his front wheel out of the road.

I managed to pull over and stop (I was doing about 34 at the time) as Ainsley and Jim did the same. Campbell had apparently lost control on a hill he'd been down his whole life on bikes and cars and even pinewood derby carts, losing it and hitting the curb.

It was a very near thing, and only divine intervention kept him from having lots of nasty broken bones or worse. He was upright, with road rash on his right arm and leg and lots of bruises to come. His helmet vents were packed with mud and vegetation from where his head had mercifully landed in the soggy grass just beyond the sidewalk. He's all right now, and was able to catch up with us in a car later on to touch base - though I suspect that come Wednesday morning he was a sore and painfilled lad.

His Specialized Roubaix was another matter. Both tires were blown out with ragged holes in the side casings. The carbon fork was mangled and broken and bent back dramatically. Later, we would learn the front rim was broken; the rear rim out of true and badly scratched, possibly destroyed; chain and derailleur hanger bent; road rash to lots of parts; and possibly fatal damage to his front chainrings. According to his cycle computer, he was going 38.7 mph when he lost control. It remains to be seen if the bike can be salvaged - it's a carbon fiber frame, and really needs to be checked for safety issues.

We gathered around him and called for his eldest son to come pick him up. I glanced at my cycle computer - we'd come .76 of a mile. While we waited for Doc to come get him, we stood around on the unbelievably cold and windy hillside and shivered, cooling down rapidly. By the time his son arrived, I was chilled to the bone.

With Campbell taken care off, we set off again. Near the bottom of the hill, before the stop sign, we crossed the bridge over the Saluda. It was swollen and brown with lots of white showing as it splashed over rocks. The river looked to be well up on its banks and reaching beyond them. As we rode the parallel along the narrow park, I could feel the cold wind coming off the water.

Naturally, I fell off the back as we started the long trudge back out of the river basin. After a certain point, everyone was out of sight. Ainsley was waiting for me at the next intersection, and we met up with Jim about a mile later. We made the turn onto Ekom Beach Road only because I remembered it from earlier in December. Jim went on ahead while we stopped for naturals on a dirt road at the top of Gun Barrel Hill. Even without a running start, I hit 41 mph on the descent, the second-fastest speed I've been on Belle.

Of course I'd left my camera at home, which meant I had no means of capturing images of the Santa Cemetery. The various red St. Nicks were still out there, face-down in the field, looking for all the world as if they needed yellow crime scene tape around them.

Zac, Andrew, Dr. Bill and Bradley waited up for us. Zac pointed out the shortcut that Jim had taken to head on in, and I was sorely tempted. Ainsley promised to ride back with me, so I did the full length of the ride, including the scary descent down the narrow road off of Dairy that has the 90 degree turn on wet leaves at the bottom. Ouch.

We were climbing back up when Campbell pulled up in his Prius. We talked through his car window as we slogged up the spiky little climb, and it was only when it was too late that I realized I probably could have hung onto the window frame and talked while his car pulled me along, TdF fashion. Oh, well.

I felt slow, but I made it back in and wound up with a shade over 27 miles for the day.

Yesterday afternoon, I spent an hour or so doing something I should have done long ago - replacing the solid, nutted axle in Julius's Surly rear hub with a hollow quick release unit. It went better than I feared it would, even if I did have to break out the hacksaw to trim the axle. The old, straight-handled M.M. Atom skewer appears to be working pretty well. I'll know for sure on New Year's Day, if not sooner.

There are rides scheduled for tonight, Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon - will the accumulated mileage be sufficient to get me over the 4,500 mile line for the year?

early December

2006-12-05T21:43:00.000-05:00

Saturday I rode Stripe for something over 30 miles on a club ride with Jim C., Connie, Bill T., Grattan, Pepe Ronan, John Campbell Lake, Drew and Tommy Davis. It was the old loop, out the trail, through Wisewood, down Scotch Cross, right onto Louden and the John Lake Loop, and thence back to Greenwood.

Of course the group split up a couple of times, but generally the pace was reasonable - no complaints here, it was a good ride.

Sunday, I met Campbell and Drew at Ware Shoals High School for a ramble in the hillier part of the county. I initially worried I hadn't dressed properly - it was quite brisk at first, and I considered, then rejected turning back. For another mile or two, I thought about stopping and bumming a couple of sheets of newspaper to stuff between my wool jerseys, a la the old French guys.

The first long climb up out of the Saluda basin warmed me up quite nicely. I actually used my granny gear for the first time since Issaqueena back in May, but rapidly switched back to the middle ring. John took us out on a route that I'd been on before, maybe five years back or so. We wound up going down Dairy Road to a point immediately past a battered looking barn. From there, you can see the mountains, even if they were a bit hazy Sunday.

I got some pictures on the climb back up out of there - or so I thought. Turns out I managed to erase all the photos I had taken. Sheesh.

There were odd moments. I stopped for a natural at one point near Gun Barrel Hill and found myself regarding the severed head and feet of a doe dumped along the roadside. The best, by far, and the reason I most bitterly regretted losing the photos, was the house with all the outdoor decorations. The lady must have had a dozen or more Santas out there. Unfortunately, stiff winds had knocked them over. There was a large clump of Santas lying face-down in a field, looking like a crime scene at a mall Christmas training center. John referred to it as a Santa Cemetery, which was pretty much what I was looking at.

Monday we had a very active meeting of the Greenwood Cycling Club. There were a lot of good ideas thrown around, and I collected enough money from folks to pay for the new GCC website's domain registration and hosting.

Tuesday night I had the wierdest flat ever. Maybe two miles out, I heard a "p-tooonk" kinda sound (you try writing a funky sound out like that!), followed by a thunking sound. Flat. Great. I dismounted and found a 5-in stick about as big around as my pinky poking out of my back tire. Ainsley got a photo on his camera phone, but I haven't yet gotten a copy - alas. So I went to change out the tube, but we had no success inflating it. Swell. I managed to limp to the end of that section of trail and crawled back to the cars on the rim.

Today I met Jim and Rick Flowe downtown at the fountain. It was bitterly cold, so cold that I initially rode wearing wool gloves covered with leather work gloves. I had on three layers of wool on my torso, plus the wind-proof jacket, and I still wondered if it would be enough. It was, fortunately.

I rode the Julius the fixed-gear, which may have helped influence the pace. We took it easy, ambling around the Wednesday night course. Rick and I had a spirited discussion of the joys of riding road bikes on dirt roads, but I bet we still haven't convinced Jim. Not yet, anyway. I wound up with something over 20 miles for the day, which I can live with. Did I mention it was cold?

an uneven november

2006-11-19T19:52:00.000-05:00

My personal ride schedule has been a bit rough this month, and it looks like it will be that way for a while longer.

Consider - last week, I was running a little late on my way to the Saturday morning club ride from the fountain downtown. I had misjudged how warm it was, and realized I was wearing too much the moment I wheeled Belle out of the garage. I peeled off a couple of layers of wool and rode hard for downtown.

I felt pretty good about it. Throwing the chain up onto the big ring, I cranked my way up Grace Street, churning away on bigger gears than I normally turn. I got through the lights just right, and all was well until I hit the intersection with Main Street.

It was Veteran's Day, and for the first time ever, there was a parade in downtown Greenwood. It was a short march - probably from about Hampton Plaza down to Oak Street - but it also blocked my way. It took me a minute to pull back out of the line of backed up cars, cut through the parking lot of Main Street United Methodist Church, then down Merriman and working my way the long way around.

I got to the fountain area around 10:18, and yes, they'd gone. I decided I'd see if I could get in a decent solo ride, so I went down the trail and took the usual route out towards Briarwood Road. I met Fred coming the other way on Alexander Road - he was suffering from a bad cold and was heading back in. I decided there was no way I was going to catch the other riders, so I took a left on Mt. Moriah Road.

I headed down Scotch Cross Road towards Ninety Six, but decided to cut the ride short. Hitching Post Road called to me, with its hardpacked dirt leading eventually back to the Canadian Mist Highway. The descent was great - a fast roll down over the dirt, across the little bridge, and then up onto the pavement as I worked my way up the hill. I looked over and saw Christmas decorations taking over a yard.

Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving. Bad enough when the retail world does it, but to see this in someone's yard? Sheesh. I turned and rolled back to take some photos to document the sheer tackiness, then headed back towards Greenwood. I had something like 24 miles for the day when I got home.

Tuesday night I had planned on riding in the woods - until I got home and realized I had forgotten to charge my lights. So much for that. Thursday I remembered to charge my lights, but something came up, so no riding then, either. I had at least gotten in my commuting miles, such as they were.

Yesterday I got to ride, accompanying Jim, John Campbell and Zac Lake, Drew, Dewey and Ann H. on an out and back to Cedar Springs Road. Along the way, I tried to talk Zac into joining me on a ride with Ainsley over the dirt roads in January and February. Campbell tried to take a sign from his own son - the nerve of it! - but Speedy Young Zac promptly caught and dropped him.

We worked our way back to Greenwood, and I pulled in with 36.7 miles for the day.

into November

2006-11-05T12:12:00.000-05:00

I know, I know - too long between posts. In the interim, I've ridden a bunch of miles on various bikes the last few weeks. Some of the rides run together in my head, and my mileage stats haven't been kept up with religiously. Sorry. I'll at least have total numbers up at year's end.

For whatever it 's worth, I think I surpassed my annual mileage for 2005 by the end of October. This surprised me, because I've done a lot fewer event rides in 2006, and those usually run the numbers up.

Anyway, in the course of playing catch up, I'll just have to list a few occurrences and throw a bunch of photos up onto the site.

I've fallen down a few times in the woods. Nothing serious, but it's happened often enough that I'm probably gonna be a bit cautious for a while. Mostly it's slow speed stuff, trying to negotiate root farms and rock gardens at a near-standstill pace, but one involved hooking the side of my front tire at 12 mph. The best of the lot was while climbing a steep bit - I managed to lift the front wheel off the ground at the same moment a rock turned under my rear tire. Oops. I wound up on my back with my bike in the air laughing at the absurdity of it all.

I rode Stripe last Saturday on a club ride and realized that's really a bike for warm weather. Nothing wrong with the bike, I just couldn't get comfortable and I missed the B17 Brooks saddles everything else is equipped with. I really should consider dismantling Stripe and prepping him for repaint and repair, but since my bike budget is currently somewhere between nil and nada, there's no rush.

The Peugeot project is currently stalled, but will be resumed again at some point. Again, the bike budget is pretty much non-existent, and in all honesty this bike is currently a very low priority.

Thursday evening I rode despite forgetting to recharge my lights. Of course everything went dark about the time we turned around to go back. I stuck to Ainsley's back wheel like glue, and only his lights and the full moon kept me upright and riding back down the trail.

Ainsley and I rode fixed-gears yesterday, but we stayed on pavement. We were accompanied by Drew and Bradley on a romp around the Briarwood-Whitehall-Rock House loop. We did stop for a moment on Cowhead Creek Road, and I got a nice shot of an inviting dirt road. Next time.

rabbit tales and a lengthy ramble

2006-10-14T16:54:00.000-04:00

Deer season - with rifles - opened Wednesday, which can make life challenging if you like riding off-road. Thursday, I tossed the Trek and its lights into the back of the truck and headed for the Rock.

Along the way, I passed numerous trucks parked at odd points along 505. Hmm. I drove on, and I wasn't terribly surprised that none of the usual suspects were parked at the trailhead. I turned up the iPod-through-iTrip-through-truck-radio combo and flipped on the Smiths. No, I wasn't playing "Meat is Murder" while driving past deer hunters, but I was amused by the way "How Soon is Now" combines the wimpiest whining lyrics of all time with a ferociously masculine guitar part. Oh, well - Morrissey was only human, he needs love like anyone else, right?

Ainsley was there, as well as the speedy guys from what Jim calls "The A-Team." I said hello to Tom, Milo, Josh, Mark and Ashby. Ainsley and I realized Jim and Campbell had already left, so we followed the fast guys out the gate. Of course they went faster up the initial hill - but not by as much as they used to. Josh had problems near the top of the hill, so Ainsley and I cruised on. The fast guys who were waiting at the T took off as we approached, aiming for the steel bridge (a.k.a. Gratin's Bridge).

A moment's deliberation, and we followed. Ainsley was suffering from not taking a rest day in more than a week, but I was feeling good and had warmed up. I closed in on Mark's rear wheel and hung closer than I ever had to the hammer crew. Eventually I had to drop back, if only to keep from killing myself by descending too fast.

At the bottom, we found the fast crew taking a quick break. Another quick conversation and they were off. We followed at our own pace, finding Josh along the way. He was suffering from pinched nerves and was heading back in to the cars. We said goodbye and rolled on.

Near Memorial Bridge I told Ainsley about an incident I forgot to mention in the blog entry about Tuesday.

"I was on the last stretch back to the Rock when I had to slam on the brakes," I said.

"And why did you have to slam on brakes?"

"So I wouldn't collide with the rabbit on the trail. I figured it would be fatal for him."

"Couldn't you have just, you know, bunny-hopped over him?"

I shook my head. "I knew I was giving that to you, you know that?"

Ainsley laughed and did his Elmer-Fudd-does-Wagner "Kill the Wabbit, Kill the Wabbit!" A moment later, he said, "I think rabbits are in season right now."

"Maybe, but while there's probably rifle and bow seasons, when is it legal to hunt rabbits with bikes? Besides - you know how there's a five-round magazine limit? What if a game warden hassles me for hunting rabbits with 36-spoke wheels when the legal limit is 32?"

A few minutes later I had opened up a gap on Ainsley. I waited for him at a log crossing. He'd apparently had a spill along the way - it really wasn't his night. We pushed on to the road, turning around at the road and heading back in. It was time to switch on lights, and once again I found myself wishing I had a helmet mounted lamp.

A little while later, Ainsley made that same discovery. We were coming up the climb that leads into the switchbacks before the roller coaster when I heard an expletive, followed by silence. Uh-oh. I stopped and turned back around and looked back. No sign of Ainsley, so I turned and rode back down the trail.

He was on his back, head down, feet up, with the bike still between his legs, shaking his head.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he said. "My back wheel went out from under me. Look, you can see it right there."

Even in the dark I could see the groove. "Impressive. Sorry I missed seeing it, I'm sure it was an epic crash."

We finished up the ride at a gentler pace, winding up with 15.9 miles.

Saturday morning was very brisk and cold - about 45 degrees, the coldest morning I'd experienced this fall. I wore wool and lots of it - my old Sergal leg warmers, SmartWool socks and a black long-sleeved wool undershirt and long-sleeved Derby Tweed wool jersey from Rivendell, complete with the new yellow jacket and warm gloves. I had the Carradice Barley saddlebag affixed to Julius' B17 to catch any clothing overflow.

Ainsley was waiting with his old blue Schwinn World Sport converted to fixed-gear - built on a frame from a bike I bought for $5 at the Salvation Army a few years ago. Connie was our only other rider. She was a bit apprehensive about our proposed ride, but we assured her we would amend the ride for her benefit.

We set off for Rock House Road on what we originally thought would be Greenwood-Troy-Greenwood shortened. Somewhere past Stillwell Road I proposed that we take Dendy Bridge Road and go through Bradley and work around to Cedar Springs Road and back on in.

I rode along thinking about Dendy Bridge and wondering if I would be too greatly overgeared. When Ainsley stopped for a natural and Connie and I rolled on, I stopped us a quarter of a mile ahead. It's been a couple of years since I flipped my wheel on the road, but I managed a creditable job of it, snugging things down and dropping my gear from a 71-in down to a 67.

Much better, and I was grateful I had done so when I made the turn onto Dendy and almost immediately felt the back end of the bike try to break loose. Apparently the road had been scraped recently. It was much softer than we remembered it being, and Connie found it all pretty dodgy. I had forgotten how steep the two hills are, but I did okay by sitting back and climbing in the drops in classical British clubman style.

After a strange moment on the short stretch of the highway before turning onto Cedar Grove Road, we outran a junkyard dog and went to the end of the road to see how where it ran into Highway 10. We turned back and headed down along Watson Hill Road. The dirt surface was better than Dendy Bridge Road, but not by much. A couple of times I had to dance on the pedals, but most of the climbs I managed while seated.

When we reached the big rocks, we stopped and congratulated Connie for joining the ranks of those of us who love dirt roads. In her case we were stretching it - I don't think dirt roads on road bikes are quite her cuppa, but she had managed pretty well. We mounted up and headed back to Greenwood via Promised Land. By the time I got home I had 41.24 miles for the day.

Sunday I tossed the Trek into the truck and drove down to the Rock. Jim was the only rider waiting there - Campbell had cancelled due to a conflict. We rode at a gentler pace due to Jim's damaged left knee, heading right down the long hills to the steel bridge. We had turned and started back when I had a slow speed uphill fall - my first of the year. Moments later, we cleared the trail as Milo, Tom, Sean, Pepe, Gratin, Ashby and some young guys I don't know came roaring by in the other direction.

I had a couple of chain slips and stopped for a second to reset the chain tensioner. Whups - I needed wrenches. Jim was on up the trail while I dug out my multi-tool and cinched down the SoulCraft - but I caught up to him near the next big fallen log. Apparently, he'd been talking to himself thinking I was behind him, and he hadn't realized he was alone until he stopped for the log.

We went out to the road and took the trails down past Memorial Bridge and through the next section. When we hit the road at the end of the trail, Connie and Donis were waiting - they'd apparently set out after we had. After a very brief chat, we headed back to the Rock in an attempt to keep Jim's knee from cooling off and seizing up.

We were overtaken again by the fast guys, who had apparently done the grand loop of the trails. They were going uphill on the trail about as fast as I ride flat terrain on roads. Once more I fell back behind Jim, feeling Saturday's fixed-gear ride in my legs, but I caught up to him on the last stretch. I wound up with 16.1 miles for the day and was glad to finish the ride in one piece.

best-laid plans and new pedals

2006-10-11T21:13:00.000-04:00

Sunday Ainsley and I were going to go do a mini-epic fixed-gear ride. I mapped out the Greenwood-Troy-Greenwood loop at routeslip.com, looked at it, and emailed Ainsley with the suggestion that we amend the route. To clip it, we would skip the (glorious!) dirt roads down near the Long Cane Massacre site, complete with the magnificent bridge over Long Cane Creek built by the National Guard. It looked like a good plan, and Ainsley and I figured we could do the ride in a reasonable amount of time.

Ana and I went out Saturday night, catching a show up at the Handlebar by the Killer Whales. I hadn't seen the Whales play since, oh, 1985 or so. It was a good show, though it ran later than I thought it would. I got to bed about 3:00 a.m. Sunday morning and wondered what sort of shape I'd be in for the ride.

Ah, but it rained Sunday morning, and rained more heavily as the day wore on. It's early in the autumn here, and we're not yet ready to ride dirt roads on the rain the way we will be come January. So instead of riding, I stayed home and lolled on the couch and set routes up on routeslip.com.

Saturday afternoon I had come home from riding to find a box from Nashbar waiting for me. After replacing all my clipless pedals with clips and straps in 2001, I had broken down and gotten myself a set of Crank Brothers Egg Beater pedals and some shoes to go with them. I'd put them on the Trek and set the cleats up and managed a very short hop around the block to check them out.

Tuesday evening I got to give them a workout. I got off to a tardy start and found myself chasing folks who had already headed out. First I caught Tommy Davis, who was fighting with a dysfunctional headlamp bracket. I took a couple of mini breaks, one to tighten cleats, a couple more to tweak my saddle height. I finally dialed it in correctly right before I hit the roller coaster on the way to Memorial Bridge.

Tommy was on my wheel by this point. Shortly after Memorial Bridge, I saw a flash of red that I knew was Campbell's jersey. I dug in and chased, feeling my calves working more than they had in ages while I spun the cranks. Shortly before the really bad rock garden, I caught up to Campbell and Jim.

"You're riding with the walking wounded," Campbell said. "Jim's nursing a bad knee, and I've hurt my back again."

Yeah, tell me another. But this time they really were, and the pace came down. When we hit the road again, Jim and Campbell turned back. Tommy and I went back and forth over whether to do the same. The trail won out, and we went forward, getting in another fifteen minutes before turning back.

Tommy led back to the road before telling me I should push on. So I did. I was warmed up now and getting used to being locked into the pedals. Climbs I'd been standing on last week I took seated and sliding way back on the saddle. I could really feel my calves working now, and hoped I could finish the ride without popping or pulling anything.

Coming off Memorial Bridge, I saw Tom and his crew approaching, with Big Zack in tow.

"Taking you for a drag?" I asked.

"Yeah, you could say that," he said.

After hearing that Jim and Campbell weren't that far up the trail, I took off. I switched my lights on and went for it. I settled into the handlebar extensions and kept my hands off the brakes as much as I could. It got darker, and I wondered if I'd be using the force to steer before much longer.

I hit the switchbacks and climbed up them faster than I had ever taken them. I felt better going into the roller coaster than I could ever remember, staying seated almost all the way up.

Then it got dark enough that the lights became a problem. I'm currently using a set of cheapies that clamp onto the handlebars. That's all well and good, except for when you need to see ahead to the turn coming up, while your handlebars - and light - are still facing straight ahead.

I started riding with my hands on the brake levers now, settling down to a slower pace. Too dark, too hard to see, and I'm just not into falling down and going boom. I still hopped over a couple of logs on the way back, and before I expected it I was rolling down the final slope to the cars.

I had 13.2 miles for the ride and a decent average speed even with the slow sections.

time for wool once again

2006-10-07T08:12:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I'm behind in my blogging. Last Saturday I rode Belle on the morning club ride. We wound up taking the classic loop route to Ninety-Six and back, augmented by what Jim calls the Fitzgerald Addendum (mostly because back in '99 I'd whine when we did it) as well as the John Campbell Lake Loop (the jog out onto Louden Road, thence back to Ninety Six via Hwy. 248 past the Star Fort).

We had a pretty decent turnout. I rolled up a couple of minutes late, but everyone was still prepping bikes and adding and removing layers. I had worn my nice new yellow jacket over my Mercian long-sleeved jersey, which was in turn worn over one of the Rivendell sleeveless "wife-beater" wool undershirts. The jacket had to come off, and I did the ride with it rolled up into a tube and stuffed into a jersey pocket.

Connie and Donnis set out before the rest of us, getting a sizeable headstart. We finally caught up to them at the intersection of Scotch Cross and Louden, and for a brief while we were all one big happy bunch - as I sometimes put it in the paceline, "we's all gruppo compatto!"

I was down in the drops following Jim up one of the hills when I noticed his rear wheel skewer looked ... strange. I had already noted that the front skewer lever was pointed forward, and had attributed that to Jim's tendency to be slightly eccentric at times. Sheesh, that rear skewer was pointed almost straight down, away from the frame ... but the angle of the lever looked wrong. Hmm.

The nickel dropped. I pulled up next to him and said, "Jim, your rear quick release skewer is unlocked."

He stopped at the top of the hill and made repairs, while we rode pianissimo for a moment, then poured it on to take the next hill. I glanced back and saw Jim still working on his bike and wondered if I needed to go back. We pressed on, making the turn onto 248 and passing the entryway to the Star Fort Park, land o' Revolutionary War re-enactments (the siege of the Loyalist garrison of Ninety-Six, while unsuccessful, led the British to withdraw from what they felt were untenable and exposed positions in the interior).

Jim was still way, way off the back. Hmm. I sat on a wheel and we made the right turn onto Johnston Road. I sped up and caught the front of the pack, Angie and Campbell, and suggested we wait for Jim. A moment later he caught up to us. He was still shaking his head. Apparently, someone had unlocked his quick releases, then spun the levers round until they were insanely tight and almost impossible to loosen. He had theories - someone had messed with them while the bike as on a car rack at a store, etc. We were all glad we caught them before they loosened at a bad time.

