Comments on the “Unnatural Laws”

Last Tuesday, I posted a bit on the “Unnatural Laws” of cycling.  I’ve had a few comments about it.  They sort of devolve into two groups.  Laughter, and  “Gee, that’s pretty pessimistic.”

Honest, I was trying for humor.  Sometimes life just isn’t worth living without a laugh or two along the way.  Besides, cycling can be a cruel sport.  There are those time when it certainly seems like the road is always uphill and into the wind.  These times make so much sweeter, the rare occasions when the roads all seem to be flat and smooth, and the wind is at one’s back.  Part of the trick is to learn to relish the challenges, and I think half that battle is learning to laugh at them.

And yes, anyone who has ridden a bike for very long has certainly experienced some of those odd phenomena.

A personal story,one almost worthy of a “Friday Follies”:  Some years ago I was riding a 400K brevet in central New York State.  (Don’t ask why, that’s a much longer story.)  The day was not an auspicious one.  Weather, mostly foul, got into the act. 

As we were all lined up in the early morning gloom, waiting the start, I noticed this one guy.  He was a bit older, and didn’t look like much.  He was on an old, extremely beat up steel Raleigh.  His cue sheet holder was improvised from a big paper clamp, tie-wraps, and duct tape.  He was wearing a pair of ratty high top tennis shoes, khaki work slacks, a flannel shirt, and a pair of generic work gloves.  His helmet was almost as old as the bike.

I remember thinking,  “You poor soul!  You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

At the start, I surged ahead with a pack of riders, and the old guy was left behind.  He rumbled into the first Controle’ just as I was leaving.

The cold rain, just a degree above freezing, started in earnest on the next leg.  And the old guy clattered into the second Controle’ shortly after I had arrived there.  I was pretty impressed.  He caught up with me again, before we hit the third Controle’, and he rode along with me for quite a way.  I couldn’t shake him.

Eventually, the old guy, on the old beater bike left me behind.  I later learned that he was a legend in the local rando club.  He always took their annual “Mile Master” award.  What can one do but marvel and laugh?