2013: The Night Before

It is just after 11 PM, on a Friday night,  in hotel just south of downtown Columbus, OH.  Another year has gone by, and in the morning I will join a couple of thousand other riders on the first day and first 105 miles of another Tour of the Scioto River Vally (TOSRV.ORG). This is the 14th time I have returned for this ride since 1979.

Every aspect is almost a ritual habit now,  from the online registration, the hotel reservation, the spring training and April century with friends, to the final stacking of jersey and clothing for the morning.  Almost the only thing new this year is my bike, a Trek Domane.  I picked it specifically for riding 100 (and more) mile rides.

Yet while almost every action is a repeat, the ride is new every year.  It brings a new combination of events and details, creating another set of unique memories.  From as simple as the variation in weather, to the confidence of training, the meeting of new friends, or renewed contacts with old ones.  Each year adds another layer of stories and experiences, like a layer of fine veneer, enriching the experiences of the prior years.

2013: What are training rides training?

After a recent local club ride, I posted the following on my my Facebook profile:

Am I just becoming an old curmudgeon, or is every club ride being turned into a crit-head, carbon-wheeled, Strava-hyped feeding frenzy?

This was after a ride I have been attending regularly for over 8 years.  It is a year-round, weekly Saturday morning ride. I have been riding with a core group of 5-6 good friends, and another 15 to 20 first-name acquaintances. The ride is not billed has a "training ride",  just 15 miles to a restaurant for breakfast, and another 15 miles after that to another small town, before heading back in. It has been both sport and social, but the emphasis was on the social.

One of the remarkable things about the first few years was how much camaraderie developed and how cooperative the riding was. And at the same time, the group of riders was developing, improving year-to-year. Out of the same core group developed another weeknight social sport ride. And with my friends, we began to meet for other rides, and to help people train and finish their first centuries.

What ever you wanted to call it, we pretty much rode has a group, double pace line, stronger riders holding back to keep the group together, with an occasionally friendly sprint during the last mile. We always rode with an eye to the back, to keep the group together, or maybe we broke into a couple groups, or with a rider doubling back to help some finish.

But over the last couple of years, something changed; popularity and word of mouth brought a different flavor to the ride. More new riders showed up, many from the local weekly training rides, whose sole interest was speed and a fast workout. The change was subtle, but corrosive. One of the new riders would pop-up the front of group if they felt it was not moving along fast enough, even when "slow" was 19-20 mph. Another rider would follow around, and then 3 lines of riders were jockeying for position between the original group, and that rider that wanted just a mile or two faster.

Next came setting up for turns; with riders moving to the far side of the road to be positioned for running the stop signs and moving to the front. Then came groups of riders moving up after each intersection, bumping up the pace each time. Finally, if you were riding the wheel of a friend you knew and trusted, just letting a bike length open during an intersection would mean you were cut-off. What had been a club ride became an open road race.

And as I watched the group jump from 19-20 mph to 23-24 mph, my personal alarm bells, my biking "Spidey Sense" would go off.   The mix of riders is just wrong, with the faster riders pulling along both fit novice riders and struggling experienced riders, in their red-zone, almost anaerobic. The lead riders never look back.  There is no conversation, just everybody concentrating on the bike in front of them. Every issue in the group is magnified at the faster pace. Wheel overlap, riders coast, riders jump, brakes are touched. Hazards aren't called out, and large gaps must be bridged when a weaker rider to close to the the front looses it, especially if they are inside. And every quarter mile or so, another rider would drop off, to finish the ride alone.  And when that happens, I leave the group.

When I started riding in the `70s, it was pretty easy to spot a novice rider, by their gear, their bike, the way they dressed. It took a couple of years to get "the look".  And over that time they were putting in miles, and picking up all the skills and etiquette of group riding. But for better or worse today, it is pretty easy to have "the look".  All the gear is readily available, it is easier to learn to use, and novice riders come with a higher level of fitness from other sports, like running and spin classes.  They have the speed of the faster riders, but need time in the saddle, and mentoring to get those other skills.

