My bike
commuting has been interesting this summer.
There is enough light in June and July such that I don’t need my
headlight for the ride in. June is
usually still a bit chilly so it isn’t until mid-July that I can ride in
wearing short sleeves. When the calendar strikes August I have the weirdest
situation where I can wear a short sleeve jersey but I need a headlight in the
morning.
At the Coffee
and Lies ride this past Sunday KB asked me if we really had gone to Italy or if
we all just shared the same cycling-based dream. I smiled and knew exactly what
he meant. Although I can remember it
like it was yesterday, at times it seems like it was a hundred years ago. Such is life.
After a solid
month of morning temperatures between 58 and 61, earlier this week it was 53
when I got up. “Is summer over?” I
wondered. For my bike commute this week the sky was dark, cloudless and full of
stars when I pulled out at 5:20 AM. A
long sleeve jersey was the wise choice.
Talk of
football, Cyclocross and back to school signals the coming transition with an
occasional golden leaf confirming the inevitable. As an empty-nester I find myself reminded of
my adolescence as fall approaches.
When I was a
teenager the end of summer signaled the impending start of cross country
racing. The start of school meant the start
of intervals and after a summer that teetered on either side of a thousand
miles of running my fitness was high and those intervals would sizzle. I’ve always hated intervals but I have always
been good at them and the results are undisputed.
As a teen and
young adult those hard efforts would trigger the production of lactic acid in
my body during the workouts. Evidence of that was a metallic taste in my mouth
and a burning in my lungs. I can close
my eyes and easily recall those sensations. When my eyes are closed I am
seventeen years old. When I open my eyes
reality shocks me every time.
Now as a
grandfather I find myself still doing intervals; this time on a bike. To my
surprise the feelings are the same forty-some years later. My lungs fighting for more air and my teeth
hurting. My chest pounding and a bit of
lightheadedness. Will I ever grow up?
Everything looks worse in black and white......
At times I
wonder if my life is so shallow that I somehow find purpose in the pain. Do I have nothing more meaningful to do? Am I just immersed in guilt and this hurt is
my penance? Have I made so many mistakes
in life that I deserve this pain? Am I
bored and inflicting this on myself just appeases my ADD? Or worst of all; have
I taken the Rapha psychobabble as gospel and ascribed a majestic nobility to
the labor of pure suffering? I don’t
believe I wake up in the morning and think to myself, “Let’s go find some
misery today.” Yet I do take a perverse
satisfaction in a hard workout.
I have an
interval workout that I can do on my bike commute home. I use portions of a bike only trail as my
interval sectors and the areas in between those which are open to traffic as my
recovery. Most of the sectors are STRAVA
segments so I have a benchmark. On one
of those I’m seventh out of more than a thousand riders. On another I’m second out of a thousand plus.
It is amazing that I can train so hard and still race so poorly.
Luckily with age
comes acceptance. I figure it is
probably like raising children. Once you figure it out, it is too late. Lucky for me the habit of training has become
so ingrained that I take pleasure in the process.
Still, as the
days get shorter and the nights grow colder, the summer that I waited all year
for fades and I find myself experiencing a Pavlovian excitement that I cannot
deny. The Winthrop Fondo and Cyclocross races fill the fall calendar. The
prospect of crisp rides followed by snow, skiing and fatbiking excites me. 
My mountain
biking takes on an urgency acknowledging the finite nature of the seasonal
sport. My casual shorts look worn, my
sweaters look lonely. Hottie is riding
stronger each week. Let’s go before
summer is over.
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