It still has its gears and freehub and if it had genitals they would still be attached, but otherwise the commuter bike, after 6 long weeks of downtime, is finally fixed.
I declare this mid life crisis officially over. Except for the part about me hating everything. That stays, because it’s like the warm cozy bear rug in front of a fire that comforts me on cold nights.
I Effing hate cubicles. With a capital eff.
That is all.
After my last bout with bike shimmy, a seed was planted in my head that I decided must be reaped in yesterday’s ride. I needed to get back on that bridge. Firstly, to face my fear, and secondly, to determine whether the shimmy was due to physics or my nerves.
The thing with that bridge: there’s no turning back.
Southbound, the bridge ascends and makes a sweeping left turn. As I approached, I told myself “It’s just a bridge. You’re OK.” This would become my mantra. I wasn’t entirely comfortable, but I focused on turning the crank and the road in front of me, and soon enough I was over the span.
Northbound, the bridge descends and the sweeping right turn reveals a view that is impossible to ignore. The bridge’s concrete supports are clearly visible, plummeting down to the unseen abyss. The concrete barrier on the right is no more than 3 feet high, with a steel railing that vanishes at speed. The bike lane is wide by any standard, probably around 6-8 feet, but with cars traveling at freeway speed, it’s best to stay as far to the right as possible. Right next to that far-too-short concrete barrier. I estimate the bridge to be at least 150 feet high.
It’s just a bridge. You’re OK.
Within 20 yards of the start of the bridge, my body went to gelatin. I mean, my muscles completely gave out. I mashed the brakes, locking the rear wheel and almost pitching it over. I managed to get the machine stopped right where the asphalt turns to concrete at the edge of the bridge. My heart pounded.
I sat on my bike for a minute, contemplating. I felt panic rising, primal and instinctive. I looked for an exit. There is a little service road that goes down into the gorge, protected by a chain link fence and gate. The thought of putting my hand on the gate made me sweat. The slope simply drops off after the gate and I didn’t know whether the service road actually existed on the other side.
It’s just a bridge. You’re OK.
I began to talk myself down, realizing that my control had given way to fear. I needed to get the adrenaline out. I dismounted the bike and sat on a guardrail post. I thought of my options. I could go back, but that would mean going against traffic on a freeway shoulder. I could investigate the service road, but the thought of opening the gate was just as bad as crossing the bridge. I could call my wife and have her pick me up. This last option was the most plausible, but holy cow would I feel awful.
No, none of those things would do. I had to get over this bridge.
I looked down the expanse, and my trusty bike never seemed more frail. It may as well have been made of rice paper.
There is a little turnout just before the guardrail so I walked my bike over to it. I mounted and steeled myself for the ride over the bridge. There I stayed for what felt an eternity. Crossing the bridge seemed completely implausible. The junction between asphalt and concrete was a barrier that separated reality from impossibility. The bridge lived in its own universe, one whose physics would not allow for my presence.
It’s just a bridge. You’re OK.
I watched a couple cars go by, then pushed off, and was immediately assaulted by the wind over the bridge. I grabbed hold of the drops and fought off the gelatin. I said out loud “It’s just a bridge. You’re OK” and was now on the bridge.
I repeated the mantra over and over. By the time I was halfway over, I was shouting it and cursing the bridge. It took all of my nerve to keep my muscles from turning to goo, and I maintained a death grip on my bars. The bike wanted to shimmy but I wouldn’t let it. I realized that the shimmy was entirely due to my fear, not the machine, and that gave me some fortitude. I could trust the machine. If only I could trust myself.
The last half of the bridge seemed interminably long. It was getting harder to maintain control of my muscles, but shouting the mantra helped me keep focus. Waves of panic washed over me, but I didn’t let them control me. Finally I made it to the other side, and as the road pitched upward the fear left me, though my whole body was trembling.
It was just a bridge. I was OK.
I’ve never met the fat cyclist, but I heard about him during the Tour of California when he got Bob Roll to shave his head and I’ve followed his blog ever since. He’s a prolific blogger (posts at least every weekday) and his posts are always humorous and well worth the time to read, even when they’re tragic.
While his main topic is bicycling, once in awhile he posts about his wife’s fight with cancer. Today’s post is particularly sobering.