When I come across the area training rides in their final miles, you see one or two fast packs with dozens single stragglers following for a couple of miles. I have to ask, what are they "training"? You never see those stragglers form into their own group. Nobody seems to take the time show them how, they just seem resigned to coming out next week, and just trying to hang on a mile farther, or to just be the last one dropped.

I have had some great experiencing helping others finish first centuries, or pulling along a rider having an off day or not ready for a headwind. Riding as the pace tandem for 12 club members on STP, who after 4 months of training together finished as a group, is one my favorite cycling memories. Just a few days ago I rode an informal century ride I host every year. We ride as a group, we set a pace it for everyone, and below the pace of the fastest rider in the group. It is a great time.  I have been asked a couple of times to make it a local club event. But I know that it would not be the same if I opened it up; not from the loss of control, but from the handful of riders that just wouldn't get what this ride was about.

There is a lot more to bicycling than just maxing watts and tearing up every rider, every ride. What is anybody learning when every ride is just about being the first and fastest with no regard for anyone that is off the back? And if you aren't the fastest? You spend half the ride maxed-out, barely hanging, and then spend the rest of the ride alone; you aren't really learning group riding skills either, just how to ride fast as can, as long as you can. Sooner or later, you will have that bad day, or time will just catch up with you. If your have never looked out for somebody behind you, dropped one gear for a stranger, or helped a group ride stay together, who will be there for you?

It is an open road, and you can ride any pace you like. No one is forced to follow you, or follow me, and every rider has their own motivation, training goals and time constraints. We are all supposed to be responsible adults. But it is time for more riders to understand, and speak up. There is more to learn, and to teach, than just how to be the fastest;  speed alone is a small and fleeting accomplishment.

1973: Cycling Distance Record and Notes

My first "10-Speed" ride notes.

It is a small brown record book, 5” x 8” and hard bound. The white, blue lined pages are still crisp, though slightly yellowed, and a few of the pages are stained, probably from the day a box of books and photo albums was caught in the rain during my move from home to my first apartment.

At the top of the first lined page I had printed the heading “Cycling Distance Record & Notes”. Below that were the specs of my first road bike, listing all the components, and some comments from the dealer I had bought it from. Then I have a list of accessories, some new, some from my old 3-speed. All this was written on or around January 27, 1973, the day I brought the bike home from the a bike shop in Ann Arbor.

On the following page, I drew in a gear chart for the 3 chainrings (52-47-36) and the 5-cog Atom freewheel (14-16-18-21-24), giving me a range from 100 to 40.5. Looking back, I know that middle 47 was my main ring, and what taught me to spin all day. And I am glad I had that 36 inner chain ring for that 24 tooth large cog.

At the top of the seventh page, I printed another heading, “Date Distance & Comments.” and below that I had written the following:

“1) 1/30/73 4.4 miles farm and back 2nd time on a ten speed type bike. Rides nice, but I am way out of shape. Adj Fr Derailleur. way outa shape.”

It is the first ride entry, a mix of cursive and print in ball point pen. The numeral “1” and parenthesis is before the date. The Farm is my grandmother’s farm and where my Dad had his work shop, just 2 miles from our home on Wampler’s Lake Road, then (and still) a lightly traveled state road in a rural south east Michigan.

A winter ride with Kevin (L) and Mike (C) in 1973.

“2)2/3/73 cyc 4.4 miles, 22.0 miles. Rode to work at Alfhors, and then around town, from Snider’s to Riepma’s and then LaRue’s. Kevin and Mike joined me. Tires low on the way in handled like a sick cow. Still in poor shape.”  

My second ride was a “commute” to work, but we didn’t call it that. Then I joined some high school friends, Kevin and Mike, for riding around, in a winter jacket, jeans and tennis shoes on a cold February day. We stopped at another friends house, who snapped a black and white picture of us. And on my second ride, with 22 miles, I was concerned I was “still” out of shape.

“3)2/4/73 cyc(lometer) 26.4 dist 28.0 Miles in 2 rides - ... Wind and Horning Ride almost killed me, but I made it non-stop.”

I rode twice on the 4th, but counted it has one ride, riding from home to Brooklyn and around, coming back the long way over some rolling hills, the biggest not more than a 100 feet in elevation change. It was always a fun road to rider rather than the shorter and flatter route on Wampler’s Lake Road.

