I’d been a part time worker in a couple of shops. I had started doing that again, partially to supplement my (meager) income, and to take advantage of employee purchasing for a new road bike. This new shop was a bit different from the more casually oriented ones I’d been associated with. This shop had a clientele of “roadies.”
I was young. I’d always been into athletics, but was just discovering athleticism on the bike. A lot of folks were encouraging me to come out and join their group rides, and to try racing. It sounded good and fun, and a bit scary. Attractive.
Of course, I had no idea how to do any of that stuff, and that was a bit intimidating. I was concerned that I would look like an idiot. In fact I did look like an idiot, and my youth and inexperience, coupled with my vain attempts to appear worldly exaggerated the effect.
I wanted to wait until I could purchase my new bike. I was urged to come on out and do it anyway. So I did. I agreed to show up for the early Saturday morning shop ride.
I got up in the dark, and got dressed. I slung my pack, full of work clothing and supplied, and mounted up. When I got to the shop I had that sinking feeling. All these guys were kitted out in the highest form of roadie-fashion. I was the only guy there in brogans, cut-off jeans, and a tee-shirt. Their bikes looked like racing road bikes. Mine looked like a tall pile of rust and junk.
I pitched my backpack inside the shop and saddled up, waiting to see what would happen. At some signal (unseen by me) the group started to move out of the parking lot. I was caught by surprise, looking and facing the wrong way. I got turned around and started working to catch up.
I was gaining on the group, and working pretty good. After about a mile I caught up with the back of the pack. “Hey!” I thought, “This isn’t so bad. Sure, I’m working kinda hard, but I’m in it.”
I applied a bit more effort and began working my way up through the group. I was breathing deep and hard. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I was noticing that there was a bit of casual conversation going on around me. I didn’t take notice of that, as I was busy. I was sliding up through the group, and getting my rhythm, breathing deeply. I had nothing extra for chit-chat.
I was near the front of the pack when we made a turn and started to climb a hill. It wasn’t a really big hill, but a hill nonetheless. I dug deep and gunned up it with the four or five leaders. I knew the road. Things would flatten at the top, and we would be out in the country, with more room.
I all but exploded going up that hill, but I passed several more riders, and when we both reached the top, I was with the very front man. I was gasping for breath and struggling to keep up, but I was there!
That leader looked over at me, grinned, and said, “You probably just want to sit in for your first ride. This one is pretty fast.”
“Pretty fast? You’re not kidding,” I thought. I just managed to gasp out the word, “Right.” Having no idea what he meant.
We continued roaring down the road at a wicked fast pace, but I was getting some of my breath back. At the same time, other riders were grouping around us.
“Okay!” the leader called out. “Intervals out to Port Republic. Everyone good?”
There were some affirmatives called back. We turned onto Port Republic Road, a long straight one with about five miles of big rollers, and…
Suddenly the group… accelerated… (?) and (!!)
All of the other riders surged smoothly forward, passing me on both sides. They took off and left me. I could not stay with them. I couldn’t even manage to keep them in sight. For a while I tried, reasoning that no human could keep up that pace for long, and I would eventually catch them. Didn’t happen. I rolled into the tiny town of Port Republic with no other rider in sight, and no clear idea of where they had gone.
I looked at my watch and realized that I needed to turn and head back, or I would be late for work. From that place, my shortest and fastest route was back the way I had come. So I did.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I saw a them. They were coming in from the other direction, laughing and joking with each other. “Hey Steve!” one called out to me, “Where’d you go, man?”
I had a lot to learn. But I had just learned my first lesson in “roadie riding.” I’d been dropped. Dropped hard. I had been racing (or thought I had been) during the warm up.
No comments:
Post a Comment