Granny gears and clipless pedals

Yesterday was a study in contrasts. Were she to reflect on it, Ma Kelly might have said, “I got mixed feelings. Good for Tommy. Sad for Johnny.” In my case, it was triumphant in the morning … humble in the evening. Maybe not as dynamic as the Sphinx riddle, but still.

So yesterday morning I set out on my 30 mile loop from La Jolla to Encinitas. I wanted to treat the first leg like a “warm up,” just using what I thought to be a slow and steady cadence. I was barely breaking a sweat when I zipped past the 8-mile marker … a whole minute quicker than I ever have, even when I felt I was pushing or “racing.”

This got me in good spirits, and I made a quick mental goal: I would complete this entire ride without using the Granny Gear. Even on … [rack focus to straining face and sudden blast of tense music] … The Hill.

I’m not sure what I wanted to prove to myself. In all honesty it might be some weird internal “told ya so!” for not going with a double in the first place. (I really really really wanted nothing to do with the triple due to my notion that it would just make for “derailleur adjustment hell.”) Maybe I was just sick of fiddling with the gearing to get off the GG to begin with.

Whatever the reason, his heart or his shoes, the goal was made. I found a few riders here and there to tag along with, and soon hit the turning point of the ride three minutes early. It was going to be a Golden Grahams day.

I hit The Hill at Mile 23. With a full day’s rest the day before, and a measly 13-mile jobber prior to that (which, sad to report, was an abortion of an attempt at a 20k crit run), the legs were charged up and ready. I was gonna get up The Hill, and I wasn’t going to do it spinning GG Allin wildly. Let’s go.

Was I able to do it? Did I make it? Did I complete my goal? Hellz yeah. I charged up that mother averaging high 9s, baby. I stood twice, including a final burst to get over the last few hundred meters. I was winded, panting, drooling, and may have even been wildly shouting obscenities. I have no idea, honestly. But I did it.

The rest of the ride home was cake, and I arrived at Casa Johnny 11 minutes under my best ever time for the same run. And there was much rejoicing.

Around noon, my shiny new Look KEO Sprint pedals arrived. Shaking with excitement, I called the LBS. They had just the shoes I was looking for. In just my size. Could this be the greatest day ever?

Six hours later, I’m clipped in for the first time. The theme from “Rocky” is playing. I blast off with a hoot, feeling the glorious power of proper cycling footwear and the full effect of the promised “25% increase in efficiency.”

Now, I had been extremely hesitant to go clipless. I view being clipped into your bike as something analogous to kayaking: You’ve locked yourself into a piece of equipment that has the very real possibility of tipping over with you helplessly tethered to it. In kayaking this usually means going glub glub glub faster than a kid whose parents put the Swimmies around the ankles instead of the arms. In cycling this means tipping over like a felled oak with a stupid look on your face.

In either of the above scenarios, the results are at once tragic and hilarious. Having forever found such delight in the simple act of an ordinarily capable and perfectly fit human being falling down, I relish every memory I have of my fellow homo sapiens taking a pratfall, be it on icy sidewalks, down a flight of stairs, or, yes dear friends, while clipped into a bicycle. Never let it be said that I was not a sucker for slapstick.

For the record, I myself have taken a few diggers, and have laughed myself sick while laying on my back afterwards, regardless of conditions. The best one I can recall was when I had left the house to speak at a conference Back East. On the way to the car, in my shiny new suit and carrying my very official looking leather valise, I caught a bad patch of ice and went a-skitter a-skitter a-skitter in some crazed dance of dysbalanced lunacy until I finally crashed with aplomb onto my back. I was laughing the whole time, from the initial slip all the way through the insane reverse can-can into one final explosive Haaaaaa! when my back hit the pavement and the wind went out.

I swear to this day that my beloved kitty PBH saw the whole thing from the living room window. Mortified, she shook her head while slowly ratcheting the blinds closed, never taking her eyes off the horrible horrible spectacle.

Which brings me to my first stop light in my shiny new clipless pedals and fancy carbon-soled shoes.

I went down like a ton of bricks.

I’m not entirely sure what happened, but I think it was an issue of unclipping the right foot, but tilting the bike to the left as I stopped. Either way, I saw it coming in the worst way, and just gave up the ghost even before I actually lost balance. I can’t say with any accuracy, but I’m pretty sure I let out a low, “NooooooOOOoooooooooooo!” on the way down. The next thing I knew I was on my side, my shiny precious bike collapsed over me, laughing like hell. An Asian couple saw the whole thing across the street and were horrified. They probably thought I had concussed myself and was delirious.

I took another good spill after that one, but soon had it down enough to the point where, this morning, I got through my short 16-miles without falling once.

Oh yeah, and I hit The Hill for the second day in a row without going GG.

Sweet.