I was recording the starting miles of each ride from a cyclometer. A cyclometer mounted on the front axle, with a peg attached to a spoke, aligned to hit a star-shaped counter wheel on the cyclometer on every wheel revolution. The cyclometer would “count” wheel revolutions to determine the distance traveled. However, the peg would frequently twist around the spoke and need to be re-aligned to hit the counter wheel. Each time the peg hit the counter wheel, there was a metallic “ping”; that’s a “ping” every 7 feet, 755 pings to the mile, every mile.

“5) 2/28/73 cyc 56.4 ..4.5 miles aprox, Went to farm to check tires, On way home, chain broke on Hotel Road....”

At the farm was Dad’s air compressor, and at first, that was how I checked my tires, a couple of times a month, whether they needed or not. However, I was already noticing that they needed it more often. The broken chain was another matter, since Dad and I both learned that there was not a master link on a derailleur equipped bike. It took me a week to get to a bike shop to buy my first chain tool. I was pretty critical of myself for not learning that first, and picking up a tool and spare links, since I couldn’t find them in Brooklyn. And maybe that is why I have ridden almost every mile since with a chain tool in my tool bag.

“3/21/73 First 10 Trips Notes
Total distance 113.5
Shortest trip 3.3 miles
Longest trip 21.4 miles
Avg trip 11.35”

Even then, I was a stats nut. I am not sure why I needed hundredths of a mile accuracy, but that just one of those things. And I did pretty good those first few weeks, recording every ride through late winter and spring.

“27)4/29/73 329.0 to 368.7 non-stop. ... only 3 tenths short of 40 miles. Highest total day riding and single longest ride.”

This first long ride was a big loop almost , 10 miles west and east of home, wandering the back roads between Cement City and Manchester. I was riding with a single water bottle, without any riding clothing, energy food, and no helmet. And I was then hitting distances that were significant for even a car trip,

“40)6/2/73 511.5 to 591.5. 80 miles in the ACS Bikeathon. Was trying for 100, and would’ve made it, but I got a late start.”

My Parliament, a  15-Speed "10-Speed"

The American Cancer Society (ACS) in held a Bikathon in nearby Jackson, and I canvassed my paper route customers to get pledges. By the time Mom dropped me off mid-morning, everyone riding 100 miles had already finished their first 20 mile loop, so I was at 80 miles when the all the rest of the 100 miles riders finished their fifth loop. But on just 40 rides and 500 miles of training, I almost make my first century. (That first century century would come a year later on the same ride.)

I wrote almost two pages on the that first bikeathon, but that was the last detailed entry for almost a month. Despite my good start, I was not a good journal keeper. From that point on, and I would only make entries ever couple of weeks. And every new entry started with my berating myself for not keeping up, followed by a page or two of stories and comments on specific rides and distances traveled.

I continued record keeping in that pattern for almost 2 years, through the last day of my first DALMAC tour in the fall of 1974. There are notes from my first century, my first double century, and getting my next bike. I have have drawing of my first set of panniers and first packing list for touring.

I filled about half the book that way, but then put it on the shelf. From that point on, I used note books and annual log pages from Bicycling Magazine or the League of American Wheelmen for logging miles. But there is only place where I can find my ride number one.

1999: We cheered, we were inspired, and we rode

We now know Lance Armstrong doped. Big time. Using a sophisticated regimen designed to pass the drug testing system in place, while under the scrutiny afforded a winner. And in all likelihood, with the knowledge and support of a portion of the UCI and other authorities there to police it. That is what we know today.

My LiveStrong band, worn for almost 3 years.

In 1999, Lance Armstrong, cancer survivor, won the Tour De France, the first American to win the Tour since Greg Lemond in 1990. And we cheered. And he passed the drug tests, while dozens around him failed.

In 2000, Lance won again. Again we cheered. He passed the drug tests. We bought Bicycling and Outside magazine. And Trek bikes, Oakley glasses, and Nike clothing. And stamps.

He won again, and again, and again, and each time we cheered. We waved the flag. We were inspired. We rode more, we bought more gear. Lance became a celebrity. We talked about Cheryl Crow.