I wound up with 29.4 miles for what turned out to be a very nice autumn day, one that I completed by doing some yard work and doing some grocery shopping.

Sunday was trail time. We'd had a big, bad windstorm the Thursday before, and the reports we got suggested we needed to postpone the long ride we had scheduled.

So I took my battered Trek 950 single-speed down to the Rock. Ainsley was there, as well as Connie, Campbell and Zac Lake, and the Ronan Clan - Pepe, Sean and Alyssa (sp?). While we were setting up, Big Zack, half of the management team of Upstate Bike and Skate, showed up with a buddy of his. They had apparently had a minor run in with equestrians, but all appeared to be okay.

We said various hellos and goodbyes. Pepe sent 14-year-old Alyssa to ride with us as we set off for Gratin's bridge.

The trail down to the steel bridge is kinda technical, at least for me. It's rocky and bumpy, with sand drifts in some places and really tight, twisty switchbacks in others. I hung on, rocketing down the hills and trying to gauge risks as I went. As always, one risk I avoided was hopping over logs - easier for me to dismount and climb over, and much less chance of breaking bones, right?

We were maybe 9/10s of the way to the bridge when Sean and Jeff caught and passed us. As he went by, Jeff said, "You guys are doing really well." We caught up to them as they rested at the bridge and chit-chatted for a minute while Alyssa rested. They went back up the hill while we waited for Connie.

I looked at Ainsley and said, "So, does that mean we got the Pepe Ronan seal of approval?"

Ainsley nodded and said, "I believe that it does, indeed." He didn't even crack a smile.

"All right," I said. "Of course, this does go in the blog."

"Of course," he said. "Think Connie's coming this way?"

"Probably not," I said. "Let's go."

So we climbed back up out of the basin and went looking for the others. Coming off the T, I poured it on as best I could, the old blue bike flowing over the rocks and roots. We were almost to the Grand Switchback when I saw Connie, and I pushed the bike harder, hand out on the forward extensions of the Zoom bars. Forget the brakes exist, they just slow you down, flow through the turns, do not think, do not try, there is only do or not do, blah, blah, blah, and I caught up to her back wheel in twisty bit right before the climb back out starts again.

We rode along in a bunch to the road, then Ainsley and I bombed down the trail towards Memorial Bridge. As always, the roller-coaster beckoned on the way down, content that it would make me pay on the way back. I sweated my way through the switchbacks and the gravel drifts the Park Service put in to slow the damage done by horse hooves.

We caught up to Pepe and Alyssa, who were going back in. It was a good chance to rest a moment on the trail and talk, catching our breath and preparing for the next bit. Moments later we pushed on, crossing Memorial Bridge and taking on the next slog, with all its gravel and rock gardens, pushing on to what the horsey folks think of as the trailhead down near Fell Hunt Camp. Ainsley ate some granola, I ate some trail mix and sucked on my CamelBak, and it was time to go back. Yes, it was a slog, and I had 19.6 miles at the end of it.

Tuesday, more of the same. I rode 10.8 miles or so, 9.8 mph average, and that's all I remember.

Thursday night, I was running late. Jim and Tommy Davis had apparently already left, but Campbell and Connie were still setting up when I arrived right on the dot of 6:00. I pulled the Trek out of the back of the truck and we were off. We skipped Gratin's Bridge and headed for the end of the section beyond Memorial Bridge. It felt like darkness was falling very rapidly, and I set off at full blast for the return trip.

Zen? Try flying down the trail when you're not sure you can see it. Do not think - do. Yeah, yeah. I rode the bar extensions, rarely touching my brakes on the descents, throwing my body around on the bike to keep the rubber side down and on the trail. The switchbacks leading to the roller coaster felt steeper than usual, but no matter. The red cliffs of pain awaited me, and once more I got up them, the last one a stump-puller as ever, turning 12 rpm or less until I popped over the point and the front wheel started coming down again.

The bike just rocketed along down the trail now, as I focused on the pale line that was where I needed to be going. I blew across Fire Road 505 and onto the trail on the other side, stopping long enough to talk first to Mark, then to let Milo, Pepe, and their crew pass under full lights. The trail was a pale, pale thread now, and I was riding as much from memory as anything else, hands on the brake levers now and hoping I'd stay upright.

The blackened stumps on the last descent still gave me the flashing thought, "what is Hannibal the cat doing out here?" before I remembered last spring's controlled burn. I blew past them, then rode the ridge-like projection alongside the roots and shifted my hands to the extensions when I hit the concrete ramp and climbed back up to the road. I had 11.2 miles at an even 10 mph, my fastest time ever. Compared to Milo and his crew that's slow, but it's not back for cardio-boy on a single-speed, and I'll take it happily.

Today I rode Belle down to the fountain. It was a small bunch - Jim, Drew and Tommy D. Jim was still nursing a knee hurt in a slip/slide/fall in his kitchen earlier this week, so I suggested the same route as last time, as it has less climbing than many other routes.

As always, the pace picked up too soon for me, but I'm used to that. I apparently was still feeling Thursday's ride - my legs felt stiff and sore for a long time. But I hung on like grim death down the long descent down Scotch Cross. Jim announced he would go straight on in via Golf Course/Scotch Cross to Ninety Six and wait for us there, while we turned right onto Louden and headed for the Star Fort.

I fell off the back, then caught back up in time to suggest we go straight on through to downtown Ninety Six. Of course Mr. Cox was not there. "Jim waits for no man," I said to Tommy, who allowed that there was some truth in that. We headed back towards Greenwood via Lebanon Church Road, where Drew dropped back to pace me in. We talked about some bikes he wants to sell - he's got three aluminum Trek road frames he'd like to move, if anyone is interested, and a bunch of parts for that matter.

While talking in the parking lot at the end of the ride, it emerged that Drew is a bee-keeper. I hadn't known that, and I mentioned that the next time he harvested honey, I would love to buy some for medicinal purposes.

He promptly opened his truck and handed me a jar, as well as a jar of blueberry-honey. "Here, these have been sitting in my truck for a while. Enjoy."

So I thanked him profusely and stashed them in my saddlebag and headed home with a total of 29.4 miles for the day.

last wednesday evening ride of the season

2006-09-28T20:56:00.000-04:00

But first we talk about Tuesday. I got out to the Rock and found Ainsley and Jim waiting. Right before we took off, Connie arrived and got set up. Jim took off while we gathered equipment and prepared. We lost a little time before we figured out that the guy who pulled up as we were about to head out was waiting for someone else. It was 6:15 by the time we started the climb up the hill.

Ainsley and I rode along at a moderate pace, chatting about bikes and bike parts and the madness that is fixed-gear and single-speed riding.

"You know, we're only about two cog teeth away from being the 'hey y'all, watch this!' school of cycling," I said.

"I think I'm ahead of you on that scale," Ainsley said. "I have ridden fixed on these trails."

Yes. Ainsley had out-hard-cored me. I settled all the way back on my saddle and ground up the hill.

We held up a couple of times to let Connie catch up to us. It wasn't the hills - bless her heart, she's riding with a derailleur in her drivetrain.

Down to Memorial Bridge and beyond we went, taking the next stretch all the way to the road before turning and heading back. We had 11.1 miles at the end of the ride, getting in right before darkness set in.

Wednesday I got off work and raced home, changed, and headed out aboard Belle for the fountain. I cut through the parking lot of what used to be Minton's Pharmacy, weaved around the barricade and cut through Main Street Methodist's parking lot to get over to Main, avoiding the massive construction at the intersection of Cambridge and Grace.

I had been shadowing another rider on my way downtown. It turned out to be Tommy Davis, who had also chosen to ride to the ride. Dewey was waiting for us, and Fred pulled up right as we prepared to leave. We decided to ride the shortened route in the interest of time, and set off down Edgefield, turned onto Mineral and headed for the trail.

The pace got a little brisk for me, but they slowed down a couple of times and I caught back up. It always takes me several miles to warm up, but it finally happened on the long climb up Scotch Cross. We started spreading out, and I leapfrogged around Dewey and caught up to Fred. He was surprised that it was me and not Dewey on his wheel.

We came in via 225, going all the way down to Alexander before coming back in past the hospital. Once more I rode past the door I went through on my way to bypass surgery a couple of years ago, and had time to ponder it. I had 22.25 miles for the the last Wednesday evening ride of the year.

announcing a ride; puttering in the garage; hannibal and his wheelbarrow

2006-09-24T22:03:00.000-04:00

It still blows my mind that it took me so long to discover mountain bikes. Consider - last Sunday I rode 15 miles or so down to Fell Camp and back. Tuesday we rode 10.8 miles, and I had an average speed of 9.2 mph.

Thursday I met up with Jim, Fred, Campbell and Tommy Davis at the Rock for what turned out to be 11.1 miles. I finished with a 9.8 mph average, which (for me) is not bad at all. The best part - on the way back, I hung onto Fred's back wheel like a hungry leech.

Understand - Fred may be 20 years older than I am, but he's strong. STRONG. Lean, leathery, tough old guy. I don't care who you are, you wanna ride behind him. No, he's not sketchy - you ride behind him to see the lines he picks and to observe his technique.

He may ride gears, but he rides like a single-speeder or a fixed-gear rider. No momentum is wasted or lost. Every movement is geared towards making the bike go forward. He's easy to ride behind on a single-speed, there's none of this, "it's the bottom of the hill and I'm gonna shift all the way down" nonsense.

I was glad I could stay with him at all the way back from Memorial Bridge back to the Rock. I told everyone at the end of the ride that I had hung onto his rear wheel for dear life, but, hey, I spend my life clinging to people's rear wheels. Fred in particular found that amusing.

By pre-arrangement, Saturday Ainsley and I both showed up aboard fixed-gears for the club ride. Jim took a shortcut, but Campbell, Connie, Donnis, Angie, Bradley, Ainsley and I did the Briarwood-Whitehall-Rock House loop.

Afterward, Campbell, Ainsley and I went to T.W. Boon's and ate out at the sidewalk tables. We had an extensive discussion about the dichotomy of technique vs. technology. Ainsley and I, obviously, are in the former camp. Campbell, by comparison, rides carbon fiber on the road and dual suspension on the trail. It was a lively discussion, and we tried, but I doubt we'll see Campbell on a single-speed any time soon.

We did, however, agree on a ride for a week from today - on Sunday, October 1, we'll gather at the trailhead at 505/506 for the take-no-prisoners, play-the-Deguello, no-quarter-asked-or-given, eat-the-wounded ride. We'll start at 3:00 and ride the length of the trail through the First Aid Tents and Sean's Mile through Blair Woods and the Rock, and from there down to Grattan's Bridge. At that point we'll take the pavement back to the old trail to the Fell Camp trail head, thence back past Memorial Bridge to the Rock and retracing our route back to the start.

So today the weather looked threatening. There were all sorts of weather alerts and warnings of much precipitation and high winds. I spent a couple of hours in the garage, working on the Peugeot PX-10 project. I cleaned the cranks and fitted them, fine tuning the bottom bracket adjustment along the way. The Simplex SLJ rear derailleur went on, along with the appropriate cable guide and shifters. I wound up fitting a Simplex pushrod front, as the parallelogram front unit was broken the way they all break, right where the pivot pin goes in the mounting hinge.

I had Hannibal for company, and later Hector joined us. Hannibal's favorite thing is to sleep in the wheelbarrow. A few days ago, I put an old towel down inside it, which made him a very happy boy. Today, I looked over and saw Hector hopping in. They both settled in for a nap, which worked fine until Hannibal woke up and decided he didn't feel like sharing. He hopped out and napped on the floor while I tweaked and tuned bikes.

At 4:00, I met Jim at the Rock. A few drops of rain fell as we prepared to go, but we set off anyway. We wound up doing Bridge to Bridge to Bridge again - from the Rock to Memorial Bridge to Grattan's Bridge, then back to Memorial Bridge when we were joined by another rider, whose name I have of course not been able to retain. The pace picked up for the last bit of the ride, but I still managed to hang in there, even if I did drop off the back. I took a certain grim pleasure in knowing I had climbed the Roller Coaster twice in one day on the single-speed. I wound up with 15.1 miles, not bad for a day I had all but written off to rain.

the fred ride; to fell and back

2006-09-17T21:16:00.000-04:00

After the Wednesday night ride got rained out, I had Thursday's Callaham Challenge to look forward to. At the appointed time, I swung a leg over Stripe and got in 25.5 miles or so.

Friday evening I took a little time to set some things up on the bikes. I rolled the Trek out to the front yard and hosed off last year's mud. After wiping it down, I experimented with a half-link I had in my parts bin and determined that if I had one the correct 3/32-in size, I could probably dispense with the chain tensioner. I took a little more time to reset said chain tensioner, to re-adjust the front hub bearings, and to lube the chain. I also set up Belle for Saturday morning.

I meant to get up at 6:30, but the bed pulled me back down. I didn't rise till 7:00, which gave me time to eat my oatmeal and take the assorted pills I take each morning - but no time for coffee. It was almost 8:00 by the time I rolled Belle out and set off for Fred's house on Durst Avenue.

There was a large group of riders gathered on Fred's back porch. I said hello to Fred, his wife Sandra, Milo, John Lake, Jim, and some other folks. I talked at length with Rick Flowe about what rides were like 25 years ago in the Greenwood area.

At length, it was time for us to go. We gathered and sang "Happy Birthday" to Fred and set off. Fred had distributed cue sheets and maps, and he had also marked the 30 and the 65-mile routes. Of course nothing goes quite to plan - some of the riders misinterpreted some of the markers and got in some extra miles.

I was not one of them. I rode fairly close to Fred, who was taking it easy - for Fred. It was a pretty good route, out across a couple of bridges to the Waterloo area, then back around in a loop before coming back in the way we went out. There were some stiff hills coming up off the bridges, but I felt pretty decent even on the long climbs. I may not be fast, but I'm getting to where I can rock on along at my own pace reasonably well.

I wound up riding back in with Dewey Yeargin, husband to Despina, who ran a coffeeshop I played guitar in a lot about 10 years ago. He was in good spirits, and we had a pleasant enough time riding back in. I pulled in to Fred's long enough to sign out and headed home to run errands and do some yard work. I had 33.25 miles for the day.

Today I drove out to the Rock with the Trek and a full CamelBak. Ainsley was waiting for me with his battered Diamondback single-speed conversion. Jim and Campbell were aboard their dual-suspension rigs. Ainsley took time to show me his new On-One Midge bars he'd gotten for his Mercian custom he has coming along - nice bars, though we agreed it would be nice to have a bit more length on the drops.

When you start at the Rock, you immediately get to climb. It's not as bad as I first thought it was, and I felt pretty good. My first moment of really feeling it was when I hit the root farm section, which is thankfully near the top. I relaxed a bit when I passed the "From the Plow to Pines" sign and settled in for the duration. Somewhere in the opening stages of the ride, we ran into Milo and his wife. We managed brief greetings as they headed back and we headed on.

We were going to ride down to the end of the trail down near the Fell Hunt Camp. I rode behind Jim for a bit and got a lesson in why single-speeds and 27-speed dualies are sometimes incompatible on the same rides. He kept dropping down onto his granny and twiddling up hills - which pretty much kills momentum. After a bit, the group opened up a little wider and created more room.

When we were about to start the section that leads to Memorial Bridge, Tommy Davis came racing up the gravel road and joined us. We bounced on. I was glad I could manage the roller-coaster section, even with the gravel the Forest Service added to control the erosion. I felt like I was warming up a little, despite feeling the thumping my lower back was taking as we rocked along.

I could tell I was a little rusty on some of the trails. There were a couple of times I couldn't quite make the turns, and had to bring the bike to a halt as I started leaving the trail. My handling got a tad better later on.

Ainsley and I had dropped off the back of the bunch, but the rest of the guys waited at the end of the trail. After a few minutes of talking about the Fred ride, we turned and headed back. Ainsley and I let them go on up the trail and we settled into the rhythm of riding back. I had been dreading the long climb back, but surprisingly, it was not as bad as I thought it would be. Along the way we ran into Jeff and Sean Ronan, Milo (sans fiance), Grattan and some other members of that crew. They were heading out at a brisk pace.

On the way out I had noticed the yellow balloon at the edge of the trail. We stopped on the way back. I took a couple of pictures while Ainsley put on his best documentary announcer voice and intoned, "When the feral balloon reaches old age, it can no longer fly and is forced to take its chances among the small animals of the forest floor." I posed next to the balloon on one knee with a stick held rifle fashion for Ainsley's pic, which may someday show up, and we headed on, the balloon left for others to enjoy.

We were almost to Memorial Bridge when we encountered two riders we didn't know. They were younger cats, maybe college age. Ainsley gave them some information on where the routes went and we parted company.

At the Bridge, I wanted a breather. While we rested for a moment, the two younger guys came back out and passed us. Moments later, on the approach to the roller coaster, we passed them and scorched on up the hill. Ainsley went ahead, I dug deep - and got up the roller coaster, gravel and all. I couldn't help it, I let out a huge yell I later described as "my very best Incredible Hulk" shout.

Later, Ainsley said, "You wonder if those guys noticed they got passed by two guys on single speeds?"

"Two older guys on single-speeds?"

"Yeah. Don't you think it might be a blow to their confidence or their pride?"

"Don't forget," I said. "They got dropped by two older guys on single-speeds where one of them was a heart patient."

We both liked that one.

We wound up with 14.7 miles at around 8.2 mph average speed - which isn't bad for a couple of guys on single speeds, one of whom has had a quadruple bypass.

into the woods; a rainy commute

2006-09-13T20:42:00.000-04:00

It was cool Tuesday, with a high somewhere in the mid-70s. Somehow the idea of riding in the woods began calling to me. I wound up fixing the free-standing bike rack and getting the road bikes back in their proper places - and then I opened up the garage closet and pulled out the single-speed.

It's beat. Built in 1989 or 1990 in the U.S., my old Trek 950 is probably the oldest mountain bike being ridden in the woods around here. It's not only Tru-Temper double-butted chro-moly, it's even got lugs. It also has vertical dropouts, alas, which means I'm using a SoulCraft Convert to take up chain slack. I keep thinking I'll get an Eno eccentric hub, or maybe have track ends brazed on. For the most part what I have works, with only the occasional derailment.

I put the old Trek up on the rack and checked the chain. The brakes still felt good. I fine tuned the cycle computer and got a proper readout. I left last season's mud still caked where the wheels had thrown it and pumped the tires up to about 35 psi or so.

One last preparation - I broke out the CamelBak I got late last year and set it up, pulling the spare tube, tools and CO2 inflater from various saddle bags and putting them into the appropriate cargo pockets. A quick change into shorts and a jersey, some sunscreen, a quick kiss from Ana, and I was loading up and heading for the Rock.

Campbell, Jim Cox and Tommy Davis were waiting. We talked for a moment about routes - we were going to ride down to Grattan's Bridge - and then I pointed the Trek at the trailhead and went.

I bounced up the long hill, spinning the 34x18 and somehow staying seated for much of it. The first time I went up this hill, on a Rivendell Quickbeam with the same gearing, I was at the very edge of my capabilities and pretty much panicked when my heart rate monitor started pegging. Tuesday it was old hat, and sooner than I expected I was descending to the Forest Service's "From the Plow to Pines" sign.

They caught up to me easily enough. We chatted a little (not too much - I needed my breath) and rolled along. Tommy's bike had a front shock; Jim and Campbell were both aboard double-boingers. For all of that, I tended to descend faster on my fully-rigid bike, only losing ground on climbs or on the flats where they could shift into bigger gears.

When we got to the split, I wound up rolling along alone. I decided to run while I could and settled down in my most rubbery-limbed form while rocking downhill, basically turning my whole body into a human shock absorber. There were a couple of moments where I wondered if I was going to lose it, but the good old bike came through for me and catlike kept me on the trail.

The switchbacks came up, but they were familiar, old friends I hadn't seen in months. There was more gravel than I remembered in some spots; on one climb, the gravel had been ground into the dirt and was on its way to being macadamized mud. I kept rolling, surprising myself as I stayed up on the bike. I stopped a couple of times for logs that I couldn't bunny hop, but other than that the first part of the ride I didn't need to walk. I grunted up the steep little whoop de doos down in the bottom near Long Cane Creek and the skinny metal bridge that Grattan Smith once unsuccessfully tried to ride across.

We rode back up the hill. I was surprised that for the most part I could keep Campbell in sight. When we regrouped at the T intersection, we decided to ride down to Memorial Bridge. More familiar trails, more bouncing, but I had a blast bombing down the roller-coaster section, then negotiating the switchbacks that followed.

When we reached the bridge, we wheeled about and headed back, hoping to beat the darkness. The A-team guys were coming along now, and we pulled off the trail to let them pass. Jim started the "I take my helmet off to you" thing, then I topped it with a salute, and the pattern was set for the rest of the ride. As another group would approach, we would stop, remove helmets and salute - amusing the heck out of Tom, Milo, Mark, Pepe, Sean and the rest of that crew.

I finally lost momentum on the next to last hummock on the climb back to the road - so I walked maybe 12 yards. At the end of the ride, I had 10.8 miles. Not bad for my first time out on the trails in many months.

Today it rained. At times, it was an almost Biblical rain, pounding, pouring, drenching rain. I rode Julius the fixed-gear to work, of course. I dug my Carradice rain cape out for the occasion. Halfway to work, I realized I really needed to re-proof the garment. I hung it up in the store room where I stash my bike and prayed for less rain when I rode home. I got my wish, sort of - the rain slacked off when I rode home for lunch, then back to work, then back home at 5:00.

I look forward to the new rain jacket that's en route from Nashbar. I look forward to getting the rain cape back into proper shape. Even though I've enjoyed the summer and its warm weather, now I'm looking forward to the fall and crisp rambling rides - and the bitter cold, soggy rides of winter under steely grey skies. It's coming, and I'm already thinking about gearing down for cold weather.

it gets dark earlier

2006-09-10T10:12:00.000-04:00

I rode Tuesday night on Stripe, something like 20.5 miles. I'm embarassed to admit I don't even remember who I was riding with. I do remember that it looked like it might rain, hence the choice of mounts. That will change whenever I finally send Stripe off for repainting.

Wednesday I led the club ride from downtown at the fountain aboard Belle. We got off to a late start, something like 6:15 instead of the usual 6:00. As a result, we took the Pembroke Road shortcut in the middle of the ride and the straight-shot-down-Alexander-Road near the end. We wound up splitting into several different groups. For a change, I rode with the lead group of Bradley and Fred. I ended up with 24.9 miles, which would have to do.

Thursday I rode the short version of the Callaham Challenge. It was Belle again, as I wanted a slightly more laid-back experience. It was a pleasant, if not memorable ride for me. We took the shortcut up the length of Old Abbeville-Hodges Road, and somewhere in there I remember riding behind Connie, who was drafting off of Campbell. About 9/10s of the way down Dixie Drive, Campbell pulled off and announced he wasn't pulling anymore. Dang. So Connie pulled, then I pulled for a bit, then we got to the top of the rise where Dixie and Deadfall converge.

Friday we had a Greenwood Cycling Club meeting. Normally a Monday night affair, having Labor Day and September 11 as the two likely Mondays naturally pushed it to another time slot. We heard a presentation on the Five Points of Life Ride that will be coming our way next month, then had a loose-jointed, sociable meeting. One topic of discussion was Jim Cox's fondness for really ratty cycle shorts.

I told the story about a Friday night ride out of Abbeville five years earlier. Jim was wearing threadbare shorts that evening, as he had on numerous occasions. He denied it, of course, and said we were making it up. At any rate, as we climbed up a hill, my sitting on his rear wheel, he started whistling, almost but not quite getting the tune right. It took me a moment to realize he was whistling "Moon River."

On the way out the door afterwards, Ainsley and I decided to ride fixed the next day.

Ah, Saturday. Of course I was late getting out the door and on the road, complicated by a conversation with a neighbor about her cats (the cats are frequent, but welcome, visitors). I got Julius up to flank speed, and managed to get to the fountain by 9:03 - in time to be greeted by the duct tape on the back of Jim's cycle shorts.

