Back to Old Habits

This past Saturday was a mix of breaking new ground and slipping back into old habits.

On the ‘something new’ front, I broke from my habit of trying to go as fast and hard as I can for as long as I can to just taking my time and taking it easy, not too slow and not too fast.

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And after several rides of being on the ball with sticking to the cue sheets and not missing a turn, I blew it royally on Saturday. And this ignominious defeat was a two-fer. Not only did I miss a turn by two miles, I was with a poor newbie, and this was her second ride. The gaffe took us off course by four miles, which is a lot if you aren’t used to riding, or missing turns, more to the point. Four miles to me is almost a rounding error.

But let’s get back to my misguided attempt at offering a helping hand. At the rest stop about midway through the 40-mile ride, I sipped my hot cocoa and bit off a chunk of my Pumpkin Pie flavored Clifbar. I was barely hanging on with the first group, so I waited until the next group of riders rolled in, and decided to go with them. John Bosma, his dad (Big John) and his brother were in that group, and it was entertaining to listen how they teased and dug into one another, nearly non-stop. But as we were leaving, I saw some one just rolling into the rest stop, alone.

I remembered passing her on a hill the previous weekend’s ride: Helmet crooked, seat bag attached all wrong, and going uphill a bit too slow, seemingly in the wrong gear. The rider seemed a bit of a neophyte, so I decided to hang back and ride along with her to make sure she was ok.

We rode along, and I learned her name was Jen, this was her first TNT event and her second ride, among other things. It was partly due to the conversation that I missed the left turn onto Pottersville, one of the steeper hills that our coach Kevin threw at us that day.

Now, after a while, talking away, Jen thinks we missed a turn. I check my odometer and it seemed to me that we had, and I asked what mileage she had: no odometer. Well, she was doing better than I was with the thing, until she met me, that is. At this point, I revealed my true identity: “the man who could get lost in a teacup”. And I checked the miles and told her how far we had to backtrack, and she wasn’t happy - “TWO MILES?!” It was then she realized her fate.

But she got off easy. Last year, a 45-mile ride became a painful 63, and that was 98% my fault. (See: “Street Names as Cusswords and Indefensible Stupidity”)

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When we finally made it back to the turn onto Pottersville, I made a painful realization. This was the second time I had missed this turn. I had gone about five or six miles off course on a rainy Saturday with Paul Sova last year. What can I say: I like twisty, scenic roads and hate hills.

A few miles later, Kevin caught up with us. It turned out that, because we missed that turn, we were the last of the pack. And for some strange reason, it didn’t bother me. The clouds had broken and the sun was quite warm. I left Jen with Kevin and picked up the pace a bit.

With about a mile left, my odometer was reading close to 45 miles. And I felt good about it. Of course, that was when a guy rolled up on me, maybe 10 years my senior. He’d ridden 72 miles, working on 100. I thought he meant that he was training to do a 100 miles, meaning a century ride down the road. No, he was doing all of it that day. Ego in check, I rolled into the parking lot, another ride in the bag.