Deuces Wild

I woke up early after one snooze so I could walk over to the Chuckwagon Restaurant and have the Deuces Wild Special breakfast. I wanted to start the day right and $3.99 sounded like an awesome good deal for two eggs my way, two sausage patties, two strips of bacon and two buttermilk pancakes. Since breakfast is the most important meal of the day I thought the Deuces Wild Special breakfast would be an awesome good way to start the big day before the big ride.

I had about two hours and five minutes before I had to start climbing the 3255 feet of elevation gain to checkpoint one at mile 27 as I headed out of the motel room into the dark of the predawn at 5:25 a.m. and right away the dry crisp cold of the morning slapped me in the face. Pow! I could see my breath. I pondered Rule 9 and wondered how many of the 150 or so registered riders might actually show up for this Tri-States Gran Fondo. It felt like winter had come to the desert.

Wow it was cold. I decided to drive instead of walk and was surprised to find the perfect closest to the door front row parking spot through the van's frosted up windshield behind the casino. The clouds of my breath just kind of hung around in the cold desert air that felt void of humidity even though it had rained hard for hours the night before. As I walked through these lingering clouds of my breath that were struggling to dissipate, my eyes fogged up from the shock of humidity and temperature difference.

Inside the casino the air still smelled of stale cigarettes from years and years and years of tar and nicotine staining the air filters that struggle mightily night and day in the losing effort to clean the air in this cigarette smokers' mecca of beer and gambling and cigarette smoke. I wonder what is the equivalent amount of cigarettes I had unfortunately been forced to enjoy since arriving here from the stale and putrid second hand smoke that is pervasively invading my lungs every moment I am inside or near an exit to this casino and I wonder how that's going to affect my riding today.

The Chuckwagon Restaurant is pretty much empty, just like the still noisy casino, and I am served my Deuces Wild Special breakfast right away - so fast in fact that I suspect it had been prepared for me the night before and then set to wait patiently under the salamander all night for me to arrive. I am however impressed because for once I have a breakfast special that looks bigger in person than it did in the point-of-sale material.

I had checked my blood glucose at 5:19 a.m. and my reading had been 115 mg/dL which I thought was an amazingly outstanding result after I spent two and a half hours with my family at dinner the evening before on Seafood Friday Night in the Sierra Buffet eating BBQ ribs, split crab legs, slabs of prime rib, sweet corn on the cob, plates of salad, cooked peas, baked rolls, various cheeses, sweet chili mussels, beer battered cod, crispy fried shrimp, slow roasted turkey breast, crab stuffed mushrooms, ice cream, oysters Rockefeller, chocolate sauce sundaes, California rolls, chocolate brownie volcanoes, smoked rope sausage, chocolate chip cookies, southern fried chicken, German chocolate cake, seafood something or other that I think was spicy newberg, pickled cucumbers, cheesy deep dish pepperoni pizza, more California rolls, Diet Coke and decaf coffee from the all day coffee pot.

Last night I kept looking for other cyclists, figuring they should be easy to spot in the casino or at Seafood Friday Night in the Sierra Buffet or eating the $5.99 prime rib dinner special in the Chuckwagon Restaurant with their funny tan lines, gaunt, healthy physiques and event t-shirts from valiant past conquests but all I saw were slow moving weather-beaten wrinkled dried up cigarette smokers swilling a Bud Light that had been nursed for far too long and was now mostly room temperature backwash and a few well-tanned overweight golfers that needed neck trims talking way too loud about how the cold and wind had affected their golf game and chugging their ice cold Michelob Ultras much too fast.

I imagined that all the cyclists were tucked away in their rooms, getting a good nights rest after shaving their legs and sucking down a few energy gels or something and watching reruns of the Vuelta or Giro in low-def on Universal Sports while they debate with themselves about which chamois cream to use tomorrow morning. I liked my plan better.

Before my feast with my family on Seafood Friday Night at the Sierra Buffet I had checked my blood glucose and figured I had room for some real food with a reading of 99 mg/dL. Things were going just as planned except for the part about moderation and my family and I left the Sierra Buffet feeling very well fed like someone had stuffed a bowling ball up under my diaphragm which made my side hurt a little more whenever I breathed in. I figured fighting the Battle of Large Numbers with 12 units of insulin, injected six units at a time into the subcutaneous tissue on either side of my stomach should keep me on track for some real food at breakfast in the morning. After all I would need the energy for the big ride tomorrow.

Back in the motel room last night a hot shower felt great as it washed the stale cigarette smell out of my hair and off my skin. Every 28 seconds I had to chase my 11 month old away from my bike as it leaned on the wall between the bed and the bathroom. Everybody's clothes got piled up in the stinky stale cigarette smelly dirty clothes pile in the corner of the room and we all got ready for bed excited about the big day tomorrow for different reasons.

On the local Las Vegas news channel in between breaking news stories about someone getting shot or stabbed or dying in North Las Vegas every other news story seemed to be about how it is colder now than anyone can remember for this time of year with man-on-the-street videos of people amazed that they can see their breath or reports about the snow around Mt. Charleston or Red Rock Canyon or over excited weather casters not use to so much airtime stumbling over their words while finally getting to talk about something other than hot and dry.

Before getting into bed I had thought about reducing my injection of basal insulin to help my blood glucose balance up better against the effort I needed to put forth on tomorrow's big ride but I decided not to and injected the 15 units of Lantus into the tissue below my stomach. My daughter asked "daddy does that hurt?" like she always does "no" I lied because sometimes it does hurt and sometimes it stings like crazy "the needle's really small" and I hope that none of my kids will ever have to find out for themselves.

After a careful inspection of my Deuces Wild Special breakfast this morning I figure the buttermilk pancakes which are each about a half inch thick and the lukewarm hot maple syrup will equate to about 75 to 80 carbs or so. I think 5 units of insulin should do the trick that my pancreas can't as the well dressed wrinkled weather-beaten old lady sitting across from me pretends like she isn't watching me inject it into my stomach above the waistband of my jeans. I want to start the ride with my blood glucose above 120 but below 140 mg/dL and during the ride try to keep it up over 100 mg/dL.

The Deuces Wild Special breakfast is surprisingly quite good in spite of the telltale signs of the pale sausage patties and pale bacon strips being a precooked thaw-n-serve type product and everything is washed down perfectly with the lukewarm hot maple syrup and three big mugs of even hotter lukewarm coffee from the all night coffee pot that is quite good as well. I had read somewhere once that caffeine was supposed to enhance cycling performance so I figure three big mugs to be about right and then one to-go cup for back at the room.

I pay, tip well and leave, walking the gauntlet of stale cigarette smoke that is beating my lungs into submission through the mostly empty but still noisy casino back out to my van with my lukewarm to-go cup of coffee from the all night coffee pot and notice that there is snow on every mountain I can see in the pale light of sunrise that is starting to break on this cold and frosty morning. When I get back to the motel room and get out of my van, I meet up with another cyclist pedaling up from what looks to be a warm-up ride. I notice the multiple energy gels in multiple flavors taped to his top tube and he smells strongly of chamois cream.

We both stand there admiring our clouds of breath that never seem to quite dissipate in this crisp morning air and have a brief conversation about how glad we both are that the pounding rain from the night before has stopped, how surprised we both are to see all the snow on the mountains surrounding Mesquite and how hard it's going to be for us to figure out how warm or cold we really need to be when we start this Tri-States Gran Fondo so we don't have too much or too little with us and on us as we ride the 112 miles with the 7500 feet of climbing.