There was a large turnout, including Jim and Bradley, Fred, Campbell, Tommy Davis, Drew, Connie, Vonona, Donnis and Ainsley. Of course the group splintered dramatically as we headed out along the rail-trail conversion. I dropped back with Ainsley towards the rear, and as we watched the lead elements hit Florida Avenue and streak off down the road, we agreed that the pack had decided to dispense with all that "regroup and ride together" foolishness. Hmmph.

So we rolled along on what was apparently an out-and-back to Cedar Springs ride. By the time we crossed Mt. Moriah Church Road, we had sorted out our group - me, Ainsley, Vonona, Connie and Donnis. We bumped along over the rougher stretches of Briarwood, across Whitehall and down to where the road ends in Verdery, where we stopped and talked about the rest of the route.

It was an uneventful ride out to Cedar Springs Church; no dogs, no bad drivers, just a bumpy bounce along the macadam to where the road splits at the stage coach station. Connie expressed confusion about where we were, so I dug my map out of the Banana bag (I had switched out the Carradice Pendle the night before) and showed her.

Back out along Cedar Springs Road, picking up Donnis and Vonona and going back via Promised Land. Whitehall has a nice new surface now, not quite buttery asphalt, but much better than the crumbling chipseal it used to be. When we hit Briarwood and the way I home, I stopped the group.

"We can go back on in and have about 30 miles," I said. "Or we can go straight here, hit Rock House, and come on in with about 40 or so."

It was a beautiful day, and the temperature was moderate. Ainsley and Vonona opted for the long ride, while Connie and Donnis headed on in.

We rolled along at a social pace, Ainsley and I both pushing 70-in gears while Vonona settled into a rhythm on her bike. After crossing 221, we went down the long slow hill to the bridge, then climbed up towards Rock House. I looked down at my cyclocomputer, saw the speed and the time, and managed to get a quick photo. Someone told me once that one can make a wish when it is 11:11. I don't know if that's any weirder than yelling "Popeye!" and kissing one's palm and smacking it to the ceiling of the car when an oncoming car has a dead headlight. It's still a neat idea.

We rolled on down Rock House Road. By this point, I know roughly where to look for the house behind its screen of young trees. Julius was a positive symphony of rattles on the tarmac, between the frame pump's parts clattering and the cracked Nitto bottle cage's damaged ends grating. I love bumpy back roads, but I was happy to hit the smooth asphalt that starts near the intersection with Stillwell Road.

The German Shepherds were out at the intersection of West Scotch Cross and 225. I was in the lead, and had gotten to the intersection before the dogs woke up. Vonona and Ainsley described it as, "The older dog there, the one with the hip dysplasia? He saw us, went back and got the younger dog, and then they came towards the road." They stayed in their yards and watched our backs as we headed back to town.

I had 43.4 miles when I got home. I think it was my longest ride, and certainly my longest fixed-gear ride, since June.

a club ride, at last!

2006-09-03T13:29:00.000-04:00

Getting in a ride lately has been challenging. Tuesday night I showed up at the Y. There were two other riders there, both much faster than I am, and predictably enough I got dropped within the first 15 minutes. So I rode the loop that comes back in via Flatwood - no sign of the demon dog or its owner - and wound up with 20.5 miles. Wednesday I didn't even bother - it was raining, and nobody showed up, including me. Thursday I was the first person to arrive for the Callaham Challenge. It was 5:50, and only two other riders showed up. The speedy young triathlete took off on his own, while we seasoned old guys looked at the sky and the wind and decided to go home.

Ainsley and I had made arrangements to ride fixed Saturday, so I pumped Julius' tires up to full pressure and made it to the fountain in time. Our group this time was Bill Evans, Jim and Bradley, Drew and Campbell. Jim and Bradley were planning on turning back early so they could get to Greenville, so the rest of us sorted out a route. It was a well-worn favorite, out via Briarwood to Whitehall to Rock House Road and back.

I felt old and slow and I could tell I was paying the price for not getting in the miles while eating foods that were somewhat off my diet. Ahem. Still, I rode decently enough for a long fixed-gear ride that picked up the pace towards the end.

Bradley was seriously digging his new bike, a Gerolsteiner team painted Specialized with carbon fiber forks and seat stays. He had made the jump to 10 speeds, with full 105 that shifted more smoothly than the 9-speed Ultegra his old bike had. I wondered idly what it would be like to send him out on a bike with a Cambio Corsa or a Vittoria Margherita gearing system. Still, his new bike is very nice, very light, and very fast, which is exactly what he wants and needs. There will be time to corrupt him to lugged steel later.

Jim and Bradley turned off when we hit Mt. Moriah Church Road, and the rest of us pressed on, first down the buttery asphalt near the nice homes, then over the bumpy, teeth-rattling macadam that is most of Briarwood.

Bill was riding his Quickbeam in freewheel mode - but he's broken down and fitted a fixed cog to the other side of his rear hub. So close, so close to coming to the dark side he is, mmm hmmm. We talked about brevets and PBP dreams for a while, and it all left me thinking about trying to do a 200km next spring. We'll see.

When we hit Rock House Road, Campbell asked about alternate routes. They were amused when I opened my saddlebag (today, a Carradice Pendle) and pulled out my photocopied map. We talked about a longer ride down the road. We stood around in the sun, chatting away for several minutes before we finally got rolling again - something I can attribute to Jim's absence.

Coming back, the thick summer vegetation meant we missed seeing the Rock House. The last time Ainsley and I rode past it, we had a discussion about how it seems to appear and then disappear, like some sci-fi castle that carries unsuspecting folks who enter it off to another dimension. Saturday we just passed it by, knowing it's somewhere out there.

When we arrived back at the fountain, Bill sold me a set of black-anodized Lyotard 45-D pedals with French threading - the very thing for the Peugeot project. Soon after, he headed for home, with the agreement that we do a longer ride in a few weeks. Drew, Campbell, Ainsley and I crossed the street to T.W. Boone's, where we ate under the sidewalk umbrellas and discussed biodiesel and its limitations, hybrid cars, radical Islam and other matters.

I got home with about 32 miles for the day, and had enough time to putter about in the garage and work some more on the Peugeot. I had to do some creative things with the threads in the Stronglight cranks to get the right pedal seated, but it all looks okay now.

Note: the long ride on the 16th is Fred's B-day ride!

franco-funkiness

2006-08-30T22:32:00.000-04:00

Peugeot PX-10s aren't for everyone. Those who love them point out they were the least expensive all-out racing bike on the market during their heyday. With a frame built of metric gauge Reynolds 531 throughout joined with fancy curlicue Nervex Professional lugs, combined with a very light parts mix, Peugeot's top offering was a springy machine that handled well on rough roads. A lot of riders won a lot of races on PX-10s, including (probably) Tom Simpson's Milan-San Remo victory and his one day in the yellow jersey.

Those who don't love them point out that the craftsmanship was indifferent at best; the Nervex lugs came right out of the box and were slapped into place and brazed up without a single pass of a file to smooth them up; and the components were defiantly French to the bitter end. Arguably, the PX-10s of 1978 were the pinnacle of mid-50s racing design.

I know about all of the flaws, but I used to collect PX-10s. When I first fell in love with dropped-handlebar road bikes in the mid-70s, I used to admire the white Peugeots with the black head lugs at Dixon's in Roanoke. I never had one until 1997 or so, when I returned to cycling and bought a '74 PX-10LE sight unseen from a guy in a cycling newsgroup.

From there I picked up a couple of other vintage Peugeots. I bought a bunch of assorted documents and old catalogs. I helped gather data for a website about the various Peugeots based on the information we could find in the U.S. at the time.

In 2000, I sold of all the vintage stuff to help pay for the Rivendell. It was part of divesting myself from assorted collections - I sold the vintage guitars off at the same time. I would occasionally chime in with whatever information I could add to discussions online about the various PX-10 variants. I no longer had to keep up with the various odd French dimensions - which make perfect sense if you think metric.

When Charlie Young gave me an incredibly battered old PX-10 frameset at the Cirque this year, he unleashed a monster. I came home with visions of a beater fixed-gear, and was thinking its next finish would be basic rattle-can flat black.

No. Oh, no. Because it's a relatively unusual bike, you see. I poked around and looked at the inside of the BB shell and saw mitered frame tubes where everything came together. The frame angles appeared to be the classical 72 degrees parallel. The fork had the perfect old-style low-trail rake. The wheelbase was my ideal, a near-perfect 40 inches or so.

Contrary to received wisdom, overall it showed much nicer construction than the '73-75 era bikes I was used to. Though the chrome was thin and worn in places, it was much better than most French chrome. In addition to the little touches that indicated someone cared about building a good bike, there was the headbadge. It had rivets like the ones normally holding old-style shield-shaped escutcheons, but the badge itself was the later squared shape. It even had the hardwood plug hammered down into the top of the fork crown as a last-ditch guard against a steerer tube failure.

An exchange of emails with Eric Elman later, I had learned I had what was probably a transitional bike structurally identical to the 1967-1969 PX-10Es, but with the decals and graphics package that was to run from 1970 through 1974. Interesting. No real collector value, especially in this condition, but it was one of the very last of the classical, canonical frames that built the model's reputation.

I poked around my parts bin and stumbled onto a set of wheels I had bought cheaply years ago - fancy tubular racing rims laced up to early Phil Wood sealed-bearing hubs. The front even had tied and soldered spokes, and how cool is that? Days later, I bought a set of Stronglight cranks cheaply on eBay, followed by a French-thread BB to match. Digging through my boxes of parts turned up assorted Mafac brake parts.

Another eBay purchase netted me a Simplex Super LJ rear derailleur, essential if I wanted to be able to change gears - Peugeot used Simplex dropouts that required Simplex derailleurs until the very late 1970s. French, don't you know. Anyway, the seller sent me a huge stash of assorted oddments appropriate for this build, including more Simplex goodies.

There are still some issues. Someone had cinched down the seatpost binder bolt too hard, compressing the seat tube beyond the 26.4 mm of catalog specification. I managed to open it back up some, but I think it's gonna need to be honed, and possibly reamed. I still haven't decided if I'm going to set it up with my current handlebar preferences (Nitto of Japan) or somewhat risky period stuff (narrow Philippe bars and the infamous Ava death stem). I still need to buy some tubulars and some French threaded pedals.

It looks like a long term process. It also looks like a lot of fun.

Fred's Birthday Ride advance notice

2006-08-16T22:56:00.000-04:00

Here's your one-month advance notice - Fred will be celebrating his 65th birthday with 65 BIG miles Sept. 16. The ride leaves from 1419 E. Durst Avenue from 8:00 to 10:00 - and maps will be available AND the route will be marked. Anyone who wishes to swim afterward is encouraged to bring a swim suit and a towel. Email him at hoho@meta-net.net

solo fixed sans camera

2006-08-12T22:13:00.000-04:00

For the last couple of weeks, I've made it to the club rides, getting in miles and getting back into shape. I seem to be back to where I was in late June, which is good. I only plan on doing one big organized ride for the remainder of the season - the Flight of the Dove on August 26th to benefit Hospice of Laurens County.

Along the way, I got to deal with damage caused when the fancy four-bike rack I got from Performance gave way and dumped the Dawes, Belle, Julius and Stripe onto the concrete floor one night. Damage report - both wheels on the Dawes are now out of true, and the Nitto handlebars are bent badly enough to need replacement. Stripe's front wheel got knocked out of true and the bars were knocked out of alignment, both easily repaired. Julius's front fender was whacked out of alignment and one of the breakaway fender mounts broke. Finally, Belle picked up some really nasty scratches on the left fork blade, probably from Julius' rear axle nuts. Ugh.

Ainsley and I had planned on riding fixed today. Originally, we were going to meet everyone for the club ride at 9:00 from the fountain and then split off to do a moderate ramble. Unfortunately, I woke up to steady rain today. After an exchange of emails, we decided we'd have to reschedule.

This afternoon, I decided to risk a ride in the lulls between the rain. I headed out the usual route out to the trail, and from there I wound up going out 225. I was torn - would I go straight out East Scotch Cross towards Ninety Six, or would I go right onto West Scotch Cross and work my way back into town via Mt. Moriah Road.

My answer came in the form of the two German Shepherds that normally live in the a big fenced-in run at the first house on West Scotch Cross. They were out, barking, and moving at a moderate pace towards me. So much for that, and I got down in the drops and pointed Julius' front wheel into the wind and headed for Ninety Six.

It was grey and overcast, but it was also about 75 degrees. I fought the wind all the way down the long hill before hooking right and taking the back way around to Star Fort. Along the way, I glanced down and realized I was about to reach the 5,000 mile mark on Julius. It's taken a couple of years, but when you ride several different bikes you spread the mileage around. Strangely enough, the previous Sunday I'd crossed the 1,000 mile mark on Stripe, and only a month or so back I'd crossed 8,000 on Belle.

Back towards Greenwood I went. If I didn't get a tailwind, at least I was no longer battling a headwind. I turned right for Lebanon Church Road's gentler climb.

About 3/4 of the way up, I found myself passing between the corners of two pastures that flanked the road. Two horses were in the corner on my left, three others in the corner to my right - all right up against the fences with their heads held over the wires. They were looking intently at each other, almost as if they were talking.

I was maybe 10 or 15 yards away when they became aware of me, and in unison they all turned their heads to look at me. It was just disturbing enough that I made a point of saying, "I don't mean to interrupt y'all, and I'll be right out of your way in just a moment. By all means, carry on as you were." I snuck a glance back when I was a little further up the road and they were all studiously ignoring me.

I thought about that for the rest of the ride. I made a point of saying hello to the collie running loose on the rail-trail, and to the hare that left the trail to sit in the grass at its edge as I rode past. I finished up with 29.1 miles for the day and an image in my head that belongs in a creepy movie.

the long vacation, part 3 - the long-delayed conclusion

2006-08-04T20:13:00.000-04:00

Sorry, but life gets in the way of blogging. I'll try to wrap up the cross-country odyssey in a hastily-written, much-compressed and many-memories-slipping-away kinda way.

We left Cheyenne on a Monday, the first of two days we had planned that involved a short drive. Of course we went off-track a bit, but we still found Boulder Colorado, coming in near a Target that had a Starbucks where they botched Ana's order. We bought her a cheap Timex. The band broke the moment she put it on. It was not a good morning.

We drove downtown, stopping and finding a parking space a block or two away from Vecchio's on Pearl Street. I was in bike heaven - hanging around the place were treasures including an Atala with a Cambio Corsa gear, several tutti Campagnolo Italian steeds - and a fully-chromed Mercian wearing stainless fenders and full Campy. My, my, my. I bought a set of Campagnolo ergo cables and a cycling cap from Peter Chisholm, whose postings on the rec.bicycles.tech newsgroup have reassured me that my polyglot mix o' parts will indeed work on Stripe when I get around to rebuilding him. I could have spent hours in there, but we needed lunch.

We searched for a parking spot high and low before giving up and using the parking garage. Lunch was at the Falafel King in the Pearl Street hip district, and it was delicious. Feeling fortified, we walked up and down the strip, buying some small treasures to bring home or adorn ourselves with. Best finds were the pendant with the butterfly wing encased in lucite and the matching Skagen stainless steel watches - though the elegant and cheap little Melita single cup coffee maker was also a good score. Ana talked me out of getting the altitude tent, which is just as well - rumor has it the UCI is about to classify sleeping in altitude tents as a banned practice.

It seemed like every shop we visited had at least one shop dog, sometimes two. Border collies. Labradors. Mixed-breeds. All laid-back and chilling out. It was doggie paradise, made even weirder by the fact that it was a cyclist's paradise, too.

I took a bunch of blurry pix with the $9 pencam as we walked around, because I wanted to document all the bikes in various places. I understand there are 95,000 people in Boulder, and 100,000 bikes. How can you not love that? I hadn't seen this many bikes being used for transportation since I was a kid visiting Chapel Hill and Charlottesville in the mid-70s during the great bike boom - of course, back then the bikes had dropped bars and skinny tires instead of fat tires and straight bars.

It looked like the bike of choice for getting around was a vintage fully-rigid mountain bike, though I saw several balloon tire bombers, upright English and Dutch 3-speeds, and assorted older touring and road racing machines locked up and whizzing by.

We found our hotel and checked in. While Ana called her sister on the cell, I walked down the street to get some bottled water. I picked up a flier advertising a condo for sale there on Arapahoe - 536 square feet for the bargain price of $178,900. Ouch.

We decided that supper should be delivered. Fortunately, there was the Sink, in business since 1922, and ever-ready to produce good stuff. We wound up going with the half-pound burgers made with grass-fed organic beef, splitting a Greek salad. It was a most fortunate choice. If you're ever there, by all means get one of those burgers - surpassed only by Ole's bison burgers.

We had factored in ride time for me the next morning, so when Tuesday dawned I headed out aboard Belle. I had a map of the Boulder trail system, and worked my way down Arapahoe. Initially I was nervous - the lanes were kinda narrow, and there was a lot of traffic - but I found the entry to the trail and headed out.

You may remember how much I liked the Cheyenne Greenway? This blows it out of the water. It felt and rode like a cross between the Blue Ridge Parkway and what an interstate would be like if they made them for cyclists. Again, I saw all sorts of folks out there - young, old, ambling along or hustling to work or appointments or riding out in full spandex regalia for a training ride, or out walking with their well-behaved dogs.

I'd never seen prairie dogs up close before. I did this time - some of them were out foraging right next to the trail, in an area where their burrows filled a field next to a pond. The ducks and geese didn't even flinch as I rolled past.

Eventually, my time started running out, so I turned around and headed back. I figured I'd go back to Vecchio's and get some photos, so I rolled along on the city streets, first on the well-striped bike lanes, then just sharing the road with everyone else.

As a cyclist, I loved Boulder. I felt respected and treated as an equal while riding a bike, more so than I had ever experienced anywhere else. Riding back to the hotel, I was struck by the wild mix of houses in the historic district. Cheek-by-jowl were a Frank Lloyd Wright wannabe, a shingle-side Victorian, a '20s Spanish Revival and a gloriously simple plank-sided cottage.

Our next stop was Topeka. Eastern Colorado and western Kansas are both kinda quiet and not terribly exciting places to drive through. The guide book mentioned it, the food was passable but nothing special, I had flashbacks to eating at some funky cafeteria-styled place in Rocky Mount, Virginia during my childhood, and we moved on. Our hotel was another one like the last one we were in, a Holiday Inn Express or a Comfort Suites, they all blur together.

Wednesday was another long day as we crossed Kansas and drove into Illinois for a time before going into Indiana and thence to Kentucky. By now the highway construction was just getting oppressive. Somewhere along in here we found ourselves on something that was simultaneously an interstate AND a toll road. This sparked a lively conversation along the lines of, "C'mon, we already paid federal taxes towards maintaining this road ..."

We got stuck in traffic again in St. Louis, trapped by more construction and a Cardinals baseball game. We bumped along at slow speed for a while before finally crossing into Illinois, where the roads were just as bad. I can't even remember the town we finally stopped in for supper. I just remember we discovered that Applebee's had "upgraded" their menu by scattering walnuts and pecans over everything we would normally have eaten, an issue for those of us with food allergies. We wound up grabbing something from Wendy's and pushing on to Owensboro, Kentucky.

Our schedule let us take it easy Thursday morning, so we did. I watched Floyd Landis' glory ride and thought of Eddy Merckx before Phil Liggett mentioned his name. It was a great moment in racing, so long as pharmaceuticals weren't linked to it.

We had originally hoped to eat supper Wednesday in Owensboro, but we had amended our schedule so we could have lunch there the next day. Pity we didn't get there early enough - the Moonlite Barbecue was criminally good. I may have been born in North Carolina's mustard-based barbecue country, I may have been weaned on that yellowy goodness, but Moonlite in Owensboro blew their doors off. It was the best damned barbecue I've ever eaten in my life, period. Finchers in Macon - eat yer heart out. It was that good.

On to Nashville, for an overnight stay with relatives, then Friday we headed for home. We took a scenic route for a while, then found ourselves on I-40 in time to spend more than an hour sitting still. A tractor-trailer had rolled, closing both lanes for a long time. We eventually got past Knoxville and into the Great Smoky Mountains, working our way home through Spartanburg to Clinton to home in the wee hours of the morning.

Today's hit and run

2006-07-30T22:43:00.000-04:00

I'll come back to the belated story of the vacation later. Today I saw some low-life hit a cyclist and drive off.

Bradley Cox and I were bringing up the rear of the Sunday ride at the time of the incident. We had stopped at the intersection of 185 and 203 before making the left turn to climb Dead Rooster Hill. Bradley was leading, and we had gone something more than 100 yards along the straightaway when I suddenly heard squealing tires approaching us very rapidly.

I knew. I heard the tires and thought, this is bad, this is really, really bad. I yelled, "Get off the road now," and yanked Stripe hard to the right. I managed to get about a yard off the roadway. Bradley was just leaving the asphalt when his rear tire was struck by the right front bumper of a gold Toyota Camry.

The car had slowed to maybe 30 mph by that point, but still. Bradley was pitched off to the right, bike and all. Where he went off the road there was tall grass and a slight embankment, which soaked up much of the impact - if you're gonna have this kind of moment, you can't pick a better spot.

Thankfully, Bradley was clear and lucid the whole time. He sat up and immediately called for someone to get the car's information.

It later emerged that the Camry that struck him, and the dark blue or black pickup truck that was pursuing it, had been observed traveling at high speed moments before by a motorist who stopped and gave us assistance. As Tim Hall, Good Samaritan and general nice guy put it, "if I'd pulled out of my driveway 10 seconds earlier it would have been bad." Other motorists later estimated his speed as approximately 100 mph.

The skid marks looked to be something like 50 yards or more long, indicating that the driver had rounded the corner, saw us and slammed on brakes. That locked them up, skidding out of control. The left tire skid mark at the impact point was to the right of the centerline of the lane. His right tire had come off the road, chewing a tire track in the grass and putting him just enough out to hit Bradley at the very edge of the road.

The driver, and the truck that appeared to have been pursuing him, both left the scene at high speed.

Other motorists came to our assistance, calling 911 and helping with traffic control. Juan Adriatico, a cyclist who was driving by, turned his vehicle around and pursued the car, giving the Highway Patrol a partial license plate number. He estimated the driver, who realized he was being pursued again, was pushing the Camry to 120 mph.

The EMTs arrived and determined that Bradley showed no signs of serious injury. His Specialized bike, however, did not fare so well. The left chainstay is broken, and the components will probably grace a new frame in the near future.

We waited a while longer for the HIghway Patrol to arrive. Trooper Jones was helpful and very interested, but we all acknowledge that catching this guy will require a lot of luck.

Bradley will probably be a bit sore for a few days, but should be back on the road soon.

Please be careful out there. There are people out there who'll hit a 15-year-old and drive off.

weirdness observed in Cheyenne

2006-07-26T21:42:00.000-04:00

... so I'm riding back to Dameione's house after checking out the Cheyenne Greenway Sunday morning, right? I stopped at the intersection of Airport and Pershing for the light, and I glanced over to my right. There was a cemetery ... with a pinwheel spinning merrily next to one of the headstones.

Was it to honor a last request? A grand-child's salute to a beloved ancestor? It could as easily have been, "Hooray, you're dead at last and I'm gonna celebrate." I'll never know, but I snapped a quick picture before the light changed.

the long vacation, part 2 - Cheyenne

2006-07-23T21:20:00.000-04:00

Our hosts slept late, so I rose early and quietly fixed myself the breakfast of post-cardiac champions (oatmeal!) and set out aboard Belle in search of the Cheyenne Greenway. I didn't find it, but I did manage to work in about 15 miles of residential streets and the roads around the airport.

