Riding to me is like jazz. Freedom from the bounds of automobiles, freedom into the groove. Like a Sun Ra awakening for the day, breathing rhythmic melody, essential life. Crank revolving from deep within, taking me somewhere, transporting me there…
It seems like we spend so much of our lives working on something: Most of us spend a good portion of the day at work. We come home and work on the house, or work in the yard. When we have the time, we might work on our bikes, work on our relationships, or find any number of other ways to work. Even when on the bike, those of us that race, end up working on sprinting, or climbing, or whatever our weakness might be. I started putting in heavy base mi
Celebrating some war won long ago that divided nations and eventually created an empire of high fructose corn syrup mind-numb, where it's hard to distinguish where the factory farms end and the ubiquitous car lots begin. Blasting an array of colors into the air to prove our manifest destiny was fulfilled, to relish in the hot-dog picnic at the lake, finally able to use that 4-wheel drive that came standard on the Jeep Cherokee Limited with the Eddie Bauer pinstriping and in-seat butt warmers.
So far from what I've gathered from my limited experience, bicycle racing is a very strange thing. What started out as just a really fun thing to do, riding your bike...at some point along the way becomes like the short-skirted mistress that causes you to plan fake 'business trips', only to wind up at the Motel 6 applying the chammois cream liberally and getting ready to ride it hard. Then when you do, it hurts. You just want it to be over, go back to when times were simpler, when you just rode your regular city bike and that was good enough.
Riding in my element among the lodge pole pines and volcanic rock gardens, zen-ish flow leaning into banked burms, g-force eminating a star's luminary sparkle from my smile as I hit the next one drawing even more speed floating like Ewok through the forest at the speed of a dream. Boulders melt below my Schwalbe's, a spark from my pedals as I draw a sip from my camel. Rush, ride, swerving jolly singletrack bliss with a pocket full of shot blocks and Go Vegan! on my ass as I pass the masses. Yonder yearning up, up, posessed, addiction calling, "Ride! Fast! Oregon! Forest! Catch the S&M rider! Climb! Feel it burn!” yes.
My old bike got a complete overhaul this winter. With a fresh powder coat, custom paint details, new wheels, and a new SRAM Force group on it, this classic 1981 "Cello Europa" italian racing machine is as good as a new bike to me.
Today Jon, Ile, and I set out for a Sunday ride. What we couldn't have known when we left was the divine intervention that was about to lift us from ordinary cycling experiences and into another realm of true cycling bliss. The promised land ride was not without it's suffering, however, as we certainly earned this cycling nirvana via a hellacious, never ending 6 mile climb to one of the most glorious vistas in all of P-town, Bald Peak. It was the grizzled motorcyclist, savoring the last puffs of his cigar, who kindly offered to take our photo and told us how on a clear day you can see Adams, Hood, Jefferson, and St. Helens. Even with the May cloud cover over the valley, the view was none the less spectacular.