Our non-cycling friends talked about the Tour and about Lance. They bought bikes and gear, and then became our cycling friends. And we cheered them on.

We were jeered too: Lycra-clad-Lance-wannabes. A jeer that worked only because everyone knew Lance Armstrong. Nobody ever yelled "Indurain-wannabee".

In 2004, we bought LiveStrong bands. Lance won again. And he passed every drug test. And we bought more bikes, more gear, and rode more miles. We bought and read the magazines and books.

LiveStrong raised millions for cancer. Here too were skeptics, even has LiveStrong became something more, almost bigger than Lance. We bought the bands for our parents, our families, our friends, for total strangers.  We bought them and we wore them for months and years.

We had our suspicions. Racing in the Tour is a brutal sport, demanding feats of endurance that are difficult to comprehend. The only thing more brutal might well be surviving cancer. We knew the answer, “I never failed a drug test” was coy, and nuanced.

In 2005, Lance won Tour number seven. We cheered, we waved the flag, we bought more bikes and gear and magazines and books. Lance had passed every drug test. We were inspired, we rode more and trained more. Our friends rode more and more too. And Lance retired.

In 2007, It all began to unravel with Floyd Landis. He won the Tour, and we cheered. And then he failed a drug test. It would take years, but it was the start, the crack in the wall.

There is disappointment now, but somehow, not real surprise. There was always that sliver of doubt, created by that nuanced “I never failed a drug test”. But we knew, or should have known, about the terrible legacy that is the Tour. The culture of finding any edge. The Tour of “No Dope, No Hope”, the Tour that left Tommy Simpson on the slopes of Mt. Ventox in `67. The EPO deaths of the `80s. Of Festina in the `90s. That finding a winner for the 1999-2005 Tours would sometimes require going multiple places to find a “clean” rider.

The titles can be stripped, the records removed, confessions made, and millions refunded. Journalists will whine about the fraud, the deception and how their trust was broken, how they were deceived. Sponsors will walk away, remove the posters and logos, and editing their websites. Yet I doubt there will be many refunds for the bikes, the clothing, the gear and magazines and books they sold, that Lance sold.

The Lance Armstrong we see tomorrow will always be reduced, a shadow what we once saw. But shadows are only cast by something of substance. What ever disappointment we have today, whatever the aftertaste that is left, it can’t undo what saw, what we felt and what did because of it.

In 1999, Lance Armstrong, cancer survivor, won the Tour De France.

We cheered, we were inspired, and we rode.

1968: The Panther on Crestline Place.

Growing up with my brothers and sister, our first bikes were our surrogate cars.  The first bike that was mine was a Firestone GTO Panther, a purple, banana seat bike, with 20” wheels.  The bike had a 3-speed hub, with a stick shift on the top tube, between the saddle and handle bars (I thinks today’s CPSC would frown on this), and a 1.75” wide slick rear tire.  You can still find this bike on vintage bike sites, and the pictures there bring back many memories.  I may have a picture on it somewhere, but I haven’t found it yet; just one picture of my younger brother Todd in mid-air probably from `71 or `72.

One of my brother jumping in the early 70's.

By the time this bike came home from the Firestone Store during summer 1967, I was 10 years-old and the oldest of 8 brothers and a sister, and we were all sharing a number of used 20” bikes that had appeared from garage sales, neighbors and possibly even new.  After being a little slow to start riding on our gravel street, I was catching up with my younger and more daring brothers.   

Our riding was a mix of early BMX, downhill and demolition derby.  We lived half way up a small hill, on the upright of a “T” shaped road, all gravel.  We would pedal up the hill from our driveway, ride the top of the T, and then ride down the 60 or 70 feet back into our drive.  For excitement, we pedaled down the hill as fast as we could, and then slammed on the rear coast brake while turning. The goal was a perfect power slide with long skids marks, flying rocks and a large cloud of dust.  Sometimes this was in single file, and sometimes in races, side-by-side, with collisions, flips, and skinned knees and elbows.