Cheyenne was interesting, as were its people. Along the way I saw lots of older guys out working in their yards. Unfortunately, many of them were not wearing shirts, and I found myself remembering Ainsley's comment about the TV show COPS - "you always know the one without a shirt is going to jail."

I rolled back in to find Dameione and Ana drinking coffee on the patio. We hung out a while and discussed the plan for the day before I headed in to shower and dress in street clothes. Soon afterward, we were riding in the back of Dameione's Cherokee to Laramie via Vedauwoo Road through the Medicine Bow National Park.

Now. I had the infamous $9 pencam. Ana had her magnificent Canon digital camera. Somehow, neither of us took any photos. Maybe we were both too stunned. It's magnificent out there, and maybe someday I'll get out there and have the presence of mind to take pictures.

We wound up in downtown Laramie, where we ate at Dameione's favorite restaurant before walking around and checking out the sights before heading back in to Cheyenne. We wound up snacking more than actually eating before going downtown to see the Old Time Melodrama at a c.1887 theatre. And yes, it was hokey beyond words, but that's the fun of it, right?

Sunday I got back out aboard Belle, where I once again I had trouble finding the Greenway - until I stopped a local cyclist and got more detailed directions.

The entrance is not marked at all, really. Once I got onto the concrete ribbon, I was delighted. The grades were never overly steep, and they had thoughtfully provided some great underpasses and bridges along the way. I need to go back to Cheyenne someday and ride the whole thing, now that I know where it starts.

We hung out and stayed in, taking advantage of the newly-finished basement area to beat the heat. Well, our hosts did - we found the aridity kept us from feeling hot. We wound up eating grilled chicken and spicey pasta and relaxing on the patio again with Jake the Weimaraner before crashing for the night.

the long vacation, part 1

2006-07-22T16:44:00.000-04:00

Ana and I set out on the 12th for the Golden West to go visit friends in Wyoming. We loaded up clothes, foodstuffs and dietary supplements, a really useful road atlas and lots of other goodies into the Prius.

Of course I took a bike. I found a way to fit Belle in behind the front seats with her wheels and pedals removed and the drivetrain covered in plastic to spare the upholstery. The floor pump got stashed in the truck along with my cycling duffle bag stuffed with jerseys, shorts, helmet and shoes.

We got off to a later start than we planned, but made up time as we went along. First we drove towards Augusta to find I-20. We had lunch at a California Dreaming, which was the high point of our chain restaurant dining experiences. From there we headed for Birmingham, where we had much better success with the local Irondale Cafe. Don't know the name? They used it as the setting of the film Fried Green Tomatoes. The meal was excellent, too.

Driving across Alabama, I kept thinking that the place names lent themselves to being used as names for fictional characters. "Eastaboga Ranborn" has a certain ring to it, and "Leeds Moody" sounded to me like something from Dickens. We laughed about it and headed on to Tupelo, birthplace o' Elvis, where the first of a series of hotel rooms awaited us.

The next day was the Hell day. Between trying to find accomodations and working out the schedule, we found ourselves confronted with many long hours on the road. We crossed over into Missouri, where basically we drove the length of the state from south to north to St. Louis.

We were about halfway up when hunger knocked. The luckiest moment of the day was when we missed the Ruby Tuesday in Sikeston and saw Lambert's. I'd seen the billboards advertising it as the "Home of the Throwed Roll," but hadn't though much about it. Ana decided that the presence of many motorcycles suggested the food might be pretty good, so we stopped.

This is the place Cracker Barrel wishes it was. In business since 1942, written up in assorted magazines, Lambert's is all you can eat Southern goodness. We ordered the smoked pork chops - which convinced us that I need to buy a smoker in the very near future. The wait staff would periodically emerge with trays of hot-from-the-oven yeast rolls and call out, "hot rolls!" Patrons would raise their hands and catch them as they were tossed the length of the dining room. Sometimes a patron wouldn't realize one was en route - when a guy in the next booth looked the wrong way, Ana got hit by one. Periodically other servers would come by offering black-eyed peas cooked with onions, skillet-fried potatoes and our favorite - fried okra.

On to St. Louis, where we encountered bad traffic and much construction. To cap it off, a squall line descended upon us, dumping heavy rain and hail. By this point, we had negotiated the St. Louis area and had turned west to drive to the other end of the state near Kansas City, before turning north towards Iowa. I never thought we'd be cheering to reach Iowa, but we did, and loudly.

Lincoln Nebraska is a surprisingly pretty place, even at 2:00 in the morning. We drove through much of the town, somehow managing to pick our way through the various detours, until we reached our hotel.

Friday came and we were off, rolling down two-laned Nebraska Highway 2 until we picked up I-80. We'd gotten an email from our host warning us of the dangers of altitude sickness and urging us to hydrate heavily, so we did. As a result, we stopped at every rest stop the state had to offer.

For the first half of the state, I felt like an exercise in geometry. I could look dead ahead or back in the rear view mirror and regard the vanishing points of the highway on the horizon. My stagecraft professor might have dug it, but I wasn't so sure. After a while, the cornfields were gone and the prairie grass took over. We climbed steadily through the afternoon into ever more barren surroundings.

Lunch was in Paxton at Ole's Big Game Lounge and Steakhouse, where decades worth of big game trophy heads oversaw our meal. What can you say about a place where you're greeted by an enormous stuffed polar bear and every table is watched over by a moose or elk or elephant head? PETA types wouldn't dig it, but if you could get past the taxidermists gone wild ambience, they had an amazing buffalo burger that made the drive worthwhile. Good thing, too - there was nothing else out there.

We took a couple of pictures of downtown Paxton - a post office, a garage, a tiny library, and three or four bars - and decided it was fun to visit but surely hell to live there in the winter. Back out to I-80 we went, into terrain straight out of "About Schmidt."

On again, out into the serene wasteland that is western Nebraska, climbing still and headed for Cheyenne, Wyoming. A few hours later, we arrived at Dameione and Troy's, dropped our luggage and stashed Belle in the garage and immediately were whisked away to a party.

independence day and other rides

2006-07-09T21:29:00.000-04:00

It's been a very full couple of weeks here, my only excuse for not keeping this blog up to date. I'm sure I'm leaving some rides out of this, but that's life and my not-so-hot memory.

The biggest thing here lately was the mother of all yard sales combined with the drive to get rid of the last of the assorted estate items that needed to go. Ana proposed that we take everything off every shelf and out of every closet and cabinet in the house and either keep, sell, donate or trash it. It was a massive undertaking that culminated in a huge sale, but the prep work kept me pretty busy for a while.

I did get to participate in the joint Greenwood Cycling Club/Laurens Cycling Club ride on July 4th. I drove out from Greenwood with Belle in the back of the truck, making the right turn off 72 onto 560 and then driving down to the largely defunct downtown of Cross Hill. The businesses there are largely boarded up and long gone, but there's still a Confederate war memorial. Vonona was there, waiting with Harriet, a Laurens rider. Fairly soon after I arrived Donna, another Laurens rider, showed up. Moments after that, Ainsley rode up on his LeMond, followed by a gentleman named Dan. We did introductions and Ainsley and Dan picked out a route and we headed back out to 72.

Road construction forced us right onto 72. It was a little nervous - it's a high-speed road - but after a bit it opened up some, and we cut right onto a quieter road after a few miles. We passed a couple of dirt roads - Ainsley and I both went, "mmmmm .... dirt ...." - and traveled down a couple of narrow but smooth roads as we looped about before coming back in to Cross Hill with just under 15 miles.

On the way out of town, I stopped to buy some locally grown yellow corn and some potatoes from a guy with a truck by the side of the road, then went home to grill massive organic ground sirloin burgers. Yum ...

I commuted to work the next day, then didn't touch a bike again until today, Sunday. Saturday's sale was a big deal. People were stacked up waiting for us to open up the garage before 7:00, and it was a lot like watching as swarm of sharks for the first hour or so. All the albums went, as well as all of the vintage costume jewelry and a shocking number of other items. After we closed up and had lunch, we finished prepping the few remainders for pickup next week by whichever charity is willing to come and get them.

What stunned me was how, after finishing, I can clap my hands and hear an echo in the garage. I'm still working out how I'll set up my work bench, where I'll hang the mountain bikes, and where the trainer will go. Ana will actually get to park her car in a garage - something we've never been able to do before.

Today Ainsley and I met downtown at 4:00. A fellow named Spencer from Missouri who was visiting family in the Columbia area was hoping to get in a fixed-gear ride with us. The scheduling didn't work out, alas, but Ainsley and I managed to get in a nice little ramble.

We hung out for half an hour before leaving, sitting at one of the new picnic tables downtown in the shade and swapping stories and discussing the day's route.

"We've never been down Hitching Post Road," Ainsley said.

"You're right. Let's go down the trail to the Canadian Mist Highway and take Hitching Post from that end," I said.

So we did, leaving at 4:3o. Riding down the trail, we discussed all sorts of stuff. We were a few hundred yards from the end when I mentioned Ana's Mexican-style lasagna, using corn tortillas instead of pasta and filling itn chockfull of salsa and other goodies.

"Okay," Ainsley said. "Now I'm hungry."

"Well, it's tradition," I said. "We're supposed to talk about food at some point while riding out on the trail. How many times has Donis fussed at me about making her hungry by talking about food?"

Hitching Post Road turned out to be pretty good, being paved for much of its length, followed by a great, if sandy, stretch back out to Scotch Cross. We turned left and headed towards Ninety Six, making the right turn onto Lowden Road and riding to Star Fort National Park. We stopped there for a bit before heading on towards town. We cut left and rode back towards town past the golf course before taking Lebanon Church Road to the Canadian Mist Highway and retracing our steps back to town. I had 29.3 miles by the time I got home.

some weeknight club rides

2006-06-27T22:39:00.000-04:00

Interesting Tuesday evening. I showed up for the ride and wound up talking with Connie, who was about to set out early. Her stance was, the hammer crowd would catch and pass her soon enough anyway, so she told me her route. I told her I'd be catching up soon enough, as I suspected I'd get spat off the back of the pack the same way I'd been last Tuesday.

Connie headed out, leaving the parking lot just as John Campbell Lake drove up. He rolled down his window and said, "Will you wait for me?"

"Sure," I said. I talked for a minute with Strawhorne and Josh, then rolled over to where Campbell was unloading and setting up. Moments later, we set out. As we passed the fast group, Campbell announced, "Okay guys, the clock's ticking and the rabbit's loose."

By the time we hit Center Street, Jim Cox and a couple of other riders were on our tail - but they turned right to ride through Center Court, while we turned left to go out Pine Drive and work our way towards Hodges.

We took the right turn for the short cut to Dixie Drive. I amused Campbell by being able to reach back and close my opened Banana bag while riding - you try threading a leather strap and buckle behind you without running off the road sometime - and soon thereafter the hammers caught us. We all said hi, and off they went. John settled into a brisker pace, I tucked in behind him, and we set off to catch Connie. We caught up to her on Blue Jay Road - but only after she looked back at a dog that had almost chased her and saw us closing in. So much for a surprise swoop for the county line sign. We rode along as a group, chit-chatting, and decided to go straight down Old Abbeville-Hodges instead of going left on Klugh.

We took a right on McIlwain, and moments later saw a rider coming towards us - Austin, one of our local triathletes. He'd been out for an earlier ride, then went out with the hammers, and was having a rough day in the heat. Apparently he'd fallen over into the grass of the shoulder shortly before we caught up with him. We settled in and rode back on 203 together. Just before we got to the cutoff for 185, Campbell tried to hand off a bottle to Austin. It fell into the road, and I had no time to avoid it. I yelped, Belle's front tire went right over it, the top popped off and water sprayed wildly. No harm done, though - we collected everything and rode on to Hodges, where we refilled bottles at Godfrey's before heading back to Greenwood. I had 28.8 miles at the end of the ride.

Tonight's ride was calmer - we met at the fountain, and after hanging together until we reached Scotch Cross Road, the hammers went on and Connie and Vonona and I settled into a comfortable pace. Connie was suffering from yesterday's ride coupled with a headache, but Vonona was riding stronger than she had in months. It all worked out reasonably well, and we chatted and went down the road. I came home with 25.57 miles for the day. Be interesting to see what tomorrow brings ...

more miles, no pictures

2006-06-25T11:39:00.000-04:00

Thursday I went out to ride the good old Callaham Challenge. I was running ahead of my normal schedule, and wound up arriving around 5:30. Scott Frock showed up, shorn of his Confederate cavalry commander beard, and at his suggestion we set off on a short warm-up ride. We turned back around after a couple of miles, he cut down Folly Farm Road for a natural, and I pulled back into the parking lot just in time to turn right around and go back out with Fred, Campbell, Tommy Davis and Duann Kremer.

We never really hammered, per se - but it wasn't completely an ambling pace, either. It was brutally hot, and we all sought that elusive balance point of riding briskly, but within limits. I was grateful for the Elete electrolyte stuff I'd dosed my bottles with. We were all drinking steadily, enough so that we all needed to stop to refill our bottles at Godfrey's Market when we hit Hodges. When I pulled up next to my truck at the end of the ride I had 39.8 miles for the day, a bit more than normal thanks to the prologue I rode with Scott.

Saturday's club ride was a smaller, laid back bunch. It was still hot, but not quite as savage as Thursday had been. We did a blend of the usual Saturday morning ride with the Wednesday night ride, avoiding the trail and going out Creswell to New Market to Old Ninety Six Highway. From there we rode Pembroke to Scotch Cross before going left on Tedard's Store Road, crossing 25 South, and taking Bryan Dorn Road (delightfully resurfaced with fresh asphalt) to Callison Highway. For fun we cut back down Scotch Cross and rode to the bottom of the hill and took Lebanon Church Road up the hill to go back in the way we came out, choosing this time to follow the rail trail back in. I had 29.75 miles by the time I got back home.

There were no photos - I was too busy riding, talking and drinking from my bottles. I did amuse myself by loading the batteries into the camera while riding, testing my cycling dexterity.

I came home and spent the afternoon working with Ana as we pared down the book collection, freeing up a huge amount of space in the various bookcases. It was surprisingly liberating - and now I have room if I get some new books!

some weekday club rides

2006-06-21T22:11:00.000-04:00

Sunday was a very full day, and riding wasn't part of it. So Tuesday I set out to make up for it on the evening club ride. I'd spent a couple of hours helping clean out the garage, and it was a hot day, so I'll use those as my excuses. The group split rapidly into two groups - but the laid-back bunch peeled off into a different direction, and I fell off the back of the main group. I settled in and decided that I'd treat it as a solo ride, which it pretty much was. I took a detour through Hunter's Creek and came back to the starting point via the back route, winding up with 22.5 miles for the day.

Today's ride was better. There was a good sized batch of riders out for the Wednesday night social ride. Zach was there with a buddy of his named Chad, as were Milo and Jeff. We actually managed to stay together until the big hill on Scotch Cross Road. I hung back and rode with Connie, Donis and Vonona, and we made a respectable enough time for the rest of the ride. It was brutally hot, after all.

The usual roadside beasts were watching us from their pastures as usual, including a couple of burros on West Scotch Cross and the llamas on Mt. Moriah, but no dogs made serious attempts to catch us. Too hot.

I wound up with 27.25 miles for the day and went home to eat a massive bowl of whole wheat penne, fresh veggies and really good tuna. Not a bad day at all.

bee-buzzin' '06

2006-06-18T22:00:00.000-04:00

We had friends coming in from out of town Saturday for the Festival of Flowers, so I decided to do the short course rather than the full metric century for the Bee Buzzin' tour. I rode down to the Chamber of Commerce building on Phoenix Street around 7:30, signed up, and almost immediately got drafted to fix a flat.

I hung out for a while, saying hello to folks I hadn't seen in a while and chatting briefly with Ainsley and his cousin Matt before saying hi Milo, Zac, and the rest of the fast crowd. Zac had recently returned from racing in Europe, and all the fast guys in the state were out to see how good he is.

I had helped run this ride for a couple of years. Bee Buzzin' was meant to be a tour. Over the years, though, rivalries between clubs have lead to its becoming a de facto road race. There was a lot of anticipation this year.

"This is probably going to be the fastest Bee Buzzin' yet," Ainsley said. "I've just got a feeling about it."

Well, fast it might have been for some, but not so much for me. We started at 8:00. There was a bit of a traffic control problem at the start of the ride, and I found myself behind a bunch of riders who stopped for the first redlight. Sigh. I watched the lead pack go up the road and waited through the first two lights before pulling around the bunch I was with. I shifted up and went, but there was no catching them. Dang.

I rode for a while with Denise and Ann, then watched them go up the road on the metric course. I stopped and talked for a minute with Donis, Connie and Vonona, who were planning on riding part of the metric route and then working their way back via a different route. I considered it, then decided I needed to stick to the shorter course and get home in time to shower and change before our visitors arrived.

I hadn't left the big chainring yet, and blew in to Ninety Six relatively quickly. I stopped at the rest stop and had some water before setting off for home. It was pretty much the Wednesday night ride for a while, especially the climb up Scotch Cross Road. I rolled through the intersection with 25 South and took the 225 Bypass back to Maxwell Street. I got passed by a couple of our local triathletes along the way before making the turn.

I thought about the crashes we'd had in past years on the hill near the Connie Maxwell Home, then I was at the bottom and climbing up past the mill before crossing the tracks and stopping for the traffic light on Main Street. A quick stop at the Chamber, then home again and stepping off the bike at 9:59.

Rodger and Steve arrived a little after 11:00, and we headed downtown. We toured the Taylor Galleries and talked briefly with Donna before dining at T.W. Boon's. Vonona, Ainsley and Matt came in while we were there. Apparently, Ainsley had done the metric in 3 hours, 10 minutes. It seems the lead pack did the 65 miles or so in 2 hours 30 minutes. Yikes!

After lunch, we walked down to the Federal Building and checked out the show running in the gallery there before heading out to the high school to see the full art show. Ana had the distinction of having the first digital paintings to run in the Festival show - Gardenia #1 and Cactus #2. We took a turn through the craft show before heading out to the garden tour. Three of the houses were enough, and we came home and chilled out a bit before bidding adieu to Rodger and Steve. All in all, it was a good day.

cirque '06, the finale

2006-06-13T20:41:00.000-04:00

Sunday was the first time I'd been to the Cirque and NOT ridden the Tour de Guilford, but that was all right. It meant that Ana and I had time to swing by Starbucks on the way to Lewis Recreation Center. Properly fortified, we arrived after the riders had left for but before many of the vendors and exhibitors had arrived.

I got lucky and found a place to park on the street - about half a block away. It wasn't too bad, though. We had a couple of bags of equipment, two boxes with 10 framed digital paintings, a camera bag, Julius and his stand. Dale Brown, master of the Classic Rendezvous list, creator and organizer of the Cirque and all-around nice guy, popped up when I asked where we were to set up.

"You're in here," Dale said, leading us into the dining area. "This room has the best light."

He was right. We wound up being the art for dinner, which was kinda fun. We set up the table, I ran the cords between the legs, we draped everything and placed the three large pieces down low, the rest laid out on the top.

Most of the time I hung out with Ana and talked to folks as they walked up to the table. We got a nice cross-section of people who dug what Ana was doing, and lots of people walked off carrying fliers and business cards.

Every so often I'd slip out with the camera and get some shots while looking for goodies. For the first time I bought nothing, focusing more on looking at bikes and getting good images and chatting with folks.

I was struck again by the diversity of the bikes on display. There were a lot of great track bikes, from ancient wood-rimmed machines with fish mouth lugs to Mauricio Rebolledo's shockingly clean looking track iron. No less impressive were the hard core touring and randonneur bikes, including a chromed Rene Herse, a pack of Jack Taylors, and Pergolizzi's heart-stoppingly cool '49 Alex Singer. Carrying the theme into this century were several Peter Weigle machines, Baylis' Aero-Tour, and a few other machines.

The most vibed-out tourer of them all was the late Fred DeLong's funky fillet-brazed custom bike. I remembered seeing it in DeLong's book years ago - we have a copy up in the T section of the library right now - and I'd always thought it was interesting, if not elegant. Delong's bike wound up winning as Best Tourer. When Dale mentioned that DeLong was an engineer by trade, the bike suddenly made perfect sense. It was purely about getting the job done, a total form-follows-function machine.

A couple of times I walked past Julius where he was nestled in among the other British bikes. I had felt vaguely out of my depth initially, but the Vincitore lug pattern looked, well, right and at home among the other fancy-lugged English bikes. I got some pix of a couple of other Mercians, including an earlier Vincitore with an equally eclectic mix of parts.

We managed to take one turn together around the show, with Ana pointing out things she wanted pictures of and my calling her attention to details I suspect she would like. We caught the awards presentation, then went back to the table and began taking things down. We said out goodbyes to folks as we caught them and promised Dale we'd be back for Cirque '07 - which will be the last in Greensboro.

Poor Julius got thoroughly soaked when the heavens opened up on us near Charlotte. The weather escalated into a storm of positively Biblical proportions complete with lightning streaking across the sky and pounding rain. Traffic slowed down to 30 mph on I-85, only picking up somewhere around Spartanburg.

We got home around 8:30. It had been a delightful long weekend complete with a 4-star hotel, lots of fixed-gear cycling, days of talking and playing with vintage bike parts and above all, hanging out with great folks. But it was also good to be home with the love of my life.

cirque '06, part 1

2006-06-10T21:06:00.000-04:00

Wow, it's a whirlwind!

We left Greenwood a little after 8:00 with a trunkful of Ana's digital paintings, a backseat full of luggage and coolers, and Julius strapped up and riding on the rear bumper rack. We made good time, even with a couple of stops at rest areas. The lilies at the North Carolina welcome center were so stunning, Ana took a bunch of photos for reference use in her florals. We stocked up on maps and brochures and headed back out.

We arrived at the O. Henry around 12:30, checked in and ate. There was time for me to change clothes and drive over to Cycl es de Oro, the epicenter of the Cirque du Cyclisme. Grabbing my gear, I rode across the street to the shop's parking lot. I leaned Julius next to another Mercian - John Crump's 1950 Vigorelli Special, the oldest Mercian in the U.S. I popped into the shop to grab a cue sheet and say hello to Dale Brown, ringmaster of the Cirque and benevolent despot of the Classic Rendezvous newslist.

I had time to nod and say hi to Larry O and Aldo, folks I hadn't seen since I'd last attended the Cirque in 2001. Moments later I was setting off with the Friday Fixed Gear ride.

It was an in-town course with lots of twists and turns. One batch of riders got caught on the wrong side of a traffic light early on and never caught up with us again. I rode for a while with Bob Freitas, a fellow post-cardiac-event cyclist, and we traded notes on treatments and riding after heart attacks. A fellow member of the iBOB and CR lists, he was riding an utterly lovely De Rosa a lot like the one I wanted when I was 14.

We stopped a couple of times to regroup. I looked around at the machines surrounding me. The ride leader, a very articulate young guy who works for Dale, was riding the shop's Soma Rush. There were several Bianchi Pistas from different years. Several young cats I was later learn were from Philadelphia and were associates of Curtis at Via Bicycles were there riding brakeless track bikes - the nicest of which was the battered black Paramount with the incredibly skinny round fork blades.

Not everyone rode fixed. New York's John (aka Gianni) Pergolizzi was astride an amazing 12-speed Alex Singer from 1949 - which means it had three chainrings and four cogs, rather than two rings and six cogs. Brian Baylis was riding the Aero-Tour show bike he built, and other randonneur bikes present included Peter Weigle's and a Chris Chance, as well as a couple of vintage Jack Taylors.

There were some maneuvers that would not meet the approval of the GCC - at several intersections, riders stopped traffic while the pack went through red lights. I rode for a while with a gentleman named Tom who was piloting a lovely old chrome Paramount converted to fixed gear. I told him I admired his T-shirt from the 1st International Fixed-Gear Symposium, and learned he thought it was one of the the nicest cycling events he'd been to.

