A half-century and a fistful of perspective

Owie owie owie.

I’ve managed to wedge myself into the easy chair next to Hecubus T. Cat, who now sits nonetoopleased beside me. It’s been said that disturbing a sleeping cat violates the Geneva Convention, so I may have to lay low for a while after this post.

I turned in my first half-century less than an hour ago. I sincerely hope that the mildly overheating battery in my IBM notebook will provide a little heat therapy to my burning quads – we’ll see how it goes. It’s amazing to me that meeting little personal goals like making it up The Hill’s Twin or completing a 50-mile ride (anyone from the Running Chick’s world should take delight in that -- swear to creamed corn -- the exact mileage was 50 POINT TWO) is not met with some sort of fanfare or choir of mewling kittie-angels floating through the sky in little Purina mobile bumper-cars. Instead I wind up with that same nonplussed puss that Heckipoo is now sporting.

On to the next goal, right?

So this ride. It was interesting because it let me know just how new I am to the fun and exciting world of cycling: 10 miles into it I blew a flat. Going up a hill, I suddenly noticed that I was happily bouncing up and down pogo-stick-like in the rear tire area. Wheeeeee! I had no idea what was happening, but it seemed neat at the time.

My riding bud points out the flat, and we pull off. This is job for Bicycle Repair Man!! I quickly dismount and fling the bike up like I’m in the pits at the Indy 500. It’s around then that it dawns on me that I have no freakin’ idea what I’m doing. There I was with my bike flipped upside down on the sidewalk, mountain bike pump in hand and this half-assed grin on my face. I had no tire tool. I had no spare inner-tube. I had no idea that a mountain-bike frame pump is no match for the imperial forces of a 700x23c road tire. Bummer. But hey I looked dashing in my cycling shorts.

Luckily, the good folks I ride with are far more prepared than I and we soon had a tool and spare inner tube and, within minutes, the chunk of glass was extricated from the tire, the tube and tire were mounted, and we were good to go. I’m already planning my next trip to the LBS (did I seriously just use that contraction?) for a tool pouch-pouch, tire tool, coupla tubes, and maybe a new frame pump or those funky CO2 jobbers. This habit is beginning to become more expensive than cocaine. I haven't even gone clipless yet ...

So we continue up the PCH and I’m still kinda bewildered by the fact that I’m bicycling to destinations that I previously thought were too far even to drive. We pass a million taco stands, all of which smell like heaven. We even zip by a donut shop. Mmm. Donuts. Soon I start to wonder what I’m going to eat for lunch. Gosh my butt hurts.

Eventually, we make the turnaround and I take some delight in recognizing that, if I am going to get myself home, I’m going to complete a half century. Woo! I got a little extra wind in my sails and cranked up the speed, the theme from “Chariots of Fire” running through my head.

That lasted about a half mile.

After falling back to a more pedestrian speed and passing the donut shops and taco stands for the second time, something triggers in my little pea brain: Between me and home … is The Hill. Dang. I quickly scrambled through my little “Bento Box” carry-pouch. No testosterone patches or epinephrine needles. Crap! Obviously I neglected to purchase and pack them along with the tire tool and spare tube. Wonder if the LBS carries the official “LiveStrong” doping kit.

About five miles before The Hill, we pass these two young ladies who had been cycling down from Canada. Let me remind you that I’m in San Diego. These two had been biking for five weeks, averaging 50+ miles a day, and had already ridden 2,000 miles. Goodness. We tell them there’s a hill coming up in a bit, and they said, “Oh yeah, a small one.”

The Hill. “A small one.”

“We’ve gone through so many hills and insane inclines throughout the trip,” they say, “there was one going up a canyon that was just awful. Every time we get to a hill now, we tell ourselves that it’s nowhere near as bad as that one and we just go right over it.”

Wowsa.

These two young women have cycled 2,000 miles through Washington, Oregon, and Northern California – some of the hilliest terrain around. Carrying almost a week’s supplies. On two of the oldest, heaviest, and clunkiest looking bikes I’ve ever seen. To them, The Hill is just a little speed bump along the way.

So I get to The Hill around Mile 43, fresh legs on a full day’s rest, carrying next to nothing on a shiny new bike that probably weighs about as much as just the wheels alone on either one of those girls’ bikes. I throw it down into the climbing gear and, hum a few lines of “O, Canada” and go for it. About ten minutes later, I’m up on top of the hill, tired, sweating like a pig, and swearing like a wise guy from Providence.

2,000 miles in 5 weeks. “A small one.”

Perspective is an amazing thing.