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Sunday Ride
In early September my dream bike arrived after making installment
payments for three months. Aluminum, carbon and a bit of titanium. Light and fast, responsive, comfortable. Literally a dream, a Colnago Dream plus. I've been out converting my mountain bike climbing legs to road legs and the first ride was painful, thereafter the kilometers increased on a weekly basis, then ramping up speed. Now I regularly ride with the Saturday/Sunday morning group out of Santa Cruz/Aptos. I usually get shelled, but I'm getting there, holding on further into each ride, though some are still better rides than others. November 9, 2003 8:45 AM It rained last night, hard at times, hard enough to wake me up. I'd looked out the window and doubted I'd be riding in the morning, but stormes sometimes pass. It did, there was patchy sun among the soft grey blanketed sky. In dithering over the weather I wasn't ready and the group would be departing from a point 8 kilos away so I needed time to get there. I hastily shoveled the remainder of breakfast, a cup of oatmeal and a banana while checking my kit, which I'd ridden in Saturday, to see what was dry and decide what I'd need in the cool, but not cold. Favorite shorts were still damp so I took the old pair, but everything else was fine, including my longsleeve Saeco jersey which still held a copius amount of water the night before. Acrylic undershirt, jersey, fingerless gloves, shorts, socks ... knee warmers? No, warm enough, but take a windbreaker just in case and particularly for the warm-down ride along the bay shore on the way home. Oil the chain and out the door with only minutes to spare and the sky still looking non-commital. I dash through the village and up Park to Soquel, trying not to work too hard, too soon, but feeling a sense of urgency about getting to the meeting point on time. Ahead a white haired rider in a jellow jacket on the same bike, same Mapei team logo, different years. I'd heard there was another bike like mine around town, but he'd didn't recall visiting the shop where I'd heard of it. There must be three of them around then, not so unique I guess. We both love our bikes, this is his seventh consecutive day out riding. He'd heard of the group rides but didn't know there was a Sunday ride and elects to join the ride. On time and no worries, but it's a tiny group waiting outside the hotel in the parking lot. 9:30 AM, a few minutes to say hi and double check the bike, the group doubles in size, and gets antsy, close enough to 9:45, time to go. Crossing Soquel there's a loud pop and short hiss, someone just blew a tube. Half of us stay, the other half go. It was my turn to flat last Sunday, after only 2Km, nobody waited. A couple minutes and we're off again. I feel nature calling and sprint off the front. Everyone else is just noodling along, getting warmed up chatting, chiding, gossiping, no worries. I catch someone who had pulled off the front earlier and we ride out a couple minutes lead on everyone, he seems interested in keeping the same pace as me. Whatever. I pull ahead anyway and closer to the rideside, inspecting the greenery for a good spot for a pit-stop. Another rider ahead, waiting for the group has the idea and we spot a fenced in utility box and water the shrubs quick as the group finally catches us up. Back into the saddle and a quick couple turns and back with the group. At Freedom Boulevard a decision. To go the usual route, threatened with heavy dark clouds, or the Saturday route, along the coast. Half go left, we go right believing the others are heading into certain rain. Over Highway 1 and up Bonita, the pace picks up on a short climb, stretch those warmed up legs. A lull then a longer climb, but still only a couple hundred meters and the same picking up of the pace. Down the backside is a half-hearted race. The pace is fast and a few bolt off the front. Physical strain, speed, wind, the pavement is a blur beneath my wheels and some uneven pavement makes the bike buck a bit. Exhileration. Slow to he STOP sign then right, toward San Andreas Road. The pace picks up again and we're in full flight, work hard, stay with the group, hold your place. Past the last STOP sign there are eucalyptus nuts, twigs, bark, sand and small gravel scattered along the shoulder of the road. Warnings barked out a head, fingers pointed towards hazzards. The sky opens up and pours. Roostertails spray my face, I shut my mouth and try to maintain air flow through my nose, but I'm almost drowning. Move around a bit, keep it out of my face. My feet are already floating in my shoes an every pedal stroke is like wringing a sponge. Drop down toward Manresa State Park and hit the banked turn up a climb. I love this turn and this climb, I always take it fast and hope I'm in the big chainring when I start going up. I'm out of the saddle and churning hard, it's easy, fast and exhillerating. It used to hurt and I hated it when I first came this way, now it's mine, I own it, I look forward to it, it's testiment to my improving form. Onto San Andreas it's a long flat stretch. Sometimes the pace is murderous, today though is moderate, no pros and the cyclo-cross riders are down in Watsonville racing at the fairgrounds. The last climbs on San Andreas and I'm still with the group. The pace picks up a bit and my legs are cold, should have brought the knee warmers. I finally slip off the back just over the crest. Cruel. Suffering, I shift into smaller gears, trying to bridge, but the legs are so cold they protest. I'm out of the rain and suddenly hit a wall of warm, humid air, at the edge of the Pajaro valley. It's a welcome change, and I begin to recover and pick up my pace, but it's too late. A solo rider has to push through the wind on his own, but in a group fresh legs take turns at the front and can keep the pace high, efficiently. I'm burning through a meager breakfast, which probably isn't even fully digested and I'll pay for it later. A few kilos later I've fought back up to the group, going near my limit and can finally sit up and have a Clif bar. I'm alreay hungry and know it's not going to be enough. The sky is mostly clear, with feathery small clouds drifting lazily high overhead. I split from the group, considering going up through Hazel Dell and back home, my usual loop, but the closer I get to Watsonville, the darker the clouds over the vicinity of the dell, in the foothills. I don't know what to do, but I'm not going there. I turn down Main and cross the river, thinking about taking Trafton and back to San Andreas. Up ahead I see the group I left and rejoin them, going down Lewis Road. I'd seen the road and thought about taking it a few times weeks prior, the pace is easy and I'm doing well, taking light grades with speed and racing down the other side. Approaching San Miguel Canyon a shout of warning, "Look out!" What? I see the blur of two large dogs arc down a burm into the road, they're moving fast and coming straight for us, one looks like a golden retriever, the other walnut colored and about the same size and build. We were noodling along and I'm toward the back and on the side they're coming to. I stand up and swerve between them, cutting off the trailing darker dog. With a hard turn of the crank. I pull around the golden retriever and they're both surprised enough by the move that we get away unscathed. The road ahead drops, and we easily put distance on the menace. The concensus is to turn back to San Juan road and head back towards Watsonville. The pace is high and I finally run out of gas. I've got the bonk coming on, 30K from home and no food. I drop off the back and follow along best as I can, losing sight of the group along Trafton. Feeling somewhat recovered I set fast pace climbing out of the valley, up San Andreas and burn up what little I had left. The remainder of the ride home is harsh and painful. I vaguely recall wanting several english muffins with orange marmalde. Most of my kit is dry by the time I get home and I stretch in wet socks on the driveway. Someone asks, "Have a good ride?" "Yeah, it was great, they're all great." |
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