When I get back in my motel room my entire family is still asleep in the dark and it's time to get ready for this big ride, this Gran Fondo, with the help of the little sliver of pale light that is streaming softly from the cracked bathroom door. I find all my stuff, fill my bidons both with water because I forgot my Powerade Zero, pull on the wool blend knee-high Walmart socks, the Nashbar thermal leg warmers, the Giordana bibs no chamois cream, the Pearl Izumi thermal arm warmers and the Tour de Donut jersey.

I put some sunscreen on my nose and cheeks. I pick up my riding gloves, my windproof full fingered gloves, my The North Face Windstopper beanie and my helmet off the floor at the foot of the bed. I guess my getting ready has stirred the wife and she has moved, knocking them from their positions of readiness where they had been staged a little earlier.

I debate whether to bring an extra spare tube before deciding yes and stuff it in my left jersey pocket along with three chocolate chip granola bars after spending about seven minutes figuring out there is not a way to stuff it into my small seat bag with the other spare tube, two CO2 cartridges, the inflator, the tire levers, the dehydrated towel, the lens cleaner towelette, two Cliff Shots and the little package of Jelly Belly Energy Beans just in case I have a blood glucose emergency.

My seven minutes of reorganizing my seat bag did create some extra room so I fold up a fourth chocolate chip granola bar into a u-shape and stuff it in there too. I notice the charm hanging on my zipper next to the ichthus - "vis vires" - and I'm going to need some today I think as I strap it on my seat rails. I double check my test strips, my lancet and my meter, add two pen needles to the pouch and zip it up as I'm wishing it was smaller before stuffing it into a Ziploc bag with my windows phone, driver's license, debit card, course queue sheet and my Novolog Flexpen.

That goes in my middle jersey pocket along with a few lens cloth towelettes. I roll up my rain jacket as neatly and tightly as I can and stuff that into my right jersey pocket along with a mandarin orange energy gel and two teriyaki beef sticks that were folded in half the night before and have now permanently assumed the u-bend position in their wrappers ready to slow the absorption of any carbs I eat along the ride.

I check and double check everything again, stumbling around in the dark, trying not to make any noise and wake the family. I wheel my bike into the bathroom as quietly as I can and shut the door behind me and pump up my tires to 110 psi. I check and double check the bike over in the light of the bathroom and reset all the settings on my computer before wheeling the bike out of the light and into the dark room to lean it against the bed the kids are sleeping in.

I pull on my The North Face Windstopper beanie and remove the backing from the sticky side on the timing chip and number tag and check the instructions one more time in the little sliver of light from the bathroom door. I put the timing chip on the top of my helmet, carefully following the instructions for placement that were provided in my race packet. I am number 115 and the number 115 goes on the left side of the helmet and I hope that neither will leave any sticky residue that I won't be able to get off later.

I snap the helmet on top of my beanie turning the cam to readjust it quickly and straighten the windproof toe covers on my carbon soled LG ErgoAirs, slip them on and try to ratchet them down as quietly as I can and I'm glad I remembered to change out my Cool Stuff insoles for my Hot Stuff insoles before we left home. I pull off my wedding ring and put it in the top dresser drawer and feel bad for not wearing it but in the cold weather and with putting on and taking off of the windproof full fingered gloves I don't want to risk losing it. I pull on my cycling gloves and pull the full fingered windproof gloves over them and attach the Velcro to keep them tight.

I quietly clomp over to where my wife is sleeping and kick the Hot Wheels version of Lightening McQueen under the bed. I put my gloved hand on my sleeping wife's shoulder and she rolls instinctively toward me and whispers "be careful" before kissing me goodbye and I can't really tell if she is awake or not when we each say "love you." I open the motel room door and wheel the bike outside on the balcony and head to the elevator listening to the pawls clicking in the hub as if announcing the bikes readiness to tackle another ride, to reach another goal and to bring me home safely one more time to my sleeping family.

In the elevator I look at my computer and see that it's 6:55 a.m. I have thirty-five minutes before I have to start climbing the 3255 feet of elevation gain to checkpoint one at mile 27 and a short five minute ride to the starting line at the convention center that has been closed and dark for over ten years now. I poke my sunglasses into the vents in my helmet and wheel my bike out of the elevator. I remove my coffee shop covers from my Speedplay cleats and store them in my left jersey pocket with my extra spare tube and chocolate chip granola bars as I remember that I forgot to drink all of my lukewarm to-go cup of coffee from the all night coffee pot back in my room.

I pinch the charm hanging next to the ichthus on the zipper of my seat bag - "vis veris" - and I can feel the goose flesh forming on my skin under my Tour de Donut jersey. I swing my leg over the top tube and clip in and wheel off into the parking lot trying to avoid the puddles that are still there from the pounding rain the night before and right away the dry crisp cold of the morning slaps me in the face. Pow! I look at the snow on every mountain surrounding Mesquite. I can see my breath. I ponder Rule 9 and wonder again how many of the 150 or so registered riders might actually show up for this Tri-States Gran Fondo. It feels like winter has come to the desert.

The SLOW Sign

I didn't need a sign, or instruction. Or was this sign just mocking me? SLOW. Somehow that struck me as funny. It said SLOW. Was it because I had just caught a glimpse of the road ramping up about a half mile further ahead? I already knew what was coming and I already knew it was going to hurt and I already knew it was going to be slow. Did they have to put a sign right there? The SLOW sign.

SLOW. Any time I hit a grade that ramps up past the single digits I can think about it in any number of positive and self-affirming ways or use any cheesy metaphors I want but the bottom line is: I am going to be slow. I am turning out the weakness. I am finding out who I am. I am listening for hope.  I am reaching into my suitcase full of courage or something like that. How ever I want to spin it for myself, I know I am going to suffer and I know I am going to be slow. I didn't need a sign to tell me this but there it was. The SLOW sign.

This is what I would call the second climb of the three proper climbs for this Tri-States Gran Fondo and I wished I had brought a suitcase full of courage or a Barney bag or something. Here in a moment I was going to find out just who I was and turn out some weakness and find all the hope I ever needed and discover whatever I had in that suitcase whether I liked it or not.

Right here at mile 47 I knew that I was going to climb almost 800 feet in about six miles, which was about the same that I had climbed over the last twelve miles of ramps and rollers, and unfortunately that wasn't going to be the hard part. The hard part was going to be the two steep sections during these next six miles. The hard part was going to be the grades that would reach 16% and the average grade during these two steep sections that would hit 10%. Yes, I was going to find something in my suitcase and I didn't need the SLOW sign to announce it ahead of time.

Beyond the SLOW sign, the autumn colors are beautiful as the trees in the valley are announcing the late arrival of fall at the Eagle Mountain Ranch. Once across the bridge, the road tips up and I need the small ring and top of my cassette right away as I pedal slowly up and away from the horses munching grass by their white fence as they watch me with amusement from the valley floor. I've heard that climbing on a bicycle is more mental than physical and right now I find myself wishing that my legs were as strong as my mind as I alternate grinding out a steady painful tempo while seated and standing as I try to drop the hammer on the burning in my quads.