When riding and skidding got boring, we would add ramps and jumps.  Sometime we built ramps from scraps of wood, and another jump was actually a cut embankment, just off the street, that was about 3 feet high, up and over the home plate of our baseball diamond.  When we didn’t crash on the approach, the results were 1 to 2 feet of “air”, while traveling 5-6 feet before a 1-wheel, 2-wheel, or bike-body-knee-head-arms-landing, resulting in more skinned knees and elbows (but no broken bones) between the 10 of us.  However, Mom discouraged jumping - repeatedly.

One spectacular related memory is the evening our not-so-adult neighbor, after watching us jumping our bikes, took his Triumph road motorcycle over this dirt ramp, looking like Steve McQueen in “The Great Escape”. He landed without crashing, but never tried it again. 

Aside from riding the bikes, the next most obvious thing (for boys under the age of 10) was to take the bikes apart. This was to “repair” them, although the precise order of the process could be called into question.  Our tools were limited to a crescent wrench, a screwdriver and a hammer.  It should come as no surprise that we became quite adept at the take-apart, but repair and reassembly were a bit more of a challenge. Combined with the mechanical attrition of our riding, we soon had a collection of rideable bikes, non-rideable bikes, and spare parts.   We also began more experimenting, moving parts from bike-to-bike, and one afternoon we took apart a rear coaster brake hub, and then attempted to put it back together using Vaseline (from the diaper changing table) for grease.  Dad had to help us finish that repair a few days later, and Mom bought a fresh jar of Vaseline.

Our house was on a hill above Wamplers Lake, and 5-minute walk from the small resort hotel, called the Willow Grove, our Grandmother Hardcastle ran on the lake.  The walk from home to the hotel was our first adventure in childhood independence.  That summer I started doing chores for Grandma, washing dishes, sweeping the porches, bailing out the boats used by guests, and mowing, and the Panther was in part payment for that. It was my bike, and the coolest bike on Crestline Place. (Or at least until the neighbor kid brought home his 5-Speed Schwinn Orange Crate, but he never rode it much, and really, who would ever trust that spindly thing called a derailleur!)

My first big treat with the Panther was to ride this bike to the hotel, and then on 1/8 of mile paved road that ran by the hotel, from the main road to the lake shore.  Riding back on forth on real pavement where a car might drive was a big deal.  Next came the big ride, the one mile along 1-lane Lake Shore Drive, from the hotel to the dead end at the channel that connected Wamplers and Round Lake.   From there, the hotel appeared to be “across” the lake, and the mysterious (to us) Hayes State Park was just across the channel. (We were year-round residents, yet I never went on the park grounds until I was 17!).  I did that ride on Lake Shore Drive every chance I got that first summer, relishing in the freedom that I was across the lake from home, and completely on my own.

The Panther was my bike until summer of 1969, when I purchased a black and white Sears 3-Speed.  It Austrian-made with a Sturmey Archer hub, a kickstand, fenders and rear rack, all for just $40.  I needed a bike that could get me the 5 miles to Brooklyn, there to ride with friends.  With that purchase, like my school clothes and outgrown toys, the Panther became a hand-me down for my younger brothers.  It became just another one of the bikes, slowly being broken down by endless summer days of skids, jumps, crashes and repairs, on the gravel of Crestline Place.

1983: Yes, You're an athlete

My fanatical interest in bicycles was already enough to make me an odd teen ager in rural Michigan in the early `70s. But that was only compounded by my lack of interest, and ability, in baseball, football and basketball. They were the “Real” Sports, the only ones that mattered.

Even before bikes, I had loved to read, and was not much for the pain of even casual contact sports. I also had two left feet after my pre-teen growth spurt, and a lack of confidence that made it worse. And on top of that, a couple of my brothers were natural athletes. Combine it all, and what ever the sport, I was always the last one picked, or left sitting on the bench.

It didn’t mean I didn’t try, playing little league and basketball, eventually making the high school freshman basketball team. But height and spirit were not enough. So while I biked all summer, my last three years of high school were limited to running cross country each fall. I enjoyed the team experience and running through the woods and parks we trained on (and I never enjoyed running distance in track). In cross country, I even found limited success, lettering 2 years and running 7th man, but in a small town, it was never the same as being in the real sports.