There was another fixed I noticed, a blue and white Carpenter with cottered Chater Lea cranks, Airlite hubs with flanges that looked like chromed telephone dialing rings, and BSA pedals. Of course my name failure popped up - I am forever bobbling people's names, so I don't have one to go with that bike's owner.

We rolled along a multi-use path for a bit, then entered a park. While skirting the edge of a pond, we heard a sudden loud "bang!" Pergolizzi's front tire had blown out. The bunch was stopped, and we took a quick break while he undid the wingnuts on the huge Maxicar hubs and replaced the tube in the 650B tire. Moments later we were off again, winding our way back to the shop. I wound up with 20.5 miles for the ride.

I hung out for a little while, walking around and looking at the stuff for the auction, noting in passing a lovely red Mercian frameset with Nervex Professional lugs, a '49 Gillott that needed to have the top headlug repaired, and other cool frames and parts. Much of the merchandise was crisp and clean, but some items were well-worn. On the last table I looked at, there was a battered Peugeot PX-10 frameset with no paint left on the fork blades. I looked at the tag - it was a 58 cm, center to center - and shook my head and smiled and walked on.

We were originally scheduled to go to the buffet supper, watch Jeff Groman's movie The Jazz Sport, an ode to the glory years of Six-Day bike races, and watch the charity auction. When I got back to the hotel to shower and change, we decided instead to get something to eat and stay in and rest up. After searching through the yellow pages, we settled on Greek cuisine from the Acropolis on Eugene Street. I managed to figure out how to get there via MapQuest, and the folks at the restaurant were able to give me good directions back over Greensboro's somewhat confusing streets to the hotel.

This morning I got up early, fixed myself some oatmeal and headed over to the shop again. I had thought the ride choices would be 12 and 25 miles. Oh, no. The options were either 25 or 33. I'd flipped Julius' rear wheel over to the 71-in gear the other day, and I wasn't sure I was up to what I remembered as some stiff hills. Too late. Time to fish or cut bait.

I surprised myself, actually. There were some abrupt descents followed by equally sharp climbs. I got up them just fine. I did a little "dancing on the pedals," but mostly I sat back, grasped the drops, and did old-style English seated climbing while focusing on "turning them round." Sure, there were moments I reached to the downtube only to be reminded there were no levers or lower gears there, but all in all I was fine. On one of the descents, I hit 31 mph, which I think is the fastest I've ridden fixed since the heart attack.

At one point the fixed-gear contingent was riding as a bloc, with me following the Carpenter's pilot, another gentleman on a chromed Lygie conversion, and a Quickbeam with hammered fenders and M-bars behind me. I got back to the shop just before 11:00 with 26.75 miles and had time to return to the O. Henry, shower, change, and head back to the shop. Ana had plans for an afternoon of hanging out, eating lunch and resting up.

I had lunch in the seminar room - a turkey sandwich wrapped in a spinach tortilla - and chit-chatted with folks I hadn't see in eons. I was sitting next to Charlie Young, who I'd talked into buying a Fiorelli in 2001 - so I wouldn't buy it. I told Tom Hayes he had made a very happy man of Ainsley Wiles by selling him the frameset that became the Deathtrap. Several folks commented on how shaving off mustache they'd last seen me wearing had knocked a decade or more off my looks.

During the first seminar, Matt Gorski and Charles Andrews discussed restorations, showing both good and bad examples. Listening to them, I was struck by how my tastes have evolved. Most of the examples they showed were Pogliaghis, classical Italian racing irons that have little interest for me. As they talked about high-dollar restorations that involved nearly full repaints around skillful masking of existing decals and graphics, I realized that I really don't have much use for hanger queens. I'm glad someone out there is willing to keep pristine examples or restore wrecks to exquisite condition - but it won't be me.

During the breaks, I socialized some more and wandered the seminar area, looking at the various bikes people had brought in. There was an amazing Johnny Berry from the late '50s, original paint, lots of patina and the coolest old Huret derailleur system I'd seen yet; over near the door was an early 50s Dawes with a 4-speed Cyclo-Benelux derailleur system, original spearpoint celluloid fenders, and Reynolds stickers. There were old Paramounts, even older French rando bikes, and truly ancient track iron. Through an open door, I could see a Bob Jackson track bike, an old English Rex frameset, and the battered Peugeot frameset. And it wasn't even the show - that comes tomorrow.

Peter Weigle's presentation was particularly interesting to me. He showed lots of pictures from his days at Witcomb in England, the early days of Witcomb USA, and the growth of his own business. Afterwards I walked up and took a closer look at his bikes. It's the first time I've really looked at Peter Weigle's bikes, and the closer I looked, the more details I saw - and loved. His front racks are exquisite. The frames' lines just look perfect. Little touches called me back for a closer look - one example being the perfect little rings brazed onto the inside of the right fork blades to accomodate wiring from a generator hub to a lighting system. If I ever decide to buy another new, custom bike, he's on my short list of options.

John Barron's presentation was simplicity itself. After a brief introduction, he distributed white cotton gloves to all present and turned us loose on tables of carefully tied-down NOS vintage parts, including '50s Campagnolo Gran Sport derailleurs, assorted cranks, pedals, stems, pedals, and other rare beauties. While he'd left most of the boxes at home, a few were present. I didn't even bother trying to get a look at the early Campagnolo cranks - they were on the same table as a set of the "no-name" Campy sidepulls, the first version of those brakes. I thought the Titan and other adjustable stems on the last table were particularly lovely.

During the next break, I stepped down to the entry area and stood around while Joe B-Z talked with a bunch of folks about a Masi he had that hadn't moved during last night's auction. As they agreed it was a rider, not a show bike. I looked at it - it was blue, a Carlsbad California Masi from back when "everyone who mattered" was working there. It had top tube cable loops, rather than the usual chromed Campagnolo clips. Several folks commented on how it just radiated a "ride me fast, now!" vibe, and I agreed. It looked fast just sitting there.

The last presentation was Dave Moulton, author, musician, and former framebuilder. After talking about the adaptive nature of frame design, he described his development in the craft. After starting out filing lugs for North London builder "Pops" Hodges in the '50s, he worked for 37 years building frames before leaving after feeling burned out. He'd turned to writing songs and fiction. To advance those causes, he'd developed a website - only to be Googled by fanatics for his bikes, be they Dave Moultons, Fusos or John Howards. He sounded like he was at peace with his framebuilding years, which had a lot of resonance with me.

Folks were packing up, and I was chit-chatting with Larry O as we watched folks rolling their bikes out of the center. Charlie was walking by with the blue Rex, and I asked him who had wound up with the Peugeot.

"I did," he said. "Go get it, it's yours."

"No, I couldn't do that," I said.

"Yes you can. I don't need another project, and I can view the $45 bucks I paid for it as a pure donation. Take it, it's yours."

So I thanked him and retrieved the frame and headed back to the hotel.

gearing up for the cirque du cyclisme

2006-06-06T21:45:00.000-04:00

I went out and did a slow, relatively short ride the Sunday after Tour de Abbeville. I was still suffering, and it was kinda hot. Fortunately for me, young Bradley's rear tire developed a slow leak, and we turned back and rolled at a sedate pace into Hodges. 24.4 miles was the total on a hot afternoon.

I didn't ride Tuesday or Wednesday - Ana and I went to the Charleston area for our anniversary. We had a great time that included hearing possibly the worst acoustic folkie of all time, finding a great bike shop (Black Dog Cycles) and discovering an amazing Greek Restaurant (Zeus Seafood and Grill in Mount Pleasant). We filled the coolers up at Whole Foods and drove home Wednesday.

I made up for it Thursday on the Callaham Challenge. I had dashed out into the garage, running late, and found Belle's back tire was totally flat. No time for repairs, so I pulled Stripe down off the rack, pumped up his tires, dropped bottles into cages and headed out. I wound up riding with Campbell, Bradley, Al and a new guy, Tommy Davis.

Bradley and I chatted for a while as we rode down Stevenson. The worst of the pea gravel was gone, so long as you stayed away from the shoulders. Bradley was using the opening stage of the ride as a warm up, figuring he'd hop onto the train when the really fast guys caught up to us. They overtook us (as usual) right around the intersection with Old Abbeville-Hodges Road. As folks passed me, they said hello or patted me on the back, and I said hi to Josh, Bob Chambers, Tom, and a bunch of other folks. Steven Shenal slowed down off the back and stopped to have a European moment as it were, whizzing into the gutter while still astride the bike. I could see the pack slow down, waiting for him.

Campbell and Tommy rolled up.

"So is this like waiting for the yellow jersey taking a nature break?" I asked.

"Naw," Campbell said. "They just like picking on him."

"Oh, okay," I said.

Jim crested the hill and we decided to do the full route, instead of the short one. We took Stevenson across 203 to its terminus on 20, then burned on down to 185 and back towards Hodges. We made better time down the length of Dixie Drive and back into town, winding up with 36.87 miles for the day.

Saturday's club ride had a small turnout - me, Jim and Bradley. The weather looked threatening, so we cut it short, riding from the fountain down the Canadian Mist Highway to Pembroke, then left onto Scotch Cross. We took the John Lake loop down Lowry Road to 248, passing the Star Fort and working our way back in the way we came out. I wound up with 25.5 miles.

Sunday was a bigger bunch - Jim, Bradley, Norm, Tommy, Andrew Douglas and Andrew Evans showed up. The pace never got too frenetic, and we worked out a long loop that took us out Noble Road and back around onto 201. We took a detour onto Cold Springs Road, the dead end side, and felt like we were in another state entirely. Young Andrew Evans commented that it looked like Pennsylvania - I've never been there, I couldn't say. It can say it was beautiful out there.

We rolled back onto 20, then cut over onto Central Shiloh Road. By this point, we had broken into different groups, and I wound up riding with Jim and Tommy. We took the long way back, eventually coming out via Pickens Creek Road. I had 33 miles even for the day.

I didn't ride today, other than commuting - too busy getting stuff in order for the Cirque du Cyclisme this year. Unfortunately, I'll probably miss getting to do the Fixed-Gear Friday ride, but Saturday's ride looks promising. I'm looking forward to seeing Jeff Groman's movie, and Sunday Ana and I will be manning a table showing her digital paintings of bike parts. I haven't been to the Cirque since 2001, and this should be a blast.

the (digital) art of cycling

2006-05-28T21:29:00.000-04:00

A couple of years ago, Ana surprised me with a stunning digital painting of my old Falcon San Remo fixed-gear. I think it was her first or second piece featuring bikes - right in the same time frame she did a great piece based on a Lyotard Marcel Berthet pedal.

I've lived with it for a while, and every time I look at it, I'm struck by how vibrant it is. On several occasions, I've commented to Ana that her bike paintings feel to me like exuberant florals masquerading as bike parts.

The digital painting is pretty cool as an art form, especially the way she handles it. It's pretty much using a Wacom tablet and a PowerBook as if they were a brush, paint and canvas. She can get great texture, even the palette-knife look. Then she prints them onto archival-grade paper as original prints that should last at least 75 years. Way cool.

About a year ago we started talking about taking her work public, but it took a while for things to get rolling. A few months ago she cleared the decks and went to work, turning out a series of paintings of fixed-gear cogs. We talked about where to display and sell pieces, and had initially thought we would be debuting her work at the Cirque du Cyclisme next month.

Before that could happen, I saw a notice on Dennis Larson-Bean's fixed-gear gallery site about a bike art show in Minneapolis. The deadline for submissions was only days away. I showed it to Ana, and she sent them an online application. A few days later, she got an email back, asking her to send all five of the pieces she had submitted. They're on exhibit at Altered Esthetics gallery through June 28th, and may be going on to the Green Man Festival after that.

If you'd like to check out her artwork, go to anafitzgerald.com.

tour d'abbeville

2006-05-27T21:08:00.000-04:00

I rode the Tour d'Abbeville today. Please note - Tour de Abbeville is just bad grammatically, despite the potential it yields for Bob Roll-esque pronunciation as "Tour DAY Abbeville." Despite my involvement for several years in TdA's predecessor (the old Lost Weekend ride), I'd never ridden it. In 2003 I was on my honeymoon; in 2004 I was recuperating; and last year we were off on an anniversary trip to the beach. This year the schedule worked differently.

I didn't pre-register, figuring it was best to play it safe. There's no telling what can come up, right? I rode Wednesday night, getting in 27.75 miles. Thursday it looked like rain, so I figured an extra rest day would be a good thing. Friday night I wisely prepped the bike and filled bottles beforehand.

I got up at 6:15, hoping the extra 15 minutes would be sufficient, especially if I skipped non-essentials like shaving as I got ready to go ride. I still had time for a good breakfast (the inevitable oatmeal with protein powder, peanut butter and raisins) and a cup of coffee on the couch with Hannibal the cat in my lap. I didn't quite get the timing right, though, and arrived in Abbeville just a few minutes before 8:00.

I threw my kit together and rode across the square to the Abbeville Visitor's Council to sign up. I said hello to David Knecht and Jim Cox on my way in. I could hear Scott Hines making announcements, including something about the color-coding of the arrows on the road. Alas, by the time I emerged, the mass start had gone, along with the folks I'd planned on riding with.

As I put my helmet on, I heard someone say, "Russ?" I looked up to see a distinguished looking guy. "I'm Jeff Ford. We rode together a few times a couple of years ago." And so it was. Jeff has been one of Lowry Parker's ride buddies for years - some time when we've got the time to do it, remind me to tell you about Lowry and Jeff and Look cleats in Godfrey's Market in Hodges, SC.

So anyway, I formed up with Jeff and his buddy (whose name I never caught) and we set off. Another rider joined us and almost immediately got upset over route markings. There were old markings on the road, but nothing indicating we should go straight. Only Jeff's comments that we were to stay straight until we made a left on Pecan Road kept us on track.

We rolled along and talked about vintage Steyr-Puch Sears 3-speeds, area roads and the headwinds we were beginning to encounter. The pace was sociable, but we still overtook several folks and passed them on our way to the first rest stop.

Several GCC riders were present - Connie, Donis and Vonona, who I'd ridden with recently, and Ann and Denise, who I hadn't seen in a while. After ascertaining that the rest stop had only one banana left, I passed. Denise and Ann were about to leave, so I joined them and we headed out.

We chit-chatted, and I was reminded that they routine did long rides together. They were familiar with these roads. After a couple of turns, I realized I was on roads I remembered from riding or SAGing Lost Weekend years ago. We passed a house I'd used as a background for a bunch of photos of riders in 2001; a little later we made our way through a headwind into Antreville and the second rest stop.

When I stepped over to the table, a nice lady promptly took my bottles and filled them with water for me. I looked over the food on the table and wound up taking part of a banana - most of the rest of the food was processed stuff, lots of cookies and such. I was glad I'd packed some pita with peanut butter.

"Which route markers do I follow again?" I asked.

"Green for the metric, white for the century," I was told. Hmm.

Wild Bill Reese showed up as we were preparing to leave. I'd ridden a bunch with his son Scott back in the '80s, and Bill had done a lot of club rides four or five years ago. We didn't have much time to catch up - Denise and Ann set a pace just a bit too fast for Bill, who hadn't ridden more than 25 miles at a time this year.

We were joined by a fellow named Lucky somewhere on Keowee Road. It emerged that he was doing the full English century, but his map was unclear. He made a phone call to a buddy of his who was somewhere out there and he was more confused afterward. We finally stopped at the intersection of Keeowee and 185 and compared maps. Right about that time, Joy pulled up in a SAG wagon. There we learned that Lucky had been handed a map for a completely different ride, the Calhoun Falls Century. Uh oh. I looked more closely at my cue sheet. White for the metric. Ahhh ... fortunately, the routes were the same until the outskirts of Due West. Unfortunately for lucky and some of the other century riders, many of them had ridden part of other, older rides.

He went on up the ride, while we continued rolling along. It was getting hotter and hotter, with temperatures now above 90 degrees. Somewhere outside of Donalds we pulled off in the shade and took a quick breather in the shade before heading on out to Highway 178. About a mile later we made the turn onto 184. I dropped off the back again, really starting to suffer from the heat. I pulled off into the shade and ate another pita and peanut butter sandwich before setting off again. Denise met me about half a mile from the rest stop and mentioned they were going to go to the gas station. I stopped off at the rest stop and ate a fig newton and refilled my bottles before going to meet Ann and Denise. I wound up going in and buying some crackers to take care of my jonesing for salt. We sat on their porch under the overhang and ate and drank.

I looked at my cycle computer and saw it read 60 miles even at that point. Hmmm. This was turning out to be an extra long metric - we had another dozen miles to go to Abbeville. We rolled out on 185 and headed for 20 and the ride back in. The heat was brutal by this point, and I could feel myself bonking horribly. At Ann's suggestion, I held off from stopping until we reached a place that sold awnings. Two other riders had already taken shelter from the sun, so we joined them for a few minutes before doing the last six miles.

I'd avoided the granny ring until the very last hill, when I finally dropped down onto it to get up the last brutal bit. I had 72.4 miles, the longest metric I've ever done, and my longest day in the saddle so far this year.

pea gravel ...

2006-05-23T22:34:00.000-04:00

Sunday's ride almost didn't happen. I drove out to scenic downtown Hodges to find Campbell standing outside his vehicle, his bike still safely stored inside it, as he pondered the sky. I said hello and got out of my truck and followed his example.

There were large dark clouds, moving swiftly across the sky. Hmmm, I thought. Campbell and I talked a bit, while Young Bradley arrived and we waited for Jim. Strawhorne's truck was there, but he wasn't. Jim drove up and we conferred.

It looked like it would pass without incident. The big black clouds were whipping along above us, and it looked like there were clear skies beyond them. Heh.

"Let's wait a little bit and see if this clears up," Jim said.

Moments later, Andrew Douglas drove up with his Serotta in the back of his truck. Jim took it as a sign.

"Mr. Andrew Douglas has arrived," Jim intoned. "Surely we will ride today."

Less than a minute later, Strawhorne rode up with the wind at his back. "It's brutal out there," he said as he passed. About that time the raindrops started falling.

I tried to come up with something to cover the B17 saddle on Belle, then gave up as the rain started falling heavily. Everyone ducked into their vehicles and the bottom dropped out. The rain was just pounding away, but the wind was pushing it so wildly that I could open the offside window of the truck and no water came in. I looked back and saw trees swaying behind me - but when I opened the back window to take pictures they couldn't capture the wildness of the weather.

During a lull, I slipped out and hopped into the passenger seat of Andrew's truck and we talked, hanging out and listening to the rain batter the truck roof. Things finally tapered off, and we all hopped out and started prepping our bikes. I wiped the saddle off, grateful that I'd proofided it in the recent past.

We set off, going down 185 to the intersection with Pickens Creek Road instead of taking the usual cut-through on Blue Jay Road. Bradley launched an attack for the sign, but that's normal, right? Campbell and I talked about the pea gravel Abbeville County was putting on its roads, and we both shook our heads and clucked our tongues when we crossed the old Abbeville-Hodges road. It looked like it was covered in jagged marbles and tar.

Bradley went raging on ahead, but Campbell, Andrew and I wound up following Jim down onto Dungannon to David Knecht's place. It's a tradition with Jim - if you ride anywhere near the home of someone who should be riding with us but isn't, you ride past their place and harass them by calling them out to go ride.

Since the Knechts live back off the road, we got to ride down a long gravel driveway. We wound up simultaneously bringing Gini Knecht out from the backyard and awakening David from a nap. After a few minutes of chatting, we set off again, climbing back up to the top of the hill and heading on towards Old Abbeville Highway. From there we cut over onto Clem Road, going from there to Deadfall before returning to Hodges via Dixie Drive. Somewhere along Dixie, the wind reappeared, and I tucked in behind Jim and Campbell and drafted shamelessly the rest of the way in. I had 21.04 miles at the end of the day.

Today I got errands run on my afternoon off, grabbed a great snack, and got Belle ready for another ride. The usual crowd was gathering at the Y, including Paul Velky, Aaron, Todd, Josh, and a bunch of guys that I say hi to that I see for the first mile or two of the ride before they take off. S'all right.

There were several conversations about Abbeville County and pea gravel. Apparently, in addition to Blue Jay and Old Abbeville-Hodges Road, they've also paved the entire length of Stevenson Road - which could make for an interesting Callaham Challenge come Thursday evening. There was concern that other roads have also been treated with this nasty stuff, including the routes for Saturday's Tour de Abbeville.

I wound up riding with Jim and Landon the Silent, tucking in behind Jim down the length of Dixie. I kept thinking, man, I wish Jim would bring this pace down a notch, but he didn't. I dropped off the back a time or two, then did the same on 185. I caught back up with them when we turned onto Pickens Creek, and sat in at the back.

I watched Landon. After a certain point, I saw him crane his head up and around to look past Jim at the county line sign. I thought about it for a minute and watched the distance to the sign shrink. At about 100 yards or so, I reached down and shifted Belle up and went for it. Seconds later I heard Jim yell, "Go, Landon!" I put my head down and my hands in the hooks and tried to spin as fast as humanly possible. Turning my head, I could see Landon's shadow and pushed just a touch harder.

For once, just once, timing was on my side. Landon ran out of road before we got to the sign. I let out a guttural "Ha!" as I took the sign by something between half a wheel and a tire's width.

Coasting along for a moment, I looked over at him and grinned. "Won't be able to do that again, will I?" I said.

He just smiled.

The rest of the ride went pretty quietly. They dropped me on the climbs, but not too badly. I made it up the nasty short hill on the 38x19, and got up the other hills without too much trouble. By the time we got onto Old Abbeville, I was feeling pretty well used up - but not enough to not contend for the last sign on the way in. I took it, but it was inconclusive - we both pulled up on our sprints and went neutral when a car came by in the other lane.

A good ride, all in all, and I had another 21.1 miles at the end of it. It was even better when I got home and found Ana had made tuna patties, broccoli and homemade cornbread for supper.

the winds don't relent

2006-05-20T20:45:00.000-04:00

I didn't ride last Sunday. The virtuous part of me wanted to finish off the trim on the deck off the back porch. The pain-fearing part of me wanted to let my legs rest after the ride beyond Troy. The practical side of me took a look at the weather report and decided to skip riding in 20 mph winds.

Unfortunately, the winds were still active on Tuesday. I wound up riding with Campbell, Joy and Landon the Silent on a route that took us from the Y through Hodges, down Blue Jay, up Klugh, taking a left onto Flatwood and back in via Dixie and through Center Court. It was a fairly uneventful ride, even with the stiff winds. Probably the high point was seeing Dr. Paul Velky show up for a club ride.

Once on the road, I spent a lot of time on the drops on the way out. The stiff climb on Klugh Road was a problem purely because my shifters were slipping a touch, and I promised myself I would clean and regrease the appropriate bits to fix them. I wound up with 20.7 miles for the day. That night after supper, I carefully lubed the right washers and reassembled everything.

Wednesday's ride was another slogfest into the wind. This time I rode with Jim, Norm and Young Bradley as we headed out on what is become the standard route. Jim and I took the Pembroke Road cutoff, which knocked a mile off our ride. I was surprised at how much easier the hill was than I remembered it being - a few years back I had regarded it as a brutal killer.

Bradley was giving Jim grief about the upcoming Assault on Marion ride, affiliated with the Assault on Mt. Mitchell. Jim is essentially allergic to mountainous rides, and Bradley was taunting him about not wishing to do the ride.

Karma put in an appearance later in the ride - Bradley's Shimano STI shifter became, uhh, vague. Actually, it wouldn't release onto the higher gear cogs. It emerged that he'd had the shift cable replaced recently, and I suspect it needed to be more carefully seated.