Up I go as the green grass and cottonwoods give way to the sagebrush, rocks and juniper and I'm struggling to find that magical climbing sweet spot of working hard enough without blowing myself up as I try to put this second of the three proper climbs for this big ride, this Gran Fondo, into perspective. Depending on who you get your information from there's between 7000 and 7500 feet of climbing over about 112 miles. Some of these climbing feet are little rollers and ramps and some of these climbing feet are large rollers and ramps, but almost 5000 of these climbing feet are basically three solid climbs in the small ring and this one is climb number two.

Climb number one ended at roughly mile 27 after slogging up 2779 feet of elevation gain over the course of 16 miles. This climb, climb number two, is not long at only just over six miles and is not tall at just around 800 feet, but this climb has the steeps. And the steeps have the pain-o-meter in my legs pegged as I think about whether or not I am going to have enough left over for climb number three still to come at mile 78. Climb number three is 1440 feet over 7.5 miles at a very steady 6-7% average grade and there's going to be a nice stiff headwind all the way there and all the way up and all the way back down the other side to the finish.

As I think about these three climbs and how they account for about 26% of the miles in this Gran Fondo and that these 26% of the miles account for about 72% of the climbing, I also start to catch my breath and ease off the pedals a bit as the grade slacks some before the final big grinder on this climb number two. I'm about a half mile past the SLOW sign and I've been watching the fluorescent green swatch of reflective wind and waterproof cloth on the shoe covers of the rider that's been about a half a mile in front of me for the last three miles or so and the hypnotic motion has lulled me into not really paying attention to the fact that he's been catching the rider in front of him as I've been slowly reeling him in as well.

I eyeball the hill trying to find the summit a few miles up the road and I eyeball the fluorescent shoe covers bobbing up and down about a half mile in front of me and my logarithmic calculations conspire against the SLOW sign and suddenly it is game on. I decide that I might be slow, but I am going to open up my suitcase full of courage and I am going to catch that rider in front of me with the fluorescent green hypnotic up and down shoe covers. I am going to burn a match. I am going to push a little harder and I am going to catch this guy.

I shift down two cogs as I stand smoothly rocking my bike under me as I gain speed going up this slack section of steep climb number two. A couple of miles roll by and I can't listen for hope anymore because my pulse is pounding so loudly in my ears and my lungs are burning and my legs are wondering who I am but I am going to catch this guy. By the time we get to the really steep part that switchbacks up and out of the valley onto the ridge above, I've captured back about three quarters of the distance I need to close.

My legs are on fire but I am going to catch this guy and knowing that helps me find that little tiny bit of something extra in my suitcase as I take a hard right and stand a bit to pump the pedals and rock the bike smoothly up the hill. I stand and pedal as long as I can stand and pedal until the pain in the top of my thighs demands that I just drop my legs on the pedals to the bottom of each pedal stroke and I do that until I can't stand and drop my legs anymore and the burning in my quads demands that I sit. So I sit and grind and grind and grind using every gear I have as I push and push and push and push and push until the pain in the back of my thighs demands that I stand again and get up this hill.

As the sweat and snot drips from my nose and splatters on my top tube I take a measure of the distance I need to close again. I am almost there. I have almost got him! I feel like I'm breathing glass shards and my legs are melting in the furnace of pain but I am going to catch this guy. I watch his fluorescent green hypnotic pedal strokes up down up down as he alternates sitting and standing and sitting again and I know he knows.

He knows I'm there. He knows I'm turning out the weakness. He knows I'm finding out who I am. He knows I'm going to catch him. I glance up the hill trying to find the summit to measure against the effort to balance against the distance I still need to close as I stand again because my legs are telling me I must and my wheel slips in some gravel and dirt as it tries to find some traction to spend my effort on.

I've got this guy! My legs are screaming so loudly with pain that I can't hear any hope and I know that I am going to catch him right here on this hill. I try to calm my breathing. I am going to catch this guy. I am at that point that I know I am going to pass him as my pulse is thumping loudly in my ears and I know he knows too.

My upper body is rocking slightly as I pull up on the bars to try to give my fading pedal strokes more leverage. My legs are smoldering coals and my heart is pounding in spasms and the sweat and snot is dripping off my nose and chin and splattering on my top tube and thighs. I stand up to give it one last push to reel him in as I shift down a cog and hope I have the breath to say "how's it going?" as I glide smoothly past.

Right when I do all that, I suddenly know that the guy in front of him is his riding buddy. I haven't quite caught him yet, but I'm almost right there as I hear him gasp to his riding buddy "hey! I want to stop and take a picture here" as those hypnotic fluorescent green pedal strokes come screeching to a stop and unclip. When I glide past, I do manage a horse, winded "how's it going?" when what I really want to say is "are you kidding? I was just about to drop you on this climb number two of almost 800 feet over roughly six miles with ramps as steep as 16% and 10% average grades! Why are you stopping???"

I look up again trying to spot the top of this hill as my heart is pounding in my throat so loudly that I can barely hear my legs screaming at me in pain. All that effort and suffering I pulled out of my suitcase and he stopped to take a picture! I burned a match and he stopped to take a picture! I look down at the valley floor to the road where this battle started almost four miles ago and try to catch my breath again as I ease up wishing that Jens was here to tell my legs to shut up. I can't see the SLOW sign. I can't believe he stopped!

I've got about a mile and a half or so to go to get to Veyo Pies and enjoy my deep dish chocolate chip cookie and get some more water and take a turn in the honey bucket, but first I've got to get up this last little bit of this climb number two out of three proper climbs on this Tri-States Gran Fondo. Just a little bit more of climb number two here at around mile 51. Just a little bit more pain. Just a little more suffering. I am turning out the weakness. I am finding out who I am. I am listening for hope. I can't believe he stopped! I can't see the SLOW sign, but I am going slow again.

Humble and Ready

I went out on the bike for 16 miles today. That's not very many miles, but it was pretty cold out there and windy after snowing yesterday for a little bit. It was what I call a skiff of snow. Nothing stayed on the ground and it was gone as soon as it came. Nothing major, just the first snow of the season, off and on all day long and into the evening. So while today looked warm with the bright sun shining, the cold front was here and when I got out there on the bike it was 40 degrees and windy.

I like to ride in the cold. Rule #9 you know. Also my windproof bib tights and jacket make me feel skinny on the bike. They hide my 175 pounds very well and in my mind, I feel like I weigh 150 and can climb like a mountain goat. In fact I was thinking about this the other day during the summer when I saw my reflection as I was walking into a convenience store wearing shorts. The only time I feel or look slim and elegant is on the bike. My knees don't stick out. I don't look bow-legged. My shoulders don't slump. I have a smooth pedal stroke and a nice elbow bend. I don't pass many other riders, but once I passed a guy pedalling up Emigration Canyon, and he said I made it look easy. Nice.

Well today the ride was easy, but it wasn't easy. It was a test ride of sorts, my last ride here in Riverton before I head to Mesquite this weekend to ride in the Tri-States Gran Fondo. I am looking forward to this Gran Fondo. I am looking forward to the 112 miles and the 7500 feet of elevation gain. It is a timed event. I've been looking forward to this ride ever since I didn't do this ride last November, and made up my mind that I would this November. I made up my mind that I would be ready. I made up my mind that I would be strong in November, ready for the distance and ready for the climbs. And now, I'm not sure if I am ready.