After high school it was on to part-time college and work, and more bicycle riding. On my days off I was likely to do an all-day ride across the county, or to ride a multi-day tour when ever my schedule allowed. I never got the racing bug, but I was riding 3-4 a centuries a year. Those early centuries were all-day affairs of 10-12 hours, with long sag stops and a lunch in the middle. These were the original “Fred” rides, including collecting patches. I even had a patch jacket that I had started filling up, though I soon learned that the patches did not hold up well in the washing machine.

And despite not being interested in racing, very early on I picked up a used racing bike, an early 70’s Raliegh Pro.  This was my light sport bike, since I decided fenders and racks needed to stay on my touring bike. And I picked up more of the fast gear of the day, leather cycling shoes shoes with nailed on cleats, and wool shorts with leather chamois. I did enjoy fast rides and watching the clock when I wasn’t carrying all my gear. But it was just faster touring and sport rides, not real competition, or so I told myself.

Soon after meeting Linda, along with more time on the tandem and group rides, I was also going on more fast rides, both short club rides, and longer rides and centuries. My centuries came down in time, with 6 to 7 hours becoming the norm.

By our third year of marriage, Linda and I had the The Tandem Shop going full tilt, and we sold a tandem to another couple at Purdue, Rich and Laura, who were just a few years younger than us. Rich had been a high school wrestler and baseball player, and was very competitive. He was relatively new to cycling, but was strong. We started doing more rides together on singles, and pushing each other. (The four of us also pushed each other on tandem rides too.)

One morning Rich and I met at 6 AM, and just headed out for a long ride. Before we knew we were 40 miles out, averaging 20 miles an hour. We finally turned back and ended up with 90 miles, an unplanned century. When we got back to Linda and my apartment, Linda was just getting up. (To be fair, she had a 14-hour work day on Wednesdays, and always slept in on Thursdays!) In any case, it was an epic ride, especially since I had to clean up and ready to work from Noon to 8 that day!

The four of us got together for pizza the next night, and both our wives were carrying on about how crazy we were, and with Rich’s wife adding I was really great to have another athlete pushing Rich into shape.

“I am not an athlete”, I replied - it was just bicycling. Years of imprinting had never let me think of my bicycling as an athletic pursuit, a real sport. I had never moved beyond that.

“What you talking about!” was her reply - “Yes, You're an athlete. You are one of the most athletic people I know. Both of you are!” she went on “You ride 200 miles in a weekend, and the two of you (Linda and I) just finished an 18-day 1,000 mile bicycle tour, and you bike to work every day, and you think you aren’t an athlete?”

Then Linda looked at me said I was just as much an athlete as she was.

I had always thought of Linda as an athlete for her running in cross country and track, as a state high school champion and national ranked college distance runner. But for whatever reason I had never applied that standard to me, and especially not to my cycling. Up until that conversation, I was just a kid out on a bike. Even when it for rides 50 miles or more non-stop, at 18 or 19 MPH.

But her statement and the conversations that followed had a profound impact on my view of myself. Despite everything I had accomplished riding, I had never given myself fair credit. Having some tell me “You are an athlete” was something I never expected. I was not only active, I was improving and challenging myself.

In the years since I realized that I was no longer on the bench or the last one picked, I was still in my game while so many others had moved off the field. I was fortunate enough to have found in bicycling one of the true life-long sports that allowed you to be athletic for years, if not decades, if you are so inclined.

And since that evening many years ago, I have always smiled inside with each new milestone of time and distance, for being in the arena, and never doubted that I am still an athlete.

  

2012: In the blink of an eye

Bike Tuesday - Year Round

It’s our Bike Tuesday evening ride with the gang. We are an email group, riding together for over 5 years, every Tuesday, year round, on the rural roads north of Indy between Cicero and Sheridan. Sometimes just a handful, sometimes a dozen or more. Pat and Margaret, the couple who put the ride together, have over 30 years of riding together, and like Linda and I, rode before kids, with kids, and now are moving into empty-nester riding. I am not a weekly regular, but it is a ride I make when I can, once or twice a month.

Some of the group have similar experience, but most have only been riding at this level for only a few years, and many of them have been nurtured along in the riding through this ride, and the other rides we make as a group.