We rolled on back via the rail-trail with a fierce dispute about modern bike parts - I argued that reduced spoke-count wheels were a bad idea for people weighing more than 150 lbs., while he contended that modern technology was stronger than I gave it credit for being. I felt a little vindicated by the failure of his shifter, but didn't let myself gloat about the smooth operation of my bike's downtube shifters. I managed to at least get his chain back down to a more useable rear cog, and he and Jim rode home. I had 24.04 miles for the day.

Thursday I didn't ride - Ana was returning home after a week spent in Nashville with family, and I wanted to cook a big supper for her homecoming. Grilled turkey cutlets, oven-fried potatoes, and carrots and stringbeans cooked in foil-wrap on the grill hit the spot. I still wonder why people complain about eating healthy - the limitations of my dietary needs and Ana's has paradoxically led to a lot more experimentation and a greater appreciation of the actual flavors of foods, rather than their seasonings.

My Saturday began with a bang as a massive thunderstorm awakened me. This was after being awakened at 2:00 by Hannibal grooming my hair to (politely) tell me his food dish was empty, but before I was awakened by Hector purring in my ear to tell me that his schedule required my presence in the kitchen.

I rode down to the fountain, running just a bit late, to find Donis, Jim, and Landon the Silent awaiting. We held up for a few minutes more to let any stragglers show up. While we waited, I mentioned the Assault on Marion ride to Jim, and wondered how Campbell and Bradley were doing.

"You know, that ride starts at 6:30," Jim said. "They had to leave at 3:00 to get there and get set up."

"Yeah, it's a brutal time," I said.

"Bradley gave me a lot of crap about not doing the ride," he said. "I hope John (Campbell) reaches over and pokes him and wakes him up every time he nods off."

I laughed and agreed. Karma, you know?

After deciding on a Cedar Springs out-and-back, we set off via the rail-trail to Florida Avenue, eventually getting onto Briarwood. Jim led us onto Whitehall Road and from there we rode to Promised Land before taking Highway 10 to Cedar Springs Road. I wound up leading Landon out down the bumpy macadam. We made the turn at the old stagecoach stop and rode past the church to the top of the hill, where Watson Hill and Sumter Forest cross the road.

Landon and I waited for a minute or two at the intersection for Donis and Jim. I told Landon which ways the dirt roads led and led him back towards Greenwood. The wind was at our backs, and I was able to shift back up onto the 50T ring and push bigger gears than I had on the way out. We were within a mile of the end of Cedar Springs Road before I saw Jim and Donis up ahead. We regrouped on Highway 10 and headed back in. Jim peeled off on West Alexander, taking a different route home. I rode back in with Donis and Landon. When I saw his folks waiting to pick him up, I said my goodbyes and headed for home. I wound up with 38.37 miles and was home before 1:00, ravenous and ready for lunch.

to troy and back again: fixed-gear adventures in long cane country

2006-05-13T21:01:00.000-04:00

I don't think I'd ever been to Troy, SC before today. If I drove through there, it was a long time ago and I wasn't paying attention. Riding in cars is like that.

I had, however, been looking at Troy on the map for several weeks. I'd used the Windows box computer on my desk to check out the county's GIS site (which doesn't work on my beloved PowerBook, dang it!), comparing the road names to the lines on my pasted-together photocopied maps of the area. I'd figured out a route weeks ago and had discussed it with Ainsley, but there just wasn't a good time - until today.

We met at the fountain early, shooting for 8:00. As Ainsley put it, "If I can get to work there at 8:00, I ought to be able to get there for a ride." I wound up being seven minutes late, but Ainsley was still setting up equipment, so it was all right. We got rolling at 8:14, going out the usual rail-trail to Wisewood to West Scotch Cross to Rock House Road. We were on the last bit of Rock House in the area I call the Greenwood Steppes when we saw something slink across the road and into the brush. As we passed the clearing we both caught a glimpse of something dark and moderately large getting out of sight.

"What was that?" I said.

"Maybe it was the Abbeville Panther," Ainsley suggested, reminding me of a recent and overblown newspaper story.

We talked about it for the rest of Rock House and I agreed with Ainsley that it was probably what he called a "melanistic bobcat." Something large and vaguely predatory could live in that area for a long time dining on some of the zillions of rabbits that surely lived there - like the three we saw in short order. We made the turn and crossed the bridge and turned left onto Millpond. As we did a couple of weeks back, we commented on how much smoother its dirt surface was compared to the bumpy macadam of Rock House.

We stopped at the entrance to Calabash Road to eat small snacks and check the map out again, a process we would repeat frequently as the day wore on. I had 18 miles and change at that point. I led off and we began to learn another road.

Calabash looks like a regular dirt road for the area, but then you come to a fork. The left fork, which is maintained like the entry section, is somebody's driveway. The right fork, which we took, doesn't appear to be maintained much, if at all. The surface was sort of a cross between sand and tiny pebbles - standing climbing was an experience. The tiny one-lane bridge we crossed looked like an afterthought, thrown together with odd leftover bits from the highway department. But it was just so danged pretty back there. I took a couple of pictures that mostly showed how shady the woods were, and then we were riding on tar and pea gravel for a couple hundred yards - not paved, just kinda dumped in a there-ya-go fashion right onto the dirt.

Time to consult the map again - our route lay to the right along Highway 221. Right beyond the first bend was a dirt road - no name on the map, no sign, just a nameless dirt road next to a church, and we followed it to Highway 10. Once across, we found ourselves on Barksdale Ferry Road. Now, we could have just ridden 10 into Troy - there's not much traffic on it at that point - but here was a perfectly good dirt road on a pleasant day. So down Barksdale Ferry we went, passing a beautiful 19th Century house hidden by the woods from the world, down a long hill and working our way South by Southwest.

We emerged on pavement where Cox Road leads off to the right - a turn we should have made, according to the route I had planned.

"Seems kinda wrong to ride to Troy without actually seeing what's there," I told Ainsley.

"Not much there," he said.

I pondered our low food supply - we had one granola bar between us at this point - and asked, "Any convenience stores?"

"There's a Mom and Pop place like the one in Bradley, I think."

So we rode on to Troy. The Mom and Pop place turned out to be a restaurant called the Hash House that was just setting up for the day - we passed on that. There was a clump of abandoned buildings along the highway and a small, neatly painted town hall. After consulting the map again, we made the turn onto Greenwood Street - and then Ainsley saw the sign for the Indian Massacre Grave Site.

The Long Cane Massacre is something I've seen references to since I first lived here in 1981. On February 1, 1760, 23 settlers were killed by Cherokee Indians while attempting to flee to safety from an impending attack. It was apparently a powerful, formative experience for the Scottish Presbyterians of the area, and there are references to it all over the place.

Ainsley wanted to go check it out, and the sign said 3 miles, so I figured, why not? We turned and followed the signs, eventually coming to West Charleston Road. After a bit, it turned to dirt road, but that's what we were looking for, right?

West Charleston Road is a delight for the dirt-riding roadie - some whoop de doos, a couple of hills, but generally a decent surface. We came to the turn off to the gravesite and went down the steep hill. I read the marker, then dismounted and followed Ainsley across the footbridge. There were two markers and a foot stone; the older marker was for Catherine Calhoun and appeared to be roughly contemporary to her death, while the other was much newer and had been placed in honor of five casualties by a descendant.

"It's kind of surreal," Ainsley said. "This gravesite is more than 200 years old, but it's still maintained."

It was strange. This place was in the middle of nowhere, but the grass was cut, and two small trellises supported rose bushes. We talked about how this had probably been part of an open field until relatively recently - there were no hardwoods, and all the pines looked to be 50 years old or younger. Putting our helmets back on, we went back across the bridge and got up the hill with less effort than we feared.

West Charleston really came into its own now, complete with a really cool steel and wood bridge over Long Cane Creek. We surprised a buzzard and a turkey with our voices. After taking a couple of photos, I rolled across what felt like 2x4s set edgewise, and the rumble of my tires set two Mallards that had been swimming below into flight.

A couple of miles later we hit pavement and found ourselves looking at Ivy Hall, aka the Wideman Plantation. At least, that's what the sign said. The directional signs indicated that going right would take us to Troy in two miles. Hmm. Another map check, and we agreed that if we went right, we'd come to a T that would take us on out to our original route. We rode for several miles, being passed by the occasional pickup truck or sensible sedan, and finally reached a T intersection - only to find ourselves back in Troy.

We rode back to the town center, such as it was, and pondered the map again before finding our error. Back out the way we'd just come, but this time we stayed straight, eventually hitting Puckett Town Road. I felt better seeing the sign - it was the right direction after all. A while later, I looked ahead and saw a "pavement ends" sign. Actually, Puckett Town peeled off to the right, but our route lay straight ahead.

I've been curious about Sumter Forest Road ever since I first saw it on the GIS site. It turned out to be one of the best dirt roads yet. It was smooth, apart from the first few yards it was pretty well hard packed, and had only one descent that required steady back pressure against the fixed-gear's lockringed cog, followed by a dainty bridge, then one grunt of a climb. I slogged up the hill standing, feeling Julius' back end fishtail on some loose stuff.

At the top, Ainsley shook his head. "That was special."

"Wasn't it just," I said.

Fortunately, from that point on, Sumter Forest is pretty much flat and smooth hardpack all the way to Cedar Springs. We stopped for yet another breather, but for once left the map in my saddlebag. We knew where we were.

"Wanna split this last granola bar?" Ainsley said.

I took him up on his offer. "Let's go in via Promised Land," I said. "We can resupply at the store there. For once, I actually have a couple of dollars in my wallet."

He was agreeable to that idea, so we set off down Cedar Springs Road, passing the church there (I think it was the fifth or sixth Associate Reformed Presbyterian Church I'd passed since Troy) and going down the bumpy tarmac towards Highway 10. We had the wind at our backs, which made life much easier. By this point my legs were a little tired, my hands and feet were numb from the road vibration, and my butt wanted to be somewhere other than on a Brooks B17 saddle.

It was worse for Ainsley. He'd ridden the beater Schwinn with its wretched cheap saddle, and he proclaimed he would soon be acquiring something a bit more comfortable.

The Promised Land Grocery Store was an experience. Vehicles were parked haphazardly in the lot, and people milled back and forth in and out of the place. Ainsley stayed with the bikes while I went in and got some food and a bottle of water. We munched and drank standing in the shade outside the storefront, watching cautiously while a guy filled a gascan with his right hand while holding a lit cigarette in his left. I thought about the movie Zoolander and wondered how fast I could move if things went boom suddenly.

Then we were off again, rolling down Whitehall to Briarwood. I felt like I had a second wind, and I was able to turn the 45x18 with a little more crispness, feeling the spin in my legs and keeping my heels dropped for better speed. The winds were favorable, and the sudden shift to smooth pavement from tarmac was pure heaven.

Neither of us was quite sure where West Alexander would deposit us, so we opted for the usual route down Florida Avenue. Ainsley was truly suffering now.

"I'm looking forward to the hills so I can stand up," he said. "My legs may be screaming at me, but it's just so good to be off the saddle."

I nodded, grateful that the B17 under me was still on friendly terms. We crossed 221 and rolled up past the deserted little houses near the trail's end. Along the way we overtook an extended family of folks, adults walking, children riding gaily colored high-riser bikes. I pulled ahead on the last rise and decided to take Ainsley down Mineral Court instead of staying with the trail.

The shopping carts were gone. I'd described them to Ainsley earlier in the day, explaining how there had been two standing together next to one on its side.

"You know, when the mating season for feral shopping carts comes along, sometimes the males fight for dominance. It can be brutal, and who knows how many shopping carts meet their end this way," I said.

Ainsley allowed that shopping carts in the wild led rough lives. We wondered who had collected them, then we were on Edgefield and heading for the fountain. I gave him mileage stats and said goodbye and headed home, well pleased with myself. It was a slow ride, but I had 61.09 miles by the time I pulled up in my driveway. About 1/4 of that was on dirt roads, many of them new to me, and I'd done it on a fixed-gear. I felt fierce and exultant, if famished. Lunch awaited me.

the week's club rides

2006-05-13T20:36:00.000-04:00

I'm catching up after a full week - let's see, what happened ...

Tuesday night's ride went pretty well, though the details have blurred for me now. I know the group I was with rode out from the Y down Dixie to Klugh, then along the length of that road to Old Abbeville Highway and down to Beudrot Road, coming back in the back way. We went fast, too, running something like 18.26 mph to the turn onto Klugh, and it was still a respectable pace for me at the end of 22.7 miles. I felt well exercised, despite the fact that what I had really wanted was a cool-down recovery ride.

Wednesday's ride was a fast one as well. We met at the fountain under cloudy skies with lots of wind. None of the more laid-back riders showed, and it wound up being me, Fred, Jim, Bradley and Norm. Rides that involve Norm and Bradley usually wind up being pretty quick, and this one was no exception. Out the trail, where we stopped while Norm fixed a flat, then down to the Canadian Mist Highway to Lebanon Church Road. Jimmy cut over onto Pembroke while the rest of us rolled along at a very brisk clip to the bottom of the hill.

We cranked up Scotch Cross. Norm and Bradley had surged on ahead - surprise, surprise - while Fred and I followed. We didn't dawdle. I looked down at Belle's cyclo computer and was surprised to see how often I was doing 18 going up the long hill. Mostly I followed Fred, but a couple of times I pulled while he caught his breath. Jim doubled back to meet us near the top, and we agreed that the bad weather made it prudent for us to cut things short. We went straight across 221 and down the 225 bypass, not one of my favorite routes, then cut over onto Florida Avenue and down the trail without incident. When I got home, I had another 21.3 miles for the week.

Thursday was windy, brutally windy. Jim was not in attendance, though most of the fast folk were. Connie and Donis showed up, so I rode with them. We left a couple of minutes early with me pulling down Old Abbeville. The first batch of riders to overtake us included Bob Chambers and a bearded guy I thought was one of Scott Frock's sons. They rolled past us before we could get to Allen Chapel. Minutes later another pack including Josh and Strawhorne blew by.

We made the turn onto 72, Connie's least favorite part of the ride, then down onto the Old Greenwood Road near Ebenezer Church. The wind was shockingly stiff and dead in our faces. On the long final descent that I usually hit 34 on at the bottom, I was doing 28 - until a sudden gust of wind slowed me to 23. I had no momentum and could only drop onto the 38T ring and crank up the first steep bit, over the false flat and up the last section to Stevenson Road. Connie was riding very well for someone recovering from a fractured elbow, while Donis was having a rougher day than normal for her.

I set off down Stevenson with the quartering wind to my left front. I couldn't get comfortable in a gear, switching back and forth between the 50x21, 50x23, 38x19 and 38x17. None of them were quite right, so I settled into the drops and muscled Belle along.

Old Abbeville-Hodges Highway was a better bet, especially with the wind at our backs now. I churned on up and waited for them at Klugh Road, then took off again down Blue Jay, finally finding a rhythm on the middle ring. We regrouped at the intersection with 185 and watched the first two packs come by before setting off. Connie and I made Donis go first, while I switched on my blinky tail light and brought up the rear. The climb went quickly and we found ourselves on Dixie Drive again. Donis felt frisky and led us along at 20 mph for a while before waving me to the front. I kept the pace to between 18 and 20 the rest of the way. We took the straight shot in on Calhoun and were back from our windswept 25.6 miles by 7:50. The overall pace might have been closer to what I wanted in the way of a laid-back ride, but the wind kept it from being easy.

Folks were still milling around in the parking lot, and I wound up talking with Bob and the bearded guy. He wasn't one of Scott's sons, it was Scott himself, sporting whiskers suitable for a Confederate cavalry officer. Scott in particular commented on my weight loss - at 150 lbs, I'm 25 pounds lighter than I was when I had the heart attack - and we conversed for a while about dietary choices and their results. Bob wanted to know how old my Sidi shoes were, and I think he was surprised to learn they were less than five years old - it's hard to find toe-clip compatible shoes these days.

I went home for my first night with my wife out of town and ate shepherd's pie prepared by my mother-in-law, then went to bed at an early hour. I needed my rest for Saturday.

issaqueena's last ride

2006-05-07T12:50:00.000-04:00

Schedules go out the window, and the plan to go ride some version or another of the Vidalia Sweet Onion century went with it. I still wanted to do a ride, though, and I remembered that Ainsley had mentioned he would be riding Issaqueena's Last Ride. It sounded like a good idea to me, so I made arrangements to meet him for the ride.

I did a quick bit of research and somehow came away with the idea that the metric missed out on the worst of the climbing involved. I knew it was a somewhat hillier ride than I had been planning on , but I figured I could manage it, if I took it easy. All I wanted was to finish, right?

I woke at 5:30, ate a bowl of oatmeal with added protein powder and loaded Belle into the truck and drove to Walhalla, where I met up with Ainsley and his cousin Matt. I got registered and prepped the bike. Minutes later, we were all lined up and heading out of town.

I realized just how much craggier the terrain was on the first descent when I looked down and saw the cycle computer registering 32 mph just leaving town. We regrouped, watching the fast guys stream on up the road. It was strange for me to find myself pulling a bunch of riders as Matt, Ainsley and I swapped places over the next couple of miles. The terrain was still rolling, though I got another taste of the steep hills the first time I found myself dropping down a descent and actually using my brakes on a straightaway. I had never ridden Belle at 44 mph before.

Jumping Branch Road was a revelation, but I was able to stay on the large chainring. I had a good feeling about the ride, and I remember thinking, "this is a lot like the Fred ride the other week." We rode past a bunch of lakeside vacation cottages, hopping up and down along the a road cut into a hillside. The last hill of the road, right before we got to the first rest stop, was the steepest yet. Ainsley and I joked about it's being a "stitch-test." Little did we know.

We turned onto Little River Road and headed up. The only canine pursuit of the day happened there, an abortive chase that almost ended in tragedy when a Chihuahua mix came charging onto the road from our left, coming within inches of being run over - only fast braking by the driver and an abrupt reversal by the dog saved him.

As I said, we headed up. I told Ainsley and Matt I'd see them further up the hill, shifted down to the 38x26, and churned along. I rounded the last curve and saw them approaching a stop sign where other riders had paused. I could see the road we were to turn onto going rather shockingly up.

One of the sag drivers drove up and was chatting with other riders, and I got the impression that we had a couple of miles of steep, a little flatter climbing, and then it got steeper. Hmm. I looked at Ainsley's rig, with a 39x25 low gear. I looked at Cousin Matt's Fuji, with what looked like a 34x25. I thought back to how I'd pondered replacing my cranks with a compact double. I looked up the hill, which I was only now realizing wasn't a hill, but a mountain, and suddenly I was grateful I'd fitted a triple crankset back in 2001.

We agreed to regroup at the top. I took a deep breath and set off. Almost immediately I was shifting down onto the triple, fidgeting around and settling in on the 26T ring and putting the chain on the 19T cog. A minute or two later I shifted down to the 21 ... then the 23 ... then, with a grim finality the chain went onto the 26T.

I had another six miles or so of it to the top.

I settled into a rhythm, cranking along, one revolution of my wheels for ever revolution of my cranks. I hugged the right side of the road and learned not to flinch when the motorcyclists came by going down the mountain on their shockingly loud Harleys. Occasionally I would shift back onto the 23, then go back to the 26, and I could hear nothing but backfiring and rumbling. I had enough brainpower to wonder if I was going deaf from their racket, and to suspect the helmetless motorcyclists were probably stone deaf - and then it was back to the 26 and hoping I wasn't about to put a derailleur into the spokes.

Whoever laid out the road had thoughtfully put in little pullouts, with signs suggesting slower vehicles pull into them to let faster ones pass. I noticed them, but I wasn't ready. Not yet, anyway.

There was a pause in the motorcycles, then I heard voices and tires behind me. I looked back and saw the lead elements of the 100 mile group overtaking me, done with their first detour and charging up the mountain. I hugged the white line as they came by astride Merlins and Litespeeds and Treks and Bianchis, all titanium and carbon fibre and aluminum with lots of parts that go clicky-clack. Some went past within an inch of my elbow, and while I was vaguely honored they thought that much of my bike-handling skills, I worried because I could feel the beginnings of wobble as I ground my way up. I could glance over and see they were running doubles, either compact cranks with 34s or standard 39T chainrings. Some had labored breathing, some were totally stoic, but all went past and left me to watch their receding backs and rear wheels.

I pulled into the next pullout and rolled into the shade. I hung my forearms on my brake lever hoods and leaned on my elbows, breathing and letting my heart rate tach back down. I watched the clock, and at two minutes it was time to move on. A couple of turns later and I saw two riders waiting in another pullout. One was Cousin Matt, who waited on me and let me catch my breath again. Two more minutes of rest, then we went on.

Matt tried to reassure me that there was only one more really rough section, but I didn't quite comprehend what he was saying. I'd been hearing conflicting reports, and what I really wanted to believe was that I was through the worst of it. When the grade leveled off slightly, I felt better, and when we had a gentle descent, life looked better still. I shifted up onto the big ring again and turned 50x19 for a moment.

Then I realized we had a left turn to make onto Wigington Road. Rapidly I went through the 38 to the 26T ring, as Matt warned me it got rough from here. To remind me of that, some thoughtful soul had painted on the road that I should be ready for a really tough mile.

I was back in rock bottom gear and crawling now. Everything went away except the climb, the brutal climb. A couple of lean racer types came by, but much, much slower now, looking like they had their doubts about the matter. I went steadily inward, feeling a wave of sadness come over me. I wanted to weep, but just slogged on, ever slower and more painfully. Somewhere along that road I found myself nose to nose with every fear of inadequacy I've ever had in my life. I went up the mountain weighed down by doubt and worthlessness.

But I was going up. Matt was just a little ahead of me now, and he was suddenly pulling off and dismounting, unable to turn 34x25 anymore and walking in his Look cleats. I mumbled something like, "See you in a bit," and passed him. I didn't get far, though. Maybe 50 yards past him, I dismounted and started walking, too. I might not be able to ride up it all the way, but I'd get up the mountain under my own steam, I decided. The old cycling manuals had actually recommended getting off and walking every so often while touring, right? Sure, I could walk. There was supposed to be a rest stop near the top, and there were bound to be SAG wagons. I'd reach the summit and then I could let myself be driven back in, and still call it a moral victory.

Walking wasn't much better than riding, and after about 100 yards, I stopped for a moment near where water was running over an exposed rock face. I hauled out the little pencam to take a couple of shots. When I looked through the viewfinder I was suddenly 14, almost 15, and riding up Route 602 near Callaway, Virginia on a bike loaded with camping gear. We'd stopped that day, too, and I'd taken photos of water pouring from rocks just like this on our way to the Blue Ridge Parkway.

What happened along the way? Where did that skinny kid with the clunky Batavus go? How was it that shrimp-like me had been able to tackle mountains all those years ago, but now I couldn't? Had I always gotten off to rest along the way?

A lean young guy on a Trek passed me slowly, then he, too, dismounted and started hoofing it. I walked past him, then looked back as a moment later he mounted up and struggled on. I watched him go, and then I turned just enough of the corner to see the rest stop. I stopped in my tracks and looked at the parking lot with cars and cyclists at the overlook. I looked down at my gloved hands on the drops of my handlebars.

I mounted up and rode in the last 100 yards, realizing that I hadn't walked much more than 200 yards. As I slowed and put a foot down, Ainsley called out, "You look like I felt coming in." I don't think I could do much more than nod.

I leaned Belle against the marker and refilled bottles and ate rest stop food. For a ride as well attended as this one was, the food at the stops left something to be desired - it was pretty much packaged candies and cookies, no bananas or bread or peanut butter. I wondered if I would have done better had I brought my own food, concluded I would have, and thought no more about it for a while.

Matt showed up a few minutes later, just as glad as we were to have reached the top. I took some pictures, once again lamenting the loss of the photos I took in July 1976 when I'd ridden the Parkway with Steve and Dave and Lester. The views were the same, and just like 30 years ago, the camera couldn't capture the view from the overlook. I took pictures anyway, including a vain attempt to capture the Peregrine Falcon that flew over our heads.

