Thursday, September 27, 1990
Bike like hell
Writer tells tale of mediocre cycling
performance through a rainstorm
byß.M.Prindle
mToßegjan
Riding bikes is out Cycling is in. So,
there I was, lost in the middle of the state of
New York, shivering and wet, grasping my
handlebars to maintain control while shooting
down a two-mile hill at thirty miles an hour in
a monsoon with no brakes and mud covering
my sunglasses.
What led up to that vaguely interesting, yet
life-threatening moment?
The surging popularity of cycling can be
attributed to three things. First, the success of
the 1984 Olympic Cycling Team in L.A.
Second, the success of Greg LeMond in the
last several Tour De France races, and lastly,
the serious, debilitating, lifetime injuries that
runners usually sustain which end their urge
and ability to run.
I no longer have to worry so much about
slowly acquired problems like shin splints,
hip pointers and tendon stress. Cyclists need
only worry about quick death via the front
end of a Peterbilt or maybe brain damage
from a blow to the head that lies at the end of
catapulting off the rim of a pothole.
I am relatively new to the sport. I adopted
my new pastime grudgingly after several trips
to Hamot Sports Medicine. On my last visit
the doctor basically told me that he had seen
worse damage to tendons, but never in such a
mediocre runner. I thanked him for his
insight, promised I would switch to cycling,
and told him I had gotten worse treatment
before, but never from someone with such a
mediocre intellect.
SO, I BOUGHT A BIKE, which was
fairly cheap compared to the several hundred
dollars worth of color-coordinated
accessories that a cyclist needs unless he
wants to be outcast by the biking snob-czars.
I started to ride with a friend who was also
fairly new to the sport. We rode throughout
the summer, doing harder and longer rides.
We felt cocky and confident about going
the distance in the 100 mile Tour of
Chautauqua a few weeks ago. It was a brisk
morning and we arrived early to make last
minute adjustments. We tightened here,
loosened there, and adjusted everything.
Then, It started to raia
Now, the prospect of riding a bicycle for
six hours is scary even on a good day. But
the thought of riding that long in freezing rain
sucks like a jet engine. My friend and I
slapped on our helmets and got ready to ride
anyway.
Five minutes before the tour began, my
friend had to use the facilities. Ten minutes
later he came back. It took us a while, but we
finally caught up to the pack of 120 other
riders. First we reached the children, then the
old people, then finally the pack we felt most
at home in: the guys who bike three hours a
week, but talk about it for tea
iu minis
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4ulf liis heart.
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Things started to look up as we neared the
cutoff point If we turned right we would do
the 25 mile course with the women and
children and wimps. If we decided to be men
and keep heading straight we would have to
do the whole thing. But like I said, things
were looking up. Passing all those children
and old people gave us a rush, and it had
stopped raining and even looked as if the sun
might break out
We went straight
A mile down the road the real rain started.
I mean torrential, Gilligan's Island type
typhoon rain with wind. I should explain that
racing tires are about as wide as nickels and
not half as sturdy. And they aren't all that
fond of gripping wet road. I struggled for
control against the wind and tightened my
helmet strap. I knew we were all in for an
interesting Saturday in the country.
THINGS STARTED TO GET WEIRD as
we completed the first leg. A section of my
friend's chain started to make hideous
clanking noises as it shot through his
derailleur, my helmet was playing Japanese
water torture on my head, and every time I
took a drink from my water bottle I got a
healthy dose of road muck that had settled on
it. The rain turned from torrent to
omnipresent mist and we could see our breath
as we strained against the cold and drear.
That may sound almost poetic -you know,
man against nature and all that crap but if I
had to choose either reliving that moment or
having my wisdom teeth removed again, I
would have a very difficult time deciding.
Eventually my friend's chain got so bad,
he could barely pedal and we fell miles away
from anything resembling a pack. This lead to
a new problem. We had no idea where we
were and we had nothing but what can best
be described as a child's crayon drawing of
Chautauqua County (provided by the tour
organizers) to guide us. We were lost.
IT WAS RIGHT ABOUT WHEN WE
HIT THE HILL that the wind and rain hit full
force. By then we were on the brink of tears.
We were also dirty, cold, and two hours
behind schedule. I should explain that wet
brakes are useless on a steep hill, so it was
basically a matter of holding on and thinking
of who my survivors might be able to sue if I
bought it.
We survived the hill and eventually found
the right road, a backwoods tar and chip, full
of rabid dogs and rednecks. We could tell the
rednecks because they were the ones in rusty
4x4s shouting obscenities.
I am recovering now. I haven’t had the
nerve to get back on my bike yet, but
yesterday I found the courage to clean my
water bottles. In a few days 111 probably start
missing the excitement of the sport, but if it's
raining when that happens I suppose I could
always console myself by making a dentist
appointment or two.
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