I feel like I might have gallstones. Or broken ribs. It hurts. That's why the easy ride today wasn't too easy. That's why it was a test ride. I'm not sure what's wrong, but a few days ago the upper right side of my torso started hurting about five inches under my armpit. It got worse over the last two days, so much so that it really hurts to breathe in deeply, or hiccup, snort or cough. It was very uncomfortable last night and I could only sleep on my left side because it hurt so bad. When I press on my ribs there, they feel like they are broken and when I breath deep the pain radiates into my shoulder blade and trapezius muscle. It feels like Spock is pinching my neck. So today was a test ride. Today was a ride to see if I could ride.

I can ride. I'm going on the ride, this big ride, this Gran Fondo. I will see a doctor after the ride if I still have the problem, if I still hurt. Things aren't perfect, but I feel like I can do the ride. I know my family has been looking forward to this trip for months, and everything is all set. They are going to have a great time playing in Mesquite, bowling, swimming, eating at the buffets, eating the $5.99 prime rib, playing the mini-golf, in the arcade and just generally hanging out, out of town with dad because he has a bike ride.

So I'm going on the ride and my goal is to not finish last. I don't know how many cyclists will be there. I don't know how hard the climbs will be. I don't know if it's going to rain or shine, be hot or cold, or windy. I just know that I'm going to ride. I'm going to finish. And, as I ride and finish, I am going to feel good and look smooth and graceful on the bike. I may hurt. My side may burn. My legs might ache and get worn out, my wrists may be stiff with my arms going numb and my side about five inches below my armpit might feel like someone is twisting a knife they stabbed me with every time I breath in, but I am going to feel good because I'm riding my bike.

I read Allen Smith's blog, Big Guy On A Bike over the last few days and again tonight. He was writing about setting a new personal best of 11.6 miles on his bike in Marietta, Georgia. Kudos to him, because he is a big guy on a bike and he's out there lapping everybody sitting on the couch, falling in his clipless pedals and sweating out a new personal best of 11.6 miles. I read his blog and am humbled. I read his blog and realize it's easy to forget how we got started, how we might have struggled and how far we may or may not have come as a cyclist.

It reminds me of my first false flat and being in the small ring and the 25 tooth cog and barely able to keep a descent cadence even if at that time I didn't know what cadence was. It reminds me of my first time trying to pedal up and over an overpass, using every gear I had and almost having to get off and walk the bike. It reminds me of the shame I felt during my first Tour de Riverton, when I had to get off the bike and walk it up the last quarter mile of the hill to the corner of the valley on the Bacchus Highway and having to admit that to my wife. It reminds me of my first long ride of 25 miles on the closed course of the Salt Lake City Marathon, and how I rode so ploddingly slow that the 5K winner passed me, then I passed him, then he passed me again, before I finally passed him again and beat him to the finish.

It reminds me of my first ride up Suncrest, and how I thought I was going to die as my heart exploded out of my chest and my legs went numb with pain. It reminds me of my first ride up Butterfield Canyon, and how many times I had to stop and recoup before I could plod on a little bit more before I had to stop and recoup before I could plod on a little bit more before I had to stop and recoup. It reminds me of my first race, riding up City Creek Canyon and being the last road bike up the hill to the top, my legs screaming for mercy. It reminds me of my first really long ride of 69 miles, and how I barely made it, how much pain my body was in, how bad my legs and knees hurt for days afterwards and how I could barely walk, talk or breathe when I finished.

And now I remember noticing a while back that I have calves for the first time in my life. I remember passing a few guys out on the road this season, up and down hills, in and out of canyons and around town. I remember climbing hills that I used to think were hard, thinking how easy they are now. I remember racing up to Minnetonka Cave in the big ring and passing quite a few riders slogging up the hill in their small ring. Racing up City Creek Canyon this year, I passed a few racers and held another off at the finish before drinking my soup and heading back down in the snow and rain before flatting on a sharp rock toward the bottom.

I have come a long long way, one pedal stroke at a time, from my very very humble beginnings as a cyclist, and I am ready for the Tri-States Gran Fondo this weekend. My hard easy 16 miles on the bike today showed me that I can ride through the pain in my side and back and the Spock pinch in my neck. The legs are good and I can breathe well enough to pedal 112 miles and climb 7500 feet of hills. The mind is ready and I am strong enough to ride this ride and see my family cheering me on at the finish. I am humble and I am ready. I can finish this Gran Fondo. It is a timed event and I just don't want to finish last.

The Naked Stem

61 degrees Fahrenheit. Calm wind. I'm planning on riding today for about twenty-three to twenty-five miles, or so. I've got about an hour before I can leave, and the ride I'm planning will be mostly flat, with only about 407 feet of elevation gain. In other words, this will be an easy ride and that's exactly what I need today.

Moments ago, I spent about seven minutes and removed the computer from the old bike, just like I promised myself I would. And, this ride today is going to be on the old bike. It's amazing how hard it is to get two sided tape itself and the subsequent residue off of aluminum, but it's all gone now, the computer sensors, mounts, o-rings, magnets, etc. stored away in my top desk drawer in my office with all my other bike stuff odds and ends.

When I was rubbing the residue off the top of my stem, it dawned on me that I can't even remember the last time I rode a bike with a naked stem like that. It looks pretty darned sleek. It looks pretty darned naked. Thin and aero. Retro, yet modern.

The Shimano Dura-Ace HS-7200 quill stem is not seen often in these modern times of integrated 1 1/8" headsets, in fact it's becoming quite uncommon to see quill stems at all on road bikes any more. But, what a beautiful design. The one on the old bike is one of the newer older ones, probably from 1982 to 1983, when Shimano was moving from the Dura-Ace 7200 to Dura-Ace 7400 era, which in my mind, is the high water mark for bicycle componentry and technological advance. It is the era that spelled the end of the dominance of down-tube shifters, ushered in index shifting and integrated shifter and brake levers to the masses.

Around that time, Shimano 600 became Shimano Ultegra, and the Dura-Ace HS-7200 was the last of a breed of components that resembled works of art as much as they functioned as superb mechanical components. This is the stem with the hidden clamp bolt. Ingenious and beautiful. All stems of this era were manufactured for Shimano by Nitto, which did, and still does, a superb job of manufacturing stems and bars in Japan.

When I took the computer base off this stem of mine on the old bike, I saw the beauty of that stem again. I had forgotten how classic, how noble, how sleek it looked, and how obvious the craftsmanship is that was poured into that stem by someone almost thirty years ago that really cared about what they were doing. That stem, that beauty and craftsmanship, has been there all the time I've been riding the old bike, it's just that I forgot it was there as I was busy measuring things that don't really matter, and busy trying to measure things that aren't really measurable when riding the old bike.

So today, I'm going to go riding for a while, and I'm going to be admiring the beauty and craftsmanship of that old stem on the old bike again for the first time. I'm going to be looking at it a lot and not just to admire it either, but because almost three thousand miles of riding the old bike over the past year has trained me to look there. It has trained me to look there to see how my cadence is doing, to see how fast I am riding, to see how far I have come, to see how far I have to go and to see what my computer has been telling me about my riding, about my trips and about myself.