Ainsley was talking to a bearded younger guy whose name I didn't catch. It emerged that he was another fixed-gear list member. Later, Ainsley would comment on how surreal it was to have three members of that list together in South Carolina, and none of us be on fixed-gears. We talked fixies, and I was amused when I introduced myself and his first response was, "My God, you're alive!" He mock bowed at me and told me the photo of my old Falcon on the fixed-gear gallery made me one of the old ones. We wished him luck and he set off while we prepared to leave ourselves.

"Four hundred yards more and you're at the top," one of the rest stop workers said. I wilted.

"Ainsley," I said, "I don't know if I can make it up another 400 yards of this. That's like half a k."

"This is the worst of it. We have one more sharp little climb they call the Wall, but it's supposed to be really short."

I wasn't sure, but okay, I thought. We set off, and immediately I was hurting again. I pulled onto a little pullout and said, "I'm gonna go back in a sag."

"We're almost there," Ainsley said.

I thought, "We've only gone about 100 yards," but I went up after him - and he was right. It was sloping down, the road was actually going down, and I shifted up to the middle ring, then from the 26 to the 19, then up onto the 50, and for the first time in ages I was descending.

I wasn't out of the woods yet. Looking back, I needed better food in me, but I recognize the mountain had taken a lot out of me. On climbs that I would have zoomed up on the big ring a few hours ago, I crawled and felt pleased to stay in the middle at the summit. Several times I looked back at oncoming cars hoping they would be SAGs. No such luck.

We had a great long descent for a while there, passing above the fishery and giving me a chance to practice going downhill fast while staying in control. It had been a long time, and I don't take the chances now I did when I was a teenager, but I got down okay. Somewhere along the line we came to what I think was the Wall, and I was grateful we stopped at the top to catch our breath. Curt Sexton from the Aiken club passed us as we rested and commented, "THAT was special." We muttered our agreement and mounted up and headed on.

We got onto Highway 28, aka the Highlands Highway, and ground along. There was a long, steady, gentle climb, and I fell off the back behind Ainsley and Matt. I looked again, in vain, for a SAG. No dice. I caught up to the guys at a funky little roadside store advertising boiled peanuts. Matt suggested taking a shortcut in, and while Ainsley and I discussed it, he went into the store for some water. When he emerged, the lady running the place came to the door.

"It's all downhill from here, almost," she said.

Right, I thought. Still, there were no SAGs in sight, so why not? We took off, Ainsley, then Matt, then me at the back.

The woman at the store was right. The next couple of miles flew by as we went down a long, steady incline, and I tucked in and let Belle roll. Some guy on a tri-bike went past me and I let him, content to coast. Down near the bottom I saw where Ainsley had turned left and Matt was waiting, so I made the turn - I would have missed it otherwise - and we were on Playground Road. Completing my feeling of turning back time 30 years, it looked and felt just like roads around Ferrum I'd ridden in the 70s.

When I crossed Main Street near the church, I went straight to the truck and loaded up Belle. There was food in the fellowship hall but I couldn't eat much - some soup, some noodles, and a sandwich - and then I was calling Ana to tell her I was on my way home.

When I got home I looked at the computer. I had 61.73 miles - and I'd gotten over the mountain.

Next time I'll ride it all the way up and wipe out the 200 yards of walking.

first wednesday night ride of the year

2006-05-03T21:52:00.000-04:00

At Monday night's meeting I announced I would be leading a medium-tempo ride on Wednesdays, leaving at 6:00 from the fountain downtown. In past years the Wednesday night ride has left from the Y, but typically that's meant it's been a rehash of Tuesday night's gathering.

I rode Belle the mile and a half to the fountain and arrived by quarter till. The first rider to show up was Norm; almost immediately Connie drove up. Moments later Donis pulled in, followed by Vonona. Fred cycled up. A pretty diverse group, but it looked good.

I gathered everyone together far enough from the fountain to be heard and described the route - a loop going from the rail-trail conversion to the Canadian Mist Highway, down Lebanon Church Road to Scotch Cross Road, then right to where it ends at Highway 221. From there, the route took in Mt. Moriah Road, then via Briarwood to Alexander to Florida and back in on the trail. In the words of Mick "Be Lucky" Butler, easy, peasy, lemon-squeezy. Right as we were taking off, Landon the Silent arrived. I gave him the quick low-down, and we were off.

It was actually a pleasant ride. Everyone seemed to be into the spirit of things - the faster riders held their pace back, while those who were normally a bit slower worked to stay with the group. It felt like we were all shooting for the happy medium, and getting somewhere near it.

Vonona was feeling the effects of not enough miles this year, so I dropped back to ride with her. Landon fell back to us, then paced us along, and we towed Ms. V to the end of Old Ninety Six highway. Everyone else had held up on Lebanon Church Road to wait for us. I snapped a couple of quick pix and we were off again. We were lucky - the nasty white dog was not in evidence, and we had an uneventful roll down the long shallow descent.

Onto Scotch Cross we went, down the short hop to the bridge, then up the stiff first part of the climb. From the bridge to Highway 25 it's pretty much a steady climb punctuated by the occasional flat. Vonona reminded me of the time I lost my temper on this route - I was riding the old fixed-gear Falcon for the first time with the club, and someone decided we'd climb this way. I hadn't climbed Scotch Cross on a fixed before and I lost my cool. Oddly enough, my raging, snarling climb was the fastest I'd ridden a fixed-gear since my crash in 2000, but that's another story.

We pulled into the Hot Spot parking lot and conferred. Vonona announced she'd had enough for one day, and Connie was still feeling the effects of her crash in Pendleton in April. Donis joined them and they headed on in. Assured that no one was going in alone, I rode out West Scotch Cross Road with the guys. The pace went up some, but it was reasonable and I was able to hang with them.

We crossed 221 and headed down Mt. Moriah Road. I was grateful for the asphalt for the first mile or so - it used to be tar and gravel all the way. Landon and Norm were pulling by this point, and I found myself shifting up. We maintained a steady 21-23 mph pace for a while, even when the road surface went sour at the end of the state maintenance. I'd never climbed the last hill on that road that fast - somewhere around 19 mph - and I attributed it to being pulled along in others' slipstreams.

We stayed together until we hit the trail. Norm was in the lead, and he began winding it up. Fred and I were both starting to feel it a bit, and I was grateful when Landon reined in his pacemaking and dropped down from 21 down to 18. About 2 miles from the end, there was a loud "pssshhHHT!" from his rear tire.

The pace dropped, but Landon kept riding for a moment. Fred pulled alongside him and said, "What do you want to do?'

"I'll just ride it on in," Landon said. "Don't have a tube, anyway."

That's the most I've ever heard Landon say at one go.

So we rode in with him. There was a steady "thunk-thunk-thunk" of the valve stem area as he rolled along on his flat tire.

I looked down at my cyclometer, then looked over at Fred. "He's doing 12 mph on a flat tire. There've been days I couldn't do that with fully inflated ones," I said.

Fred nodded. He'd apparently been there, too.

At the end, when I got home, I had 27.72 miles for the day with a 15.3 mph average, not bad for a medium-paced club ride. I look forward to doing it next Wednesday.

out of hodges

2006-04-30T21:58:00.000-04:00

We met in Hodges, glorious, downtown Hodges, at 3:00 today. We waited a bit - Jim had discovered he'd left his shoes in Greenwood and had to drive back to get them, which gave us a little more time to hang out, chat, and walk around the back of Hodges' main drag and admire the brick work and ponder a new career in safecracking.

We got off to a bad start. Traffic passing through on 185 divided us when the folks on the side near the gazebo took off. Then Kim, a new rider, had a mechanical problem before she could get past Godfrey's Market. We cinched down the pedal on the crank and took off. By this point, there were five of us with no clue where the other eight riders had gone, so we figured we were on our own.

Rolling down 185 towards Blue Jay Road, I saw a flash of something by the side of the road. I looked closer, first thinking, "is that an animal?" Then I was closer and could see it a little better and thought, "are we hunting leopards in Greenwood County now?" Then I realized it was a cushion. I still haven't decided if someone accidentally lost it, if it was just dumped, or if someone with a warped sense of humor put it there just to freak out people like me.

We hadn't gotten very far along on Blue Jay when Kim's right pedal came apart. She managed to stay aboard her bike. Strawhorne doubled back and picked it up. It was one of those wretched Wellgo things that masquerades as a Look pedal, and it had popped right off the spindle. End o' ride for Kim.

Andrew Douglas, who for the second day in a row had come out to ride when it was below 70 degrees, offered to ride back and get his truck. I rode back with him, then rode back to Blue Jay. By the time I arrived, Landon the Silent and Strawhorne were riding back, while Andrew was driving Kim back to her car. We all turned and rode back towards Blue Jay once more.

Strawhorne launched an attack for the county line sign early on, before we'd hit the ranch. Landon was right with him. Andrew and I sat back and let them go. I felt like taking it relatively easy, and Andrew confessed he was frankly cold. The long-sleeved cotton T-shirt and perforated jersey with shorts probably wasn't enough. I understood that - it was the last day of April and I was wearing wool leg warmers and a long-sleeved wool undershirt, and how jacked up is that?

We turned left onto Klugh and rode down to the base of the evil second hill, then charged up it. It's a short hill, but steep, and I was happy I could get up it on the large chainring again. I did, however, drop off the back of our little bunch, but they were waiting for me at the intersection with Flatrock. We rolled back in, negotiating our way past the junkyard dog that lives across from the trash service.

Along the way, Andrew was a bad boy - Strawhorne was leading us, and Andrew quietly coached Landon into launching a bid for the county-line sign at the top of the hill. Strawhorne took it, but just barely. A few minutes later, we were on Dixie Drive, and Strawhorne dropped back and quietly tipped off Landon about the town limit sign coming up. Landon took the sign from Andrew.

It wasn't a particularly long ride - 16.88 miles, actually - but it was a ride, and it was what I needed. I hung out for a bit, and chatted with some of the faster guys as they arrived. Then I went home and watched the end of the Brasstown Bald stage of the Tour de Georgia on OLN.

in which fred takes us to the lake

2006-04-29T12:58:00.000-04:00

Ainsley and I met at 9:00 at the fountain today for a quick warm-up loop before the club ride. The way out was predictable, and if you've read this blog long enough, you know the route as well as I do - out along the trail, through Wisewood, right on 221, left on 225, and then across U.S. 25 South along Scotch Cross road towards Ninety Six. The original plan called for turning off onto Hitching Post Road, a dirt road we'd both been curious about but had never ridden down.

Down the road we went, swapping stories as always. I had a chance to tell Ainsley about a conversation I'd recently had with Ana.

"We were watching TV, and they had some ad with vignettes of people doing unconventional things, right? Well, one of the vignettes was people racing lawn mowers," I said. "I told her I'd seen a couple of articles about that.

Ainsley nodded.

"Well, she looked up at the screen, then looked over at me and said, deadpan, totally serious, 'I don't ever want to hear in the same sentence about you, Ainsley, and lawn mower racing.' "

He howled with laughter. "If we DO get into lawn mower racing, we'd have to do something with a pushmower and some forks ..."

"Oh, like one of those reel mowers?"

"Yeah, but with some sort of fixed-gearing," he said.

The wind was ferocious, and directly in our faces. By the time we hit 225, I was grateful I'd chosen to ride Belle, my bike with the most gears to choose from. When we hit 25 South, we stopped and considered our options. We finally decided to take 25 back to town, arriving at 10 minutes till.

John Lake, aka Campbell, was waiting, as was David Craig. Strawhorne arrived, then Fred rolled up. Jim rode up a minute later, benefiting from living in town now that he's married. Landon the Silent arrived, Andrew Douglas shocked us by riding when the temperature was below 70 degrees.

We had a spirited discussion of routes before deciding to let Fred lead us out to the lake. We rode down Main and hooked our way over to Durst Avenue, crossing the bypass and riding towards Laurens County.

Of course we were spread out into small bunches as we went. I sat on Ainsley's wheel for a while heading out of town. Beyond the bypass, a gap opened between us, and Jim came around me and tucked in. A couple of miles further and I slipped off the back a bit. Strawhorne rode behind me, explaining that he'd burned a few matches too many on his raging ride Thursday evening.

It's been five years at least since I've descended the big hill on the Old Laurens Highway to the bridge over Lake Greenwood. I was wondering about the climb, but Fred led us left almost immediately onto Sulfer Springs Road.

I'd forgotten what it was like to climb like that. Seriously, the narrow road with the jerky shifts in grade was just like Route 602 in Ferrum, Virginia, the road I learned about climbing and pain on circa 1974. I downshifted and settled in, never quite losing sight of everyone else, but not quite catching them, either.

They were waiting for me at the stop sign where Sulfer Springs crosses Riverton. We had to pry Andrew off the other side of Sulfer Springs, which had nice new asphalt - "My bike saw a smooth road and wanted to go there," he said - and turned right, eventually making another turn and getting to experience a tailwind. Ainsley and I were in agreement that we needed pictures, but his batteries had died, while I had foolishly left my camera at home.

The climb back up from the bridge was one I would once have described as a monster. Today, while I once again slipped off the back, I just chugged along until I rejoined them. We took a different route back, going left onto Highway 246 for a couple of miles until we reached Coronaca and took a right onto Bucklevel Road. I hadn't ridden that road since the early '80s, when I used to ride with Rick Flowe and Scott Reese. I fell off the back on those rides a lot, too.

We were once again stretched out into several small bunches. As I approached some rail road tracks, Campbell was urging me to hasten before the train arrived. Of course, there was no train.

"Yeah, I was pulling your leg on that," he said. "Then I thought, 'you know, that might not be such a good thing to do.' "

I settled in on his back wheel and said, "Yeah, but knowing that something might not be a good idea doesn't always stop us, now, does it?"

We reached Durst, where Fred was watching us pass from his driveway. We waved goodbye and headed on in to town. I said my goodbyes and peeled off onto North and headed home. Total mileage was 36.95 miles, not bad for a very windy day with some stiff hills. Pity about the lack of photos, though.

a more laid-back thursday night

2006-04-28T20:07:00.000-04:00

After Tuesday night's ride, I felt like seeing how Belle would handle the Callaham Challenge course. I was figuring I would do my usual early launch from the parking lot and warm up on my own, with the knowledge that the speedy crew would overtake me at some point along the way.

When I arrived, Connie was at the ride's start. She was looking for ride partners for her second ride since crashing in Pendleton. I figured I'd had my hard ride for the week, and when Campbell declared he'd had the same, we formed up with her and rolled on out.

I let Campbell pull, with Connie following him while I brought up the rear. Almost immediately I settled in on the drops. We made pretty good time down Old Abbeville, and didn't lose much momentum on the hill just past Hunter's Creek. Between the house that used to have the German Shepherd and Allen Chapel, we were overtaken by Jim Cox, Strawhorne, and a couple of other riders. They buzzed on by and we watched them go up the road.

There was more traffic than I'm used to seeing on 72, but we only had about 100 yards of it before turning off near Ebenezer Church. I came around to the front on the last descent before the bridge, going in to a full aero tuck. I could tell I was aboard the Rivendell and not Stripe the Mercian Colorado - Belle's slightly longer wheelbase, wider handlebars, and slacker geometry all contributed to feeling a bit more upright, but not unpleasantly so. It was a different sort of stable, controllable feel, still enjoyable even if it took a touch more effort to lift into a pseudo bunny-hop over the joint where road and bridge meet.

I churned up the long, nasty hill, complete with its false flat. I shifted down to the 38T ring and spun along to the summit, then waited at the intersection of Stevenson Road. Connie made pretty good time up the hill, especially since she's still favoring a recently fractured elbow.

I snapped a couple of quick pictures and we were off again. Connie and Campbell fell into a conversation, while I got back down in the drops and pulled ahead, shifting up onto the 50T ring and alternating between the 21 and 23T cogs on the long false flat. I was almost to the Old Abbeville-Hodges road when I heard voices behind me. I cranked off a couple of quick shots with what Josh described as the "infamous $9 camera" as he passed me.

Zac was waiting for us at the intersection. "I've already ridden 75 km today," he said. I chatted with him a moment, then Campbell and Connie arrived. We hung out for a moment, while Bradley drifted back to us, then decided to ride in with us. He really wanted the longer route, but that's life.

Back towards Hodges we went. I tucked in behind Bradley and Zac, who were taking it easy and talking. They pulled me along for a while, then I slipped off the back on the hill past the bridge near the church. Not a biggie - I waited for Campbell and Connie at the intersection with Klugh.

From there, it was an easy enough ride. We climbed up to 185, then I led us on into Hodges. We reformed on Dixie, where a truck had broken down in the road near the site of the crash a couple of weeks back - we all felt a little freaked out by the flashing lights at first. It wasn't the pace Zac had set last week, but it was still pretty decent, and before long we were at the juncture with Deadfall.

We picked up another cyclist, and I'm ashamed to admit that my name memory failure has dropped his. Nice young guy on a Tommaso, who tucked in behind me as I followed Campbell and Connie down past the flea market and onto Calhoun. I was feeling the need to stand up periodically now after riding close to the rivet for much of the evening. The drops were still the natural position, though, and I loved the feel of the big pale blue bike on the smooth new surface of Calhoun Road. At the end of the ride, I had 25.7 miles, which wasn't bad for a Thursday evening after a long work day.

a coupla club rides

2006-04-25T21:33:00.000-04:00

Sunday I was pleasantly surprised to see a large and diverse turnout for the club ride out of Hodges. We had the usual fast guys, guys who want to be fast, and some slower folks as well. Even better - the pace leaving town wasn't brutal at all.

I rode Stripe again, and again thought to myself, "I need to get a better saddle." The eBay-scrounged Vetta worked all right for a while, but I find I want to ride this bike further, and a Brooks Pro or Swift looks like the answer.

We went out 185 and took the usual left onto Blue Jay, staying the course as it became Old Abbeville-Hodges. Vonona hadn't been riding much this year and started falling off the back. I dropped back a couple of times, and the group stopped at McIlwain before going right towards Due West. When we hit 203, Vonona announced she wished to head back. Landon the Silent's father, Larry, also felt like heading back, so they rode off. I paced Donis up to John Campbell Lake and David Craig, who were trailing Landon, David Strawhorne, Bradley and newlywed Big Ring Jim Cox.

When we hit the intersection with 20, John suggested we take Central Shiloh a little further and take in some of the dirt roads I'd missed a couple of weeks back. Landon and Donis were game, so we rolled out, while the others did an out and back.

"It's Stump Road," Campbell said. "Or Strom, or Sharp, or something like that. It'll be on the right."

I looked at him.

"I think," he said. "I think it'll be on the right."

Sure enough, Sharp Lane emerged, and I pointed Stripe in the right direction. It's a narrow road, complete with pasture fences right against the shoulder. I could have reached out and scratched several of the cows as I passed, but decided the barbed wire was something I wanted to avoid. Young Landon surged ahead a couple of times, while Donis and Campbell took the pace at an easier pace.

The asphalt-bound were waiting at Sharp's terminus on Strawhorne Road. I stopped and took a long pull on my water bottle and watched Donis and Campbell appear. Doing that may have jinxed them - Campbell announced he had gotten a flat in the last 20 yards of Sharp. For once, I stayed out of the way and let other folks replace a tube, which probably sped the process up dramatically.

We took the shorter route back to 20, then hooked around to ride 185 back to Hodges. Campbell and Donis had ridden to the start, and they peeled off for their respective homes. When we crested the first hill on 185, the pace got picked up dramatically. I found myself chasing David Craig's wheel with Strawhorne sitting on mine, at one point pedaling down a slight incline and hitting 34 mph. I decided that was enough and settled down a bit. All the same, Strawhorne and I made good time past Porky Pine Acres.

Landon and David were waiting at the intersection with 203; Bradley had forged on ahead, while Jim doubled back, not realizing that Donis and Campbell had headed for home. While we waited for him to return, I heard a commotion in the woods across the road. A moment later, a German Shepherd, a Boxer, and a bulldog emerged, crossed the road, and headed on down the shoulder for a ways. They were expensive looking dogs, it seemed to me, and I always worry when I see somebody's pet close to the highway. About the time I thought that, they ducked into the woods.

Jim returned and we headed back in. By the time we were at the cars, I had 24.1 miles for the day.

I've been meaning to put more miles on Belle, because even though I haven't decided whether I'll do the metric or the English century, that's the bike I intend to ride in Vidalia in a couple of weeks. I walked out to the garage today, looked at my blue Rivendell for a minute, and set it up in the little Nitto rack. Three minutes later I had removed the fenders, shedding about a pound and a half and the winter look. I mean, it's late April, right?

We had a diverse group gathered at the Y. Vonona and Donis were there, Connie was back for the first time since her crash, and Larry joined them, completing one bunch. David Knecht was there as well, in addition to a bunch of fast guys.

I felt brave, so I left with the faster guys, getting one shot over my shoulder as we rolled through the neighborhood. The large pack held together down Pine Road and onto Dixie, but shortly after the split with Deadfall Road, a couple of the tri-guys went off the front, Fuji Norm went after them, and suddenly the spend went way up. I looked down, saw 28 mph on my cyclo computer, and sat up. Fast Fred was just ahead of me, and appeared amused when I said, "They don't pay me to ride fast."

I found myself riding with Fred, David and Landon. Fred sent Landon to the front to pull, and the pace hovered around 19-20 as we headed out to Hodges. A couple of times David and I fell off, Fred brought the pace down, and we reformed. We blew through town and headed out 185, passing Blue Jay for a change and taking Pickens Creek/Klugh Road for a change.

I found myself at the front, and called over my shoulder to Fred, "I'm not in contention for it. I'm just leading y'all out."

"You're doing a great job," he said.

A minute later the county line sign appeared. Landon made his move off the back earlier than I expected, actually taking the sign from Fred. David and I watched, neither of us in any mood to race around at that point. I reminded David that riding in this direction, we'd get to do the brutal climb on the second hill.

I felt good going up the hill to the first intersection, managing to stay on the 50T ring for the duration and using fixed-gear-strengthened back muscles to get me where I wanted to be. I didn't shift down fast enough on the second hill, and stood on the bike with my hands in the drops and muscled up it.

On the drops. For the zillionth time in the last couple of weeks, I was aware of how much more I'm using the drops these days. It felt right, and every time I started to feel tired, I settled down near the ends and dug deep and felt better immediately.

Down the length of Old Abbeville we rode, taking it easy. Fred went to the front, Landon followed him, I sat on his wheel with David on mine. When we started down the descent, I could see Landon peering around Fred at the signs approaching.

"Yes, it is," I said. That was all it took. He launched his attack, Fred responded a touch too late, and Landon had two signs for the day. We made him pull up the next hill, occasionally asking him to hold up his pace. We took the long way in, going out to Beaudrot and coming back to the Y by Cambridge Academy. I had 22.5 miles at about 16.6 mph average, and felt well and truly exercised. It was a good ride, and I look forward to Thursday.

tour de georgia and catching up

2006-04-22T20:16:00.000-04:00

Ana and I have a new tradition. We drive down to catch the finish of Stage 1 of the Tour de Georgia in Macon, eat really good Italian food, stay overnight at a great bed and breakfast, then come back to Greenwood the next day.

We got to town and checked in to the 1842 Inn, Macon's coolest b & b, then collected the cooler and walked a couple of blocks down the street to Washington Park. Built in the '30s by the W.P.A., it's possibly my favorite park ever. It's small, hilly, and splits the difference between small-town Southern and Japanese garden. We picnicked on turkey-stuffed pitas, roasted asparagus and home-made potato salad, then walked down Orange Terrace. We passed Washington Square, aka the Atlantis, which had originally been called the Novarro - yes, the exterior was redone, but allegedly they didn't save any of the original architectural details on the inside.