It is a social sport ride, with the focus on social, rather than anaerobic. But it is not slouch riding, almost every rider is on a fast road bike, and capable of riding 18 to 20 mph with the group for 40-50 miles. A few of the stronger riders, including me, who could ride faster if they wanted, will set a pace that all can ride, and everyone is used to watching out for each other.

Tonight we have 12 riders setting out. As we start, a few of us get separated by a string of cars while leaving the parking lot, so I am in a group of four a couple of hundred yards behind the first 6 riders. But this is not a problem on this ride, no frantic chase is needed, we will be a group again soon enough.

After work rides are always good for stress relief. An easy 25 or 30 miles (yes, a short ride) followed by a pizza and socializing. In one form or another, I have had a weekly ride like this for over 35 years, since the first time I joined a bike club and lived in a city or town.

Tonight I am on my touring bike, complete with rack, rack trunk and fenders. While loading the car for the drive to the start, I found a bad tire on my sport bike, so rather than rush a tire change, I changed bikes.  In the parking lot, I get a look, and one guy asks about my commuter. No, this is touring bike, with the same weight wheels as my sport bike, and not a commuter. He is much more worried about my keeping up with group than I am. Whatever, it is a bike I have 40,000 miles on, and still a joy to ride.

We are just a couple of miles from the start, and now one group. We are two abreast, no-one overly tight on anyone else, just relaxed and chatting. I am 5th in line on the outside (near centerline), the second bike a tandem, and just about to say hi to the rider beside me. I am a full wheel behind the next rider,  the last pair of riders are just about 3-4 yards behind us.

A yell from ahead draws my eyes go forward.

A flash of purple to the left ahead of me.

A full bike length ahead of me a red bike is still upright, but it is WRONG, falling.

Flashes of color and sound to my right.

The bike in front of me is down, a sprawled rider in the lane.

Yells behind me.


“I AM NOT GOING TO HIT HIM” screams a voice in my head, and a memory of another fall and PAIN years ago goes through my mind.

RIDERSWRECKAGERIGHT!!NOCARSGOLEFT!!

BANG!!

I come to a stop upright on the left side of the road, at a right angle to travel, front wheel in the grass, rear wheel on pavement. I have not even pulled even to the first down rider. A few yards ahead of him, on the right side, a pile of bikes and two riders are down, feet-to-feet along the side of road in the soft grassy ditch.

My bike has a flat tire. I am all right, No one else is down.

The wife of one the downed riders, riding ahead of the crash, throws down her bike and yells her husband’s names and comes running back.

Everyone is conscious.

Phones come out.

What intersections are we between? We have ridden this a 100 times, but no one is sure. A couple of us finally map it on our iPhones.

I stand in the center of the road and direct the light car traffic while other tend to riders, and we move all the bikes off the road.

Thank God there are no head injuries. Everyone is awake and talking.

It seems to take forever but soon we hear a siren, and a first responder arrives and starts talking to the 3 down riders. Thank God there are no head injuries. We have two ambulances on the way.

We sort out logistics of who can ride back to the parking lot, and Pat heads back for his van.

I need to look at my bike before the ride back, and start to change the tire. A 2” patch of tread and sidewall is gone down and through the cord; my rear tire is totaled, that was the bang.

In turning 90 degrees at speed and stopping, I have to have been sliding at a 45 degree angle, and then come back to upright, with out putting a foot down. Something I used to do as a kid on a 20” bike on gravel road into our drive way. That and drills from teaching cycling skills classes, and maybe just knowing the bike I was on.  And some luck.

90 Degree Turn and Stop

The tandem team hands me a spare tire, and I finish changing the tire as the ambulance begins to load up. Pat arrives with his van to begin picking up the 3 down bikes and the rider who tumbled but didn’t need an ambulance. With that done, the rest of us begin mounting up for the ride back to our cars at the start. Some are done for the night, some still want to unwind with a few miles, the intent of the ride to begin with. I call home, and then load up for the drive home.

Latter that night, Linda and I check in on one rider and his wife, a couple we know well, at the hospital ER near our home. He is very sore but will be home that night, with some painful rehab ahead, but is otherwise ok.

The next morning we learn that the other rider will need 24 stitches in his thigh.  The first rider that fell is okay, with some scraps and scratches, but we all know he is very rattled.

All in the blink of an eye.