I don't know what looking at my stem is going to tell me today. I won't find any data there. I won't see any flashing little arrows or squares egging me on to not waste my time on the bike. I won't find my speed or my cadence or my time or the time there. Maybe the goal today will be to simply enjoy the ride. To simply admire the beauty of one of the few remaining days of fall that won't be a little too cold. To see some leaves and smell some fireplace smells as I ride along not knowing my cadence or speed or time or the time. Maybe that's the idea. Maybe just enjoying the beauty of the day and the beauty of the old bike is the idea after all. Today when I look down at my stem, I'm going to be admiring the artistry and craftsmanship of a beautiful component manufactured almost thirty years ago by someone who cared about what they were doing. It mattered to them, and it matters to me. And I think that is going to be OK.

What To Measure?

58 miles yesterday, with almost 17 miles of climbing (that's 29.30% of the total miles) over three climbs. Two climbs reached average grades of 9% and sandwiched between them was one climb reaching a 6% average. Since I am a hill-slug, it took me four hours and forty-seven minutes to accomplish this epic ride. My average speed was 12.14 mph with an average cadence of 71 rpm. Top speed for the ride reached 47.54 mph. And, there was some rain, sleet and a tiny sprinkling of snow and then finally a good steady rain that made me decide to cut the ride a bit shorter than planned.

When I reached the reservoir up the canyon, it was raining hard enough for the fishermen to be packing up and leaving, and since I could see my breath, I decided to head back down the canyon too. It got cold gliding down the 1356 feet I had just ascended, and in the wet the leaves on the road weren't crunching anymore but thankfully they did lessen the rooster tail spray coming off the rear wheel and skunk-stripping my back. I wondered how my face got a little pink on my nose and cheeks, because I didn't really see any sun all day. Maybe it was the cold. Or the wind. Or the windy cold. And, the cold, wet ride back down the canyon made me even more grateful for my wife; a wife that sees the wisdom in having the right mix of colder weather gear and springs for it on your birthday and holidays. I love my wife.

I got out of the canyon and realized that even down here the weather had turned colder and the wind had picked up substantially. It was now a strong wind from dead north and quite cutting and cold. I had no way to measure the wind speed, but it felt like 20 mph and was slowing me down noticeably. Unfortunately, my whole ride back home was going to be spent struggling against this wind and I looked up to visually measure the last hill of the day. 3.99 miles and 1058 feet of ascent and all pushing this wind. I decided to keep my rain jacket on and the cap under my helmet too and only stop and take them off before I started the climb proper.

Right before turning right and heading straight north against the bitter wind, and straight up the climb, I stopped and took an hour of paid time off from work. Thank goodness for windows phones. I had taken another visual measure of the hill and a physical measure of the wind, felt the cold and the fatigue in my legs and shoulders and lower back and realized that I was probably going to be getting home later than planned, and probably wouldn't be at work on time either.

Without the jacket and the cap, the wind was biting even harder, cutting through my arm warmers and jersey, evaporating the sweat that was there and taking things to another level of cold. It looked like the sun had about an hour's life left, but it was hard to tell with the slate grey sky that gets that way from just bringing a rub of storm clouds down close to the ground. I wondered if I was in store for more rain, and the wind had already dried me out and thoroughly cooled me down.

Once heading straight north and up, the bitter wind intensified. It was no longer pushing me back and slowing me down, it was now fighting me, howling in mockery and bitterly cold. It was pushing so hard against my efforts that I couldn't hold the bike in a straight line and I hoped I wouldn't stray into an overtaking side-view mirror. It wasn't steady either, instead gusting frequently like punches, as if rushing down this hill made it want to frolic and play even more. I used every gear I had and wished I had another as I ground my way up the hill fighting gravity and the force of nature.

It takes a bit of time to go 3.99 miles at around 4.5 mph, so I had plenty of time to think. As I watched my cadence, I was amazed at how few revolutions per minute I could actually eek out without tipping over. It felt like with only one or two more percent of grade, the pedal strokes would stop and I would be laying on the ground wondering if I had scratched anything on my bike. There's only a few songs that echo around in my head when I ride, and since I only know a few verses and parts of the chorus, its a pretty monotonous concert to myself. Fortunately the message is always a good one.

When you're going up a hill and the wind is whipping down, it gets accelerated along smartly by the road cuts, ravines and any other funneling device it can find in order to conspire against you. I settled in to the uncomfortable grind and pushed and pushed and pushed. I could feel the lactic acid building up in my legs, in spite of my slow cadence. Sweat was dripping off my nose and chin, and I was amazed by that in the cold and wind. This was hard work. And cold.

I remember this climb well. I've been up the front and back side of this hill many times. The back side is easier - 1.01 fewer miles and 450 less feet of ascent. I like the back side a lot better, except when I don't. And, today I don't. It feels twice as long and twice as steep as normal with the bitter wind conspiring with my enemy gravity. My legs are hurting. I'm wondering why I go on rides like this. Why do I need to tackle 4580 feet of ascent, especially on a day that is this cold and windy? I spit and realize I can't feel my lips any more.

I remember climbing this hill on the old bike and I am grateful that today I'm on the new(er) bike. Gearing is my friend, and while it hurts going up this hill no matter what bike I'm on, somehow the hurting is a little more sufferable on this bike. My last ride on the old bike, there was only 1050 feet of elevation gain and nothing over a 6% average grade, and that was hard enough. The old bike is an old bike. The frameset is from 1995 and all of the components are the Dura-Ace 7400/7402/7403/7410 series from the late 80's early 90's. The old bike is 100% alloy and "heavy" at 20 lbs. The old bike has a standard crank and a 12/23 HG90 cassette. It is hard for me to pedal the old bike up hills.

I love the old bike. From a distance of three feet, it looks almost brand new. Closer and you can spot the use. I call it my museum piece - my tribute to Shimano Dura-Ace and William "Bill" Lewis of the Quattro Assi brand. For some, it IS about the bike, and for those kinds of cyclists, there is a level of appreciation bordering on awe when they admire this bike. I can't ride it around other cyclists without receiving compliments and it is a pleasure to have it out on a ride. The precision and crispness is amazing and it feels like a brand new machine.

The last time I rode the old bike the computer stopped working. It still measures cadence, but the battery in the other sensor died and I finished the last half of my ride without data. That bothered me. Then I wondered if I should just take the computer off the old bike and when I ride it, just ride it for the simple and plain enjoyment of riding? What do I really need data for anyway? What am I really trying to measure on the old bike?

Do I really need to know that I put 2,859 miles on the old bike this year? Does that matter? Do I really need to know that my all time top speed on a seventeen year old bike with tires less than an inch wide is just a tick over 57 mph? Does that matter? What am I really trying to measure on the old bike? Can my computer tell me if I'm improving as a cyclist? Does that data mean more than my wife telling me that my legs are looking really good. I love my wife. That's good feedback! Can a computer measure how hard it was the first time I rode up a false flat and had to use the small ring and the 25 tooth cog? Can a computer remember that I couldn't even walk up three steps from the garage to the kitchen without taking a breather when I got out of the hospital right before Thanksgiving two years ago? Can a computer measure the cramp in my leg bicep I got while doing that?

What am I trying to accomplish on the old bike and does a computer help me do that? Is it measureable? Is a computer going to give me an extra minute or two, an extra week or two, or an extra year or two on my lifespan? My baby is eleven months old and when he's 21, I'll be 70. My bike will help me get there, but can a computer measure that on my old bike? Can it measure the feelings or sensations of a great ride? Or a hard ride? Or skipping a ride?