Near the other end of the block we stopped in front of the Palisades. Of all the apartments I ever had, the only one I ever really loved was my downstairs flat in that glorious 1905 structure. The landlord, a retired urologist, lived in the building. Sometimes he'd have a bit too much to drink and would play 1930s cocktail jazz piano at 2:00 in the morning, but it was all right - he was a good pianist. I lived there for less than 11 months, but I have great memories of the place. I paid $200 a month to live there. The place has since been renovated into condos. The last time my old place was on the market, the asking price was $285,000. Ana snapped a picture of me in front of the building, then we walked back towards the park.

On the way, we stopped at what was once Capitol Cycle shop at the corner of Orange and Washington. It's a coffee shop now, a nice one, with wireless internet access and good beverages and polite, helpful staff. It was weird for me, though. I kept looking towards the corner, half expecting to see the stunning chromed '60s Paramount I had admired for more than 20 years. It was on a big rack, chained for safekeeping. That one, at least, got saved. When Capitol decided to move, two flatbed trucks worth of vintage bikes in the basement went to the scrapyard and were cut up within 72 hours. We got our coffees and headed back to the Inn.

Last year we hung out downtown and watched the big sprint from about 100 meters away from the finish line. There's not as much to see there, even if the peloton does roar past four times on the circuit through the city streets. This year, we decided we'd watch from the sidewalk in front of the Inn. We were maybe 40 yards from the crest of the last hill on the course. From there, you get the long view as the racers come around the corner from Washington onto College Street.

There was time for a leisurely loll on the front porch. I read the Macon Telegraph's articles on the race, including the information on the area's cycling clubs. I was amazed at how few cyclists the clubs apparently had - the Greenwood Cycling Club has been able to muster more riders in past years. Ana was not impressed with the paper, and I realized that I could remember that I once worked for the Telegraph, but it felt like another lifetime ago.

It was time. We walked out to the brick sidewalk. Ana had her $9 pencam and mine, and I had the Canon. The first three times the pack roared by they were on the opposite side of the road. The last time, they flew past on our side, maybe three or four feet away from where we sat. I could feel my hair being blown around as they rolled past while I keep taking pictures.

It wasn't just the peloton that I focused on. The stragglers were amazing to watch, especially the last guy. When someone asked why the car following him had brooms attached to the front bumper, I explained that they were there to sweep the field - and that the last rider would die before he got into that car if he could help it.

After the race, we ate at Olive Garden before going shopping at Barnes and Nobles. The next day we did some more shopping before heading for home where a project awaited us. We were up late Wednesday framing the five digital paintings Ana had going to Altered Esthetics' show in Minneapolis, a task that we had hoped to do a week earlier before discovering Ana's supplier had shipped her the wrong size frames. It all came together in time, and they were ready for overnight delivery by bedtime.

Thursday I rode with the club. Speedy Young Zac was there, and he wound up pulling the group I rode with along 185 and down Dixie at much faster speeds than I am accustomed to. Surprisingly for me, I hung on, and at the end of the ride found I'd done 25.6 miles with an average speed of 17.95 mph, which is much faster than I normally manage.

Saturday's club ride was probably rained out - I was running late due to a family automobile emergency, but I still managed to sneak in a 20.5 mile ride. It was much slower than Thursday's pace, but I was still happy.

fixed-gears in warm weather

2006-04-15T19:57:00.000-04:00

I was running late this morning, and wondering who would be waiting for me at the fountain this morning. At 9:05 I showed up for the 9:00 ride and found - no one. About five minutes later I saw Ainsley riding up from his office down the street. We chatted for a moment, and suddenly Kickstand Danny drove up with his new bike hanging off a trunk-mounted rack.

"I'll need your hood there, Danny," I said, and I spread out the enormous map on the hood of his car. Fabricated by photocopying numerous pages from the 1989 S.C. road atlas, it covered Greenwood, Abbeville, and portions of Laurens, Saluda, Edgefield, McCormick and Newberry counties. Ainsley made properly appreciative noises, particularly since he'd left his map at the office.

It emerged that Danny would be turning off early so he could attend a prior commitment, so I proposed a route he could turn off and do a short loop from, while Ainsley and I set out for a longer jaunt.

"Let's go down Rock House. You can cut off onto Whitehall, then hook a right onto Briarwood and head back into town," I said. Danny nodded - he'd done that route in reverse a couple of times. "Meanwhile, Ainsley and I will go on down to the end of Rock House, go right, then left onto Millpond. We'll go right on Millway, which becomes Cedar Springs, then go back through Promised Land and back to Greenwood. Sound good?"

Apparently it did, because we headed out. We went down the length of the trail, avoiding Mineral Court - there was a shooting there last weekend, and I figured I'd pass on ducking bullets - and we maintained a conversational pace. The wind was up, and I spent a lot of time in the drops.

I made the mistake of mentioning that Ana had made some oat milk last night, which led to the inevitable conversation about oatmeal that Ainsley and I always wind up having. We hadn't reached Florida Avenue when he said, "We're in trouble. We normally don't have this conversation until several miles later. We're gonna be hungry."

"Yeah, you're right," I said. "I'm sure we'll regret this."

The Rock House was its usual enigmatic self, a little less visible due to new vegetation. My hands were getting numb from bouncing over the bumpy tarmac, and I wondered how I'd feel in a few miles. A few minutes later, Danny peeled off and we headed for the Greenwood County Steppe - a ridge that had been clear cut and was only now starting to grow back. The wind was in our faces, of course.

I worried about Millpond Road. I had led a bunch of riders onto that road about five years ago and discovered it had been re-gravelled in the week between my scouting trip and the group ride. Today, there was some relatively fresh rock in the first few hundred yards, but it rapidly settled down to a tight, well-packed mix of red clay and sand. Later, I realized that the 1.8 miles of Millpond were an oasis of smooth road surrounded by miles of bumpy tar and gravel roads.

Our route went right, but we went left for a moment so we could check out Calabash Road.

"There it is," I said. "The Gateway to Troy starts here."

Ainsley looked at it. "Tempting. Wish we had time," he said.

"When do you need to be back?"

"Oh, a little before 2:00 if I'm to be home by 2:30," he said.

I calculated, then nodded. "Not today, but sometime soon," I said. And we will do it, because there are a whole mess of interesting looking dirt roads out that way.

We took some pictures, then headed out along what I am told was once a Confederate supply route that runs through Abbeville. The fierce dogs I remembered from past rides were gone, or asleep, or something, and we rumbled along over the bumps in peace. We did, however, spook a bunny. He darted out from the right side of the road and ran in front of us for 20 yards or so before he ducked into the underbrush to the left and disappeared. Our laughing chorus of "Kill the wabbit, kill the wabbit!" probably hastened his flight.

We crossed Highway 221 with not a car in sight and hit the rollers at a touring pace. The last time I'd done the descents on this road, I was on Belle, and had coasted down in an aero tuck. Today, I went slower, controlling the speed with my feet and and spinning steadily. The second descent let us out onto a bridge that spans a great little swampy wetland.

"I'm almost tempted to stop to take some pictures," I said.

"All right," Ainsley said. "Let's check out this little spur here."

The spur took us down to the edge of a pond surrounded by beaver-gnawed stumps. We both broke out our $9 pencams and went to town. About that time, Ainsley realized he had indeed lost a water bottle on one of the descents, so he doubled back.

I rode back out onto the bridge and took some more photos. I just missed getting a picture of an enormous snapping turtle - I saw him gliding ever deeper into the water under the bridge. I admired a beaver dam and watched the large black butterflies. Ainsley had earlier told me of the kamikaze Tiger Swallowtails that zeroed in on his head while riding, and we speculated on what would happen if you gave a male Tiger Swallowtail large doses of testosterone. Would you get a big butterfly that demanded beer and swatted women on the butt while demanding sandwiches? Hopefully, we'll never know.

I was beginning to think I would need to go check on him when he came back down the hill. The bottle had fallen out of the saddle-mounted cage two miles back. One more climb, and we passed Watson Hill Road and were back on our route from two weeks ago.

I had wondered if we would encounter anyone from the 10:00 ride, but they must have taken another route. We stopped to take pictures one more time - in Greenwood, Victory Road is a dead end - and wound up having a conversation in the middle of the road with Stephen Shenal, one of our faster local riders.

I was feeling the miles by the time we hit downtown, but it was nice knowing I could have gone further. Still, my water bottles were empty, I'd eaten my last sandwich, and it was time to go home. I spun along at a steady pace and was home a few minutes after 1:00 with 44.09 miles for the day.

back on the bike

2006-04-13T22:34:00.000-04:00

Tuesday I got to ride, which was delightful. We pulled out from the Y parking lot in a decent sized bunch and headed out Pine towards Deadfall Road. By the time we got to Dixie Drive, Joy had decided to bail and head back, the victim of a cold that just wouldn't quit.

Duann held up and let me catch her wheel. We watched Josh and the other speedy guys go on up the road. Rolling into Hodges, we commented on John Lake's car and wondered if we'd see him. Maybe three miles later we found him waiting along with David Knecht at the intersection of 185 and Blue Jay Road.

I was surprised when we hit the fierce second hill on Klugh Road. The grade on this rascal is brutal and steep, and I've suffered horribly on occasion. On the other hand, there was one Thursday ride in 2000 when we were fleeing a thunderstorm. I was at the bottom, behind several other riders, when there was this clap of thunder RIGHT over my head, and the air sizzled behind me like a lightning bolt was homing in on my rear hub. I'm a legendarily bad climber, but that day I flew up the hill, blowing past guys who normally drop me like a bad habit.

Anyway, Tuesday I charged along down the hill, then charged up the brutal one. Something was going right - I stayed on Stripe's 53T ring, shifting when necessary in the back but charging up the grade and passing everyone. We wound up coming back in via Dixie Drive, and I felt nicely worked over. It was only 20.6 miles, but that counts, right?

Today's ride went very nicely. I headed out a few minutes early, giving me a chance to warm up at my own pace. I got across the county line and climbed the mid-point of the old time trial course before I saw the pack rushing towards me. I tried without success to get a shot or two of them, then they were rolling past. The first trio blew past, then a minute later the main pack caught me. Tom said hello as he passed, as did clan Ronan, pere et fils. I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth and tucked in behind Josh.

Josh is tall, something over 6 feet. He's in good shape, broadshouldered - and ideal to draft off. So I did. I shifted up and hung onto his back wheel for dear life. I glanced down at the cycle computer a couple of times and discovered we were rolling along at 24 mph on the flat. I'm not used to that. I managed to hang with them to the end of Old Abbeville Highway, then let them go up the road.

David Strawhorne had decided to hold back and ride with me, so we slowed up a touch. By the time we made the turn off 72 near Ebenezer Church, John Lake and young Landon the Silent had caught us. We rumbled down the macadam to the bridge. Strawhorne charged the hill, Landon followed with John's encouragement, and John and I shifted down and sat up, rolling steadily up past the false summit and on towards the turn onto Stevenson.

I noticed the Fuji fork on John's Specialized Roubaix and got the story about Sunday's ride. He had noticed some slop in his steering out on the road but had attributed it to a need for adjustment. When he got home watched OLN and saw George Hincapie's fall in Paris-Roubaix. He thought about it, went out to the garage, and found a frightening crack in his steerer tube near the stem.

As we reached the top, David Knecht and Jim Cox rolled up on us - at least, until Jim dropped his chain. We regrouped at the intersection, and I snapped a couple of quick pictures. We rolled along at a moderate pace, for which I was most grateful. When we got to the Old Abbeville-Hodges road, we found Landon, Andrew Douglas, and John's son Speedy Young Zac waiting for us.

There was no stopping for rest - we churned our way up the first hill, then descended past funky little houses. Another climb, another long descent, down past a church and towards the bridge over the creek. I flashed on a memory of walking across on a girder while wearing Look cleats back when the bridge was being rebuilt in 2000 or so, then it was time to downshift and climb. I dropped off the back, but not too far, and David K. and I chatted and watched the speedier members of our gruppetto duke it out for the county line sign.

A little while later we caught up to John. "They out-maneuvered me," he said. "I wound up leading 'em all out, and at the end I just didn't have it. I burned all my matches."

By the time we got to 185, we were joined by Jim. We rolled up the road in a compact bunch, the pace picked up, and I found I was riding better than I had any excuse to. The last part of the climb is gentle, but I'm not used to doing it at 19 mph. Stripe was under me, though, and continuing to pull my aging body along. It's just a bike, but this one just feels like it wants to go, constantly challenging and demanding more.

Onto Dixie Drive now, and the pace ratcheted up. I looked down and found we were rolling at 22 mph, sometimes 23, which doesn't sound like much, but again I'm normally much slower. Halfway to Flatwood, David was falling off the back of John's wheel, so I cranked a little harder, came around him and pulled him back towards the group. Between Flatwood and Lagrone, I had to drop back, but the speedier guys were waiting for us at the intersection with Deadfall. We rocked along, past the flea market and the skating rink and turned onto Calhoun for the last run in. I couldn't hang onto the wheels long, but before they dropped me, I managed to come alongside Zac, David and Jim and get some action pix.

I settled in, running on the big ring and wondering how much of an effect, if any, new parts will have on Stripe. I concentrated on making perfect circles, then shifted up for the slight downhill section. I was glad I had sense enough to downshift for the right turn onto Beaudrot - for some reason, the tiny climb was getting to me - and then I was rolling into the parking lot. I had 25.66 miles and a 17 mph average on a course I normally do somewhere around 14-15.

of rain, prior commitments, and the exercise bike

2006-04-10T17:46:00.000-04:00

For weeks, I'd been looking forward to a special club 50+ mile ride that young Andrew Evans had plotted out. The route includes several miles of dirt roads, and it sounded promising.

Then it emerged that the forecast called for massive thunderstorms Saturday, so the ride was moved to Sunday. Unfortunately, another I had another commitment so I missed the rescheduled running of the Ware Shoals-Roubaix classic. As so many race fans have said, "next year."

Saturday I rose a little later than normal and checked the weather. Maybe there was an opportunity to get a few miles in, I thought. I ate breakfast, puttered around a bit, then stepped outside to get the paper. It was starting to rain, and I figured it would probably become torrential soon enough, so I decided to stay in.

It was frustrating. The rain played hide and seek most of the day. When it did rain, it was just enough to convince me that I'd just wind up somewhere in the middle of nowhere and get buckets of rain dumped on me. The forecast called for really scary thunderstorms, and there were all sorts of dire warnings about dangerous weather. Riding the rain is normally not a big deal to me, but I didn't feel like it, I didn't feel like being struck by lightning, and I didn't feel like riding alone, so there.

Finally, about 11:30 I decided I'd settle for an hour on an indoor bike. I dug out the folding exercise bike I'd bought for $5 from a local thrift store a couple of years back and set it up in the garage. I hung a water bottle cage on the bars, fished my heart monitor out of the drawer and strapped it on. I moved the folding repair stand closer to the bike to hold a towel. I stepped back and looked it all over and pronounced the arrangements good.

Ruby the cat had never before seen the exercise bike in action, and bless her heart, she got a mild thump on the head when she walked into the path of the pedals. I apologized, she looked at me and sat down a few feet away. I settled into pedaling, working on turning perfect circles and all that.

The bike flexed a bit under me, encouraging my pursuit of form over force. It's a strange exercycle. Unlike most of them, it doesn't have the usual chain driving a heavy wheel with a strap or brake pad providing resistance. Instead, it has a flywheel arrangement on the left that whirls around four times for each crank revolution. As I warmed to my task, periodically I'd reach up to the Huret shifter near the stem and adjust the tension of the felt-covered brake pad inside the housing.

The bike might have had Raleigh transfers, but even if several parts weren't stamped "Bianchi" the old style Celeste paint would have given it away. It's the old, old version of Celeste, not the pistachio color they use today. As always, I remembered the story of Jim Cunningham of CyclArt at an Interbike show. As he relayed it, the Bianchi reps were giving away Celeste-colored buttons. Cunningham asked, "Is this really THE official color?" They said yes, it was, so he asked for something like ten of them for his workforce to be used as color references for restorations. Almost immediately all present began laughing - there were several obviously different shades of the color just in the small sample of buttons he received.

I continued spinning along, feeling the sweat beginning to come down my forehead. I was grateful I'd left a towel within reach. My heart rate settled in just under 100 bpm and I sat up long enough to peel off my shirt and drape it over a projection on the repair stand. Periodically I'd stand up on the bike to ease my posterior - the ancient Wrights W3N saddle isn't quite what my hindparts are used to - and I'd gingerly keep the pedals turning.

I avoided putting too much force into anything, because the exercycle isn't the most stable feeling example of its breed I've encountered. For that matter, the ancient French AVA handlebars don't lend themselves to powerful standing riding - this particular variant started life on a Peugeot PX-10E equipped with the infamous AVA "death stem."

After I felt sufficiently warmed up, I started accelerating, driving my heart rate up to around 120, then letting it wind back down again. It seemed to me I was generating the same amount of power I'd been churning out on the exercise bike last year, but at a lower heart rate. My memory is that this level of exertion ran me up to 140 or so last winter.

I was pouring sweat by this point - a fan would have been a VERY good thing, I decided - and the cycle of revving up my heart rate, then taching back down, began to happen in shorter bursts. At fifty minutes, the half-full water bottle was empty. I spun the cranks up to full speed one last time, the heart rate monitor registered 140 or so, and I sat back and watched the numbers come back down. It was down to about 90 bpm in approximately 1 minute, 15 seconds, down around 80 bpm another minute later.

I toweled off and went in to have lunch. That would have to do.

thursday night's ride

2006-04-06T21:05:00.000-04:00

I don't usually get to do the Thursday night ride. My work schedule calls for me to be at the library until 6:00 on that night, and 6:00 is when the ride starts. But I figured it was worth using an hour of annual leave to do the first Callaham Challenge of the season, so I filled out the leave slip and headed out the door at 5:00.

Ana had fixed me a couple of peanut-butter-and-raisin-on-pita sandwiches to take with me on the ride. I'd prepped Stripe the night before with some chain lube, adjusting the indexed shifting until the chain moved smartly from cog to cog. There were two full bottles cooling in the party fridge in the garage, clean shorts and jersey and cycling socks laid out - I was ready.

When I got to the parking lot, I saw Speedy Young Zac's car with an empty rack and deduced he had already headed out for a warm-up. Big Ring Jim Cox showed up, then John Lake and others began filtering in. We teased Jim about it being his last ride as a single man - he was marrying his long-time sweetie Jackie on Friday.

I thought about the pace Sunday and made my decision. "I'm going to head out early," I told John. "You guys can catch up with me in a little while, but this will hopefully let me warm up at my own pace."

"Okay, let's meet up where Stevenson Road comes in," John said. I agreed and headed out onto Old Abbeville Highway. A few hundred yards along, I shifted up onto the big ring and settled in. I'm normally pretty slow, but I got the old bike rolling along at a brisk clip, at least for me. When I got to county line, I was holding to an 18 mph average, which doesn't sound like much, but it was for me. I finished the climb, grateful I didn't have the thundering herd fighting it out for the sign around me, then got onto the flat. The big German shepherd wasn't out on his chain, and I wondered if he was still around, or if he'd died over the winter. Then on past the intersection with Mill/Klugh Road and going for Highway 72.

I sat up, drank, and coasted to a crawl at the stop sign, decided I liked the gap, and turned right. My average speed had fallen some, down to 17.5 or so, but I figured I had a good time gap anyway, and starting early was the only way I'd ever have that.

I took the right near Ebenezer Church and started the long descent to the bridge, bumping along on the rough macadam. For the zillionth time I wondered if a Brooks Pro would be more comfortable on Spike, then I hit the really fast part of the descent and was busy making myself small and flat along the top tube.

The climb up from the bridge is a nasty piece of work, but I chugged on up it. There have been times in my life when it has beaten me, but this time it was just a hill. I got to the intersection with Stevenson and sat up, then turned and stopped. I drank some water and cooled off. That was no good, so I started riding up and down the road between the Old Greenwood Highway and 72, just trying to keep everything loose. After a dozen minutes went by, I concluded that next time I would either not leave quite so early, or I'd agree to meet up further on the ride.

I was at the far end of the little jog when I turned and saw the first riders making the turn onto Stevenson. It looked like Zac towing someone else. I rode back and watched most of the pack roar by, then rode small circles while John, Jim, Duann, and a couple of other riders finished the climb. Almost immediately they accelerated, and I was working hard to stay on a wheel.

"This is Landon," John said, indicating the adolescent on the red Specialized. "Feel free to give him advice and pointers. He takes it pretty well, and he doesn't say anything back."

That was an understatement. For the next hour, I didn't hear a word pass the lad's lips. Who could blame him - no doubt he wasn't sure if he could trust me with any information at all. Considering how disreputable old Stripe looks, it makes sense.

We rolled along, and the pace finally settled down a bit. Landon was apparently on only his fourth ride with the club. I watched him, riding back a bit from his rear wheel. He had a fast cadence, a little jerky maybe, but he looked like a natural who with a little setup work and some practice would have great soupplesse and a great spin.

We turned right onto the old Hodges-Abbeville road and started climbing. I hung with the group for a while, but on the big climb up from the bridge near the church, I drifted off the back. I saw John sit up and regained his wheel near the top. Jim was already gone off the front, powering on in. Duann and Landon were up ahead, their red jerseys moving along down onto Blue Jay.

We let them go. John and I talked about Deal or No Deal and its combination of sheer raw greed with gaming strategy; county line signs and great sprints for them; and best of all, the cheesy cutouts of lounging cowgirls decorating the fenceline of the farm at midpoint on the hill.

"I think he took some liberties with that pattern when he cut those out," John said.

I looked. One of the cowgirls appeared to have a replica of Anna Nicole Smith's bustline, but bigger and even more cartoon-like. "I believe you're right," I said.

Once on 185 towards Hodges, we could see Duann and Landon maintaining a steady pace ahead of us. I sat up for a moment in Hodges, then we rolled on.

In hindsight, it's weird. I looked back and saw a red car coming up on us and called out, "Car back." John nodded, the car passed us, then accelerated, the engine growling louder. I noticed it was a Camaro or some such thing, and I could see the driver and no one else. His pace ratcheted up and he went burning on up the road and around the corner.

"I do believe that fellow is exceeding the speed limit," I told John. He agreed, we chuckled, and I figured he was like who knows how many motorists that go by at great speed. A moment later, I saw a flash of red as the car turned onto Dixie Drive and roared on. A moment later we followed, more slowly of course, with me sitting on John's wheel.

I don't really remember what we were chit-chatting about, but we saw Duann and Landon ahead. We were rolling along at 19, fast enough to get somewhere but not burn me up like a book of matches, and then there was a turn ahead that the riders in red had gone around already.

We made the turn and I saw cars stopped in the road, bikes on their sides by the roadside, and Duann and Landon standing on the shoulder. I was wondering if they had crashed or if Jim had come to grief when I saw the red car.

No one had seen it happen, but it looked like the driver had taken the curve at high speed and lost control. The car wound up pointing back the way it had come, on its side after apparently hitting a tree roof first. It was eerily still. For some reason, probably to keep it from being too real, I noticed rust and road dirt on its underside.

One of the motorists had climbed up to check on the driver; another had called 911 on her cell phone. Duann came back down the hill from checking to make certain no one had been thrown from the vehicle.

We spoke to the gathering bystanders, agreed we could only add to the confusion, and headed on towards Greenwood feeling more than a little spooked. We left the road a couple of times as emergency vehicles came out from town with lights and sirens going, watching them pass from the grassy shoulders.

Back at the starting point, riders began trickling in small clumps. There was lots of talk from the fast guys doing the longer route who had run up on the wreck site after the emergency personnel arrived. We speculated, mostly wondering why he'd been driving so fast.

I went home and hung Spike up on his pegs. I had 27 miles for the day, and Ana had supper waiting for me.

Today's paper had a three inch story on page 2 about a man dying in a single car accident on Dixie Drive Thursday. He was my age, 44.