One of his coping mechanisms is to very actively participate in the Livestrong Foundation to fund cancer research. His efforts have raised over $300,000.
There’s not much I can do for him other than help spread the word, so that I’ll do:
And also: WIN SUSAN!
From the cycling coverage on Versus, you might not know that there’s a really big bicycle race going on right now in France. Apparently there is another race that is far more important: the Tour de Lance.
Don’t get me wrong: I have enormous respect for Lance Armstrong. His career and life story are nothing short of miraculous.
The media has had a field day (more like a year) with speculation about the leadership of Team Astana. Alberto Contador, having won le Tour in 2007 but denied the ability to defend his title last year, is hungry to prove his mettle. Levi Leipheimer, having won the Tour of California for the 3rd straight year, could very well take a podium position. Finally, Astana’s roster includes Andréas Klöden, another strong contender. Team Astana has no less than four GC contenders. There’s not enough room on the podium for all of that talent. And if they’re all vying for the top spot, I’m afraid none of them will win it.
The Tour de France opened with an individual time trial prologue stage to establish an overall race leader. There was much speculation that the results of the time trial would also establish the pecking order within Team Astana. Armstrong finished solidly in 10th place, but was beaten by all three Astana contenders: Leipheimer by 10 seconds, Klöden by 18 seconds, and Contador by 22 seconds.
Incidentally, I was pleasantly surprised by Cadel Evans’ performance. He also beat Lance.
If Lance had blown away his teammates and competition in the prologue, I would totally be on board with his leading Astana. But I don’t believe he has the ability to drop Contador in the mountains, and I shudder to think of them wasting energy duking it out between themselves instead of working together. Contador is the official leader of Astana, and unless one of his teammates had turned in a stellar performance in the prologue, I don’t have any reason to think the leadership will change. (Incidentally, I don’t think Lance would compete with his teammates to the detriment of the team; he’s too great a sportsman for that kind of petty squabbling.)
I want Lance to do well, really I do. But I have yet to see him perform at his former peak. It’s not entirely fair to judge his physical shape by his performance at this year’s Giro d’Italia since he was still recovering from a broken collarbone, and although he placed well (12th), I didn’t see him compete at the same level as his competitors, especially in the mountains. There was one stage where he went on the attack but couldn’t bridge up to the leaders. This wasn’t the Lance of old.
Lance has stated previously that he returned to cycling from retirement to promote awareness of cancer and raise funds for cancer research. He has done a remarkable job in doing so, and what’s not to applaud with that?
My beef here is not with Lance; it’s with all of the media speculation about the so-called leadership “squabbles” within Team Astana and with Versus beginning their coverage of the Tour de France with a huge segment about Lance’s return. Ok, we get it. Lance is back. But the Tour is far greater than one man, no matter how great the man.
The mid-life crisis is progressing quite nicely, thank-you-very-much. I really wouldn’t be so down if my job was evolving in a direction that was compatible with my skill set. I remember days where the majority of time was spent coding, and I actually really enjoy doing that. I need to get back to that, and so the last few days I’ve spider-holed myself in the family computer room, rewriting an accounting application that I originally wrote some years ago.
It’s good to have an activity where you can see real results. Like gardening. Or bicycling.
I had to get out of the office this morning or go crazy, so I took the road bike* out for a spin. The Torrey Pines hill is sort-of-close to my office and I decided to add Mount Soledad in there as well. All in all, some good hills packed into a sub-30 mile ride:
According to MapMyRide, almost 2000 feet of climbing.
As I slogged up Mount Soledad, I thought of the metaphor that might apply: working hard; not quitting; achieving a goal. And when I peaked the summit I lamented that if only everything else coud be so simple.
Someone forwarded me one of those inspirational things, maybe you’ve seen it: 212 The Extra Degree. It’s fine if you’re into that Tony Robbins crap but all I could think is that the statistics are all taken out of context and therefore totally meaningless. I know I need to adopt some of that philosophy but I just can’t buy into it. It’s all a big scam to me.
I want the metaphor. I really do. But like I said, it’s just not that simple.
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* commuter bike is still waiting on a new spoke. grrr….