Can a computer measure how delighted my kids are when I return safely from a ride on the old bike? Or how my baby likes to eat and will eat anything he finds or that I feed him. Can it measure how much he likes to play with my hat or turn the crank on my bike when it sits in the stand in my office? Or how much fun it is for him, or how messy it is for me, when he grabs the chain or the crank or the cogs? Can it measure the fact that I've seen him standing now a few times, but only for a bit, and how I haven't seen him walk yet but I'm sure that he has? What am I really measuring on my old bike and why is it important?

Is riding the old bike about miles, time, average speed, current or average cadence? Does it make the ride on the old bike any more enjoyable, or painful, or prettier or anything when I know that data? And how about the new(er) bike? Has knowing that I've ridden the new bike 2,028 miles since I built it (thanks Laketown Bicycles) this spring make those miles any better than they would have been without knowing them?

I've spent 136 hours riding the new bike around this season, up and down hills, against and with headwinds, around the city, in the country, up and down the canyons, and even in the ball field parking lot doing sprints near my house when I'm real short on time. I've spent 191 hours riding the old bike doing the same thing. That's 327 hours this year riding my bikes. That's 13.625 days worth of time. Almost two weeks. Is a computer going to make that two weeks even better? Any better? Is a computer going to make sure that I get that investment back on the tail end of my lifespan?

No wonder my wife asks me "how long are you going to ride this time?" every time I go out. I love my wife. Does she have a computer that is measuring whether or not the time away from her and the family is going to be worth the time away from her and the family? Can a computer measure that? Is that two weeks so far this year going to mean an extra two weeks when we are growing old together? Or an extra two years of growing old together? Or a decade?

As I top the hill in the windy cold, dripping with sweat, greatful that I'm on the new bike and not the old bike, and stop to put back on my cap and rain jacket, I decide that I'm going to take the computer off the old bike. It doesn't really "fit" on the old bike. It doesn't really measure what's important on the old bike. I'm going to keep it though, just in case I decide later that I want to put it back on after I buy a new battery for the sensor. But, I'm going to take it off the old bike. I have decided that the things that are important when I am riding the old bike, the computer can't really measure anyway.

I notice that at the top of this hill, it seems less windy than it was coming up this brutal hill. And, once I'm ready to go and glide down the 1508 feet over the next five miles of descent, I realize that the wind, while still blowing pretty good, might be calm enough to really reach some good speed on the way down. Yes, I'm definitely going to take the computer off the old bike I decide as I clip in and quickly shift down the cassette to the 11 tooth cog.

Five miles go by pretty quick at over 40 mph. The descent is over much too soon, the gusty wind and bitter cold and steady rain long and quickly forgotten. With a numb face and salty tear streaked eyes and cheeks at the stoplight at the bottom of the hill, I quickly scroll through the computer on my new bike as I wait in line with traffic for the light to change for my left turn to head home. Six miles to go and 47.54 mph on the way down. Somehow knowing that has suddenly made this descent, these hills and climbs and other descents on this 58 mile ride seem just a little bit better, a little more special. I scroll through again. 47.54 mph with a headwind and traffic.

When I get home and put the new bike in it's stand in my office, I look over at the old bike hanging from the ceiling. I look at the computer that is still on the old bike and pop of the head unit. I scroll through the data - look at the measurements - remember my last ride on the old bike. I put the head unit back on and remember that I decided, while grinding my way up that last hill against a killer headwind with sweat dripping and with my thighs screaming mercy, that I am going to take it off the old bike. And, I am going to take it off the old bike. I am.

Recovery Ride

There is that little nagging voice, in a very quiet tap tap tapping on the back of my helmet. This is a "recovery ride" and it's supposed to be easy. Real easy. I have read somewhere that if it's a recovery ride, and it doesn't feel like it's super way too easy, then you are doing it all wrong. Well, this is a recovery ride and it feels like it is super way too easy. I keep trying to tell myself that if it feels way to easy, then I am doing it right. And that quiet, nagging voice keeps tapping on my helmet, telling me that I am wasting my time on the bike right now. I'm doing it wrong. Quiet, soft, nagging, tapping - like a dripping faucet, or a ticking clock when you desperately don't want to hear anything. I am wasting my time.

I look down at my cassette. Five from the top. 19 teeth on that cog. That should equate to about 16 mph. Tired cyclists are always looking down at their cassette, as if that will give them an excuse, or justify how they are feeling. You see it at all levels. But I'm not tired. I feel like I'm barely working here. I look down at my cassette again. A habit formed from being tired on the bike a lot. I wonder what I am trying to find down there? Is there, down at my cassette, some way to mute that nagging, tapping, quiet voice that is telling me I'm doing this all wrong, that I'm wasting my time on the bike?

My mind wanders back to the Marine Corps. It's 1985 again, and it's my first time being selected for patrol instead of a post. B Company is guarding the Naval Magazine in Subic Bay, and instead of standing at a post for four hours every eight hours for seven straight days, this time I get to wander around the jungle with three other squad members looking for intruders and I am excited. All my gear is ready. Live ammo. Weapon spotless. And, it's raining hard and humid. We are dropped off in the dark, and drop into the jungle, our mission tonight: go to the coastline, recon north for seven miles until we can just spot Papa 32 and sit the evening out watching the coast for banca boats trying to infiltrate the Naval Magazine. Unfortunately, I'm the newb so I get to carry the radio. It is Christmas Eve.

I look down at my cassette again. I'm trying to do this recovery ride right and now I'm on the 22 tooth cog trying to make this ride feel way too easy. 16 mph on a flat, smooth road and a cadence of 90. That little quiet voice keeps tapping on my helmet and makes me look down at my cassette again. Very very easy and nothing has changed. And still I feel this overwhelming sense of urgency to not waste my time on the bike so I check the bend in my arms and correct that to the proper angle. I check my pedal stroke and smooth that out to gentle circles. Pedal in circles, not squares. To not waste my time on the bike, I decide to work on my pedal stroke and arm angles for the whole ride. It will require constant focus and I look down at my cassette again.

As soon as we dropped down into the triple canopy jungle the rain stopped even as it was still coming down. I'm not sure how you can increase something that is already at 100%, but it got twice as humid and twice as wet and twice as dark as when we could feel the rain and the ground was a damp, weird kind of muddy that was hard and slow to walk in. Right away there were these little piles everywhere like stalagmites in a cave, not more than a foot or so tall. Water buffalo droppings? Droppings from a wild boar? We steered around them as we alternated walking over bare, muddy ground and chopping our way through all manner of plants, vines and bamboo. We had three miles to the shore line, and it was slow going.

Heading north into a headwind, I check the bend in my elbows and correct them again, trying to find a position for my hands on the hoods that makes everything feel just right. I make sure I have a quiet upper body. No motion at all. I make sure I'm pedalling in circles. I look down at my cassette again wanting to mute that tapping nagging that I am wasting my time on the bike. There is a headwind and 25 teeth on the cog and 12 mph. I'm thinking about last year when I went out to Miller Motorsports Park to watch the professionals riding in the Tour of Utah compete in the race of truth. One of the last guys out of the box was Levi Leipheimer and my respect for him grew immensely over the span of about five minutes as I watched him wait for his turn to start.

In comparison to the other riders that I had just spent the last two hours watching as they started, Levi was a study in focus. He sat quietly like a coiled spring, looking down most of the time, and it was obvious he was regulating his breathing. He was still and quiet, and it was obvious he was intensely thinking about what was coming up on the bike. He was focused like a laser beam.

As he got closer to his time up, it seemed to me that he got more and more nervous. But it was nervous in a good way - bridled and under control - like a spring getting wound tighter and tighter. There was no jovial chit chat, no laughing and goofing around, nothing extraneous about him at all. Just a laser beam focus and more intense effort to regulate his breathing. That impressed me. He was taking this serious and was obviously going to give this his absolute best effort. I was amazed.

After that I started watching him race when I could find it on television. I started paying attention to his riding. What I noticed was a perfect angle on the elbows. A perfect angle that never wavered. Never changed. I noticed a smoothness to his efforts on the bike. I noticed his absolutely quiet upper body, no matter the circumstance or level of effort.

What before I found boring, I now found fascinating. What a stoic rider. What a study in discipline and control. What a study of how to ride smoothly. I look down at my cassette. 19 teeth and 16 mph. That quiet nagging voice is still there tapping my helmet. Again, I check the bend in my elbows and make a correction, calm my upper body and smooth my pedal stroke into circles. I wonder how long I had been pedaling in squares - how much of this ride have I wasted with the wrong elbow bend.

As we move closer to the coast line the stalagmite piles on the ground are getting taller. Soon it's obvious that no animal in the jungle could drop these, but insects could build them. The ground is wetter with every step and the mud makes it's way into the boots which doesn't really matter because everything is so wet. It doesn't take long for blisters to form on my thumb and knuckles. Hacking bamboo with a bolo knife is hard work and my shoulders are burning. When we finally find the coastline, we find the rain again and feel a hot clinging breeze that climbs it's way into our nostrils with it's salty wet garbage smell.

Seven miles along the coastline feels like seven hundred. There is no place to walk. We end up in the ocean, trying hard not to break our ankles on the rocks that are everywhere you want to take a step. I have never been so wet or fallen over so many times. I am amazed that the radio still works and wonder if our weapons would should the need arise. Over and over falling down, hitting shins, forearms and elbows on rocks and boulders of every size, and finally there is Papa 32, one hundred feet up in the air and about a mile away. This is where we will spend the night.

When I turn east with my elbows at the perfect angle and pedaling in circles, I'm going on a very slight downhill. I look at my cassette. 15 teeth on that cog and 25 mph. When I turn south it levels out and it's back to 22 teeth. 15 mph. That little nagging tapping is telling me it's too easy at the same time I'm trying to make it feel like it's too easy. Well, south means a tailwind today so I look down at my cassette and find myself alternating between 19 and 17 teeth, between 16 and 20 mph. And then that little arrow catches my eye. At 20 mph it's pointing up. At 16 mph it's pointing down. At 17 mph, it's a little square or pointing down. I realize that I'm close to averaging 18 mph on a recovery ride just as I notice that my arms are straight and I'm pedaling in squares. I look down at my cassette as I correct the bend in my elbows and smooth out the circles of my pedal stroke.

It doesn't take long to realize that we are not going to see any intruders out here on the rocks tonight. Everything we have is wet, so we find the most comfortable boulders we can and kick back to watch the water. The radio still works and now it's off my back and out of my pack. There's a burning pinch at the base of my neck between my shoulder blades from carrying the pack, gear and radio through the jungle and down the coastline. There is also beef stew or chicken-ala-king or something, crackers and jelly and an orange nut cake from an MRE for dinner on Christmas Eve. The pouch of fruit cocktail is ripped open and propped on a rock so the rain can quickly rehydrate the freeze dried contents right before it tips over and the contents dribble down a boulder and into the ocean.

When I turn west, I'm on that little 2 to 3% incline that almost always means I'm heading home. It doesn't feel too easy now and the nagging voice has stopped whispering. I can feel a little tiny twinge of lactic acid in the tops of my quads and I look down at my cassette. 25 teeth and 13 mph. For the first time on this recovery ride, I notice my breathing. I'm watching that arrow. It is pointing down. That little down arrow is egging me on. Down down down. That little tapping voice is back, louder now saying down down down. Mentally I fight back remembering that this is a recovery ride and it's suppose to feel way too easy. I check the elbows and smooth the circles and quiet my upper body. I slow my cadence to 80 and look at my cassette. 25 teeth and 12 mph. The arrow is pointing down.

It's almost three in the morning (or oh-three-hundred) and we sing some Christmas carols in the rain while we sit on the boulders on the shoreline. It seems we all know a lot of first verses to a lot of different songs and soon find ourselves struggling to come up with any we haven't already sung. On a radio check, we are asked if we have seen Santa and his sleigh and we acknowledge "affirmative" we believe we may have but it was hard to tell in the rain. We take turns sleeping. When it's my turn to watch, it becomes obvious that if you stare in one place long enough, and it doesn't take very long, you start to see things that aren't really there, just like they taught us. So I spend my awake time in the rain practicing watching in a figure eight pattern amazed at how good my night vision is. In the morning there is nothing to pack up because nothing was unpacked so we put the packs on and head over to Papa 32, tripping and toppling on the boulders and rocks on the shoreline, our ankles, shins and elbows sore from the night before.

When I turn south again it's mostly that very slight downhill with a tailwind and I look at my cassette. 15 teeth and 24 mph, but pretty soon I'm spinning that out and that little arrow is pointing up. Up up up. I think about 18 mph. Is that average too fast for a recovery ride? I look at the arrow. I look at my cassette. 13 teeth and 27 mph. My elbows are good. My upper body is still. I am pedaling circles. I get in the drops. The little arrow is pointing up. My quads have that little twinge of lactic acid even while going slightly downhill. I look at my cassette. 12 teeth and 29 mph. I flick my right hand. 11 teeth and 31 mph. The road is level, but there's a tailwind. I want to see how long I can hold this around 30 mph on this way too easy recovery ride. There is enough ride left to average 18 mph. I fix the bend in my elbows and concentrate on smooth circles at a cadence of 86. The little arrow is pointing up.

As we head for our pick up at Papa 32 our squad leader smashes the business end of a bolo knife down on the base of his thumb while chopping on some bamboo. The bleeding and the pouring rain and the mud and the screaming conspire to make quite a mess and we quickly realize this is going to be an emergency and radio for help. The squad leader is in shock as he is crawling around looking for his thumb and we sit him down and take his pack. We start looking for his thumb too and then realize it is down his sleeve and still attached by the thinnest piece of gristle so we wrap his hand and take turns carrying him, his pack and weapon to Papa 32.

The blood and the mud and the rain make a messy hard time even harder. This is one of those times where hurrying is really slowing us down and he is losing a lot of blood and quickly getting to the point of needing a lot of help. I'm thinking I've never carried something so heavy so far as I'm carrying my squad leader this morning. The burning pinch at the base of my neck between my shoulder blades becomes a roaring fire and I think my head is going to pop off. It feels like I have a pitch fork stuck in my back at the base of my neck and my legs are screaming with pain.

I look down at my cassette, this time because I am getting tired. 12 teeth 26 mph and I flick my right hand again. 13 teeth 26, 25 then 24 mph. My legs are burning with a good burn of working one hard, not too hard, but I know the speed is winding down and when I turn west again I will lose the tailwind as I find the 2 to 3% incline for the next two miles. I check my elbows, smooth my circles and get up on the hoods. I look at the little arrow. My recovery ride has morphed into something else. Something with a goal. 18 mph. I hear that nagging, soft, tapping voice again, clearer this time though. I turn west and shift up the cassette. 19 teeth and 16 mph. 22 teeth and 15 mph. I watch that arrow pointing down and forget to bend my elbows. My upper body starts to move a little bit, rocking a little bit in time to my pedal stroke. My circles get a little more square and my quads start to burn a little bit more. That quiet, nagging voice isn't as quiet. The tap tap tapping becomes a little more insistent. I look down at my cassette, not wanting to waste my ride. My quads are burning. I look down at my cassette because I'm tired.

I'm watching that little arrow. It keeps pointing down. I look at my cassette and I am breathing harder now. I check my elbows, try to calm my upper body. 19 teeth on the cog and 16 mph. The little arrow is pointing down. The tap tap tapping on my helmet is back, that quiet nagging voice is quietly nagging me. Don't waste your time on the bike. I glance at the little arrow and it is pointing down. I find myself riding south again - tailwind and flat as I look at my cassette. 19 teeth and 17 mph and I decide to push it a little more. 17 teeth and 19 mph. I glance at the little arrow and it is pointing up. My legs are burning in circles and my elbows forget to bend correctly as my upper body rocks slightly in time with my squared off circles of pedal strokes. I flick my right hand. 15 teeth and 20 mph. 21 mph. 22 mph. I look at the little arrow and it is pointing up. The tailwind is gone as I out run it. My quads are burning now and I am breathing hard. I look down at my cassette because I am tired. 15 teeth and 21 mph. 22 mph. 23 mph. The little arrow is pointing up and I look down at my cassette.

When I get home I hold off braking till the last possible second, trying not to scrub off my average speed. Once stopped, I reflect on this easy "recovery" ride after scrolling through my computer while the smouldering embers of lactic acid in my quads dies down. Average cadence 86. 16.81 miles. 54 minutes and some change. Top speed 31.29 mph. Average speed 18.46 mph. That quiet, nagging voice is right there tapping and now I can hear it clearly over the pulse thumping in my ears. I look down at my cassette as beads of sweat drip from my nose to splatter and stain my top tube and I can hear exactly what that quiet voice is saying: "A day without pushing yourself is a wasted day." I scroll back to the average speed. 18.46 mph. Again, I hear that quiet voice: "A day without pushing yourself is a wasted day," and I realize it's Gunnie Bartlett, tap tap tapping on my helmet and telling me the exact same thing that he told me when he tapped on my helmet that muddy, wet and bloody Christmas morning in the Marine Corps back in 1985 when he picked us up at Papa 32.

Wedding Bells

So, the last time I rode my bike, it really dawned on me that my oldest daughter, Darci, is getting married. It is beginning to sink in, especially since we discussed having a wedding cake made out of Ho-Hos and other Hostess type treats. I had originally found out (she called and told me) on August 7th, and that evening I was hard at work hardly working and posted some thoughts on Facebook. I really love cycling, even recycling, so I thought I would take this opportunity to share them again here:

My daughter is getting married. I found out last night. I can't say that I was surprised, and I am happy for her and Josh. I was and still am kind of at a loss for words. I'm a little scared for her, because I know how hard being married can be, even if you have the most wonderfullest spouse on the planet. I don't feel like Im "letting go" because I feel like I "let go" a long time ago. I guess I am just hoping that I have been a good enough dad and Dawn a good enough mom that somehow that helps.

I find myself thinking about a lot of memories now. I guess I'm melancoly. I remember Darci's short modeling career. Her running down Cole Road barefoot on a snowy day as I drove back from the mall (she was looking for me). Her and Brian rolling out of the driveway in their car seats and backing into the neighboors tree across the street. Going to Moxie Java and hanging out. All the hikes and trips and swimming at the Greenwell Inn in Price.

The balloon ride on her 8th birthday. Going to Lagoon. Riding her bike. Riding in my backpack. Mall walking. Walking on the river parkway. Camping. The struggles in school. Trying to learn how to count money (quarters even!). Christmas in New Mexico when Santa Claus came. A closeness that grew slowly and gradually into a distance that became and still is uncomfortable.

I remember Easter in Bryce Canyon. The constant driving for Dawn back and forth to Tooele. The cloud factory. If you give a mouse a cookie. Getting her ears pierced, multiple times. Slumber parties with Bullfrogs and Butterflies. AWANA. All the coulda woulda shouldas that I didn't. How much Sami looked like Darci when they were very little. The surprise that she was coming in 9 months. How much she liked popcorn before she could really walk. The helpless feeling of watching her grow up.

I remember the Googies and the Googie Woods. I remember the trips out on the boat. I remember her doing the dishes (not very well). I remember her moving back to Kuna. I remember her hoarding food? I remember Dawn and you hiking out of Horseshoe Canyon.

I remember "Where the Sidewalk Ends." I remember feeling like I was going to explode trying to teach you how to read. I remember sledding in the snow, and hunting for Christmas trees. I remember telling you that "If I'm late, I'm dead."

I remember taking you trick or treating, and how it always seemed to rain and be super cold. I remember you going to San Francisco with Dawn, and how you felt like you were such big stuff then.

I remember you coloring Easter eggs and helping bake cookies. I remember feeling that you never had enough clothes or socks or underwear. I was glad that you weren't too trendy and didn't turn into a video game addict. I was glad when it turned out that you loved to read. I remember taking you to Pioneer Bible Camp. I remember taking you and the boys to Sonic Drive In. I remember showing you the Grand Canyon.

I remember you writting your name on the wall with a crayon. It was Dabic. And still is. I remember buying you a Bible, and hoping you would read it. I remember wishing you could live somewhere other than Kuna, and that your world could have been just a little bit bigger. I remember that doll that was so expensive and how the boys cut her hair. I remember you holding a really big snake and riding a roller coaster with me for your first time.

I remember "go for the gusto"

I remember always wondering what you think of me. I remember making many mistakes and hoping you didn't pick up or pick up on them. I remember how much love my mom had for you. I remember you in Tilley Time...ugh. I remember holding you in my arms when you were a baby and wondering how I could live up to this.

I remember not being able to teach you how to drive, or help you get your license. I remember the hand squeezing thing, 1234,123,12, SQUEEEEEZZZZ! I remember you graduating. Going to the circus and drag races (sorry I bored you). Lagoon day. I remember how blue your eyes were when you were little. And holding Zac in the hospital - my favorite picture.

I remember camping at Wasatch Mountain State Park and it snowed and the tent caved in. Then dressing up and riding the Heber Creeper. Spelling words and reading in the car, because we spent so much time there back and forth to school. And how, no matter what, you think I'm a great dad.

I remember having a little baby picture of you taped up on the register at the Orange Julius. I remember making dog food for you to eat one night, because you were always complaining about my gourmet meals. And teaching you how to skip rocks in the water. And looking at petroglyphs and pictographs and trying to teach you the difference between the two. And hiking down Jones Hole. And Fisher Towers. And Negro Bill Canyon. And looking at dinosaur footprints at Red Fleet State Park.

And thinking you were way to old for Bullfrogs and Butterflys. And, then being glad when you weren't.

I remember shooting you off my shoulders in the swimming pool, and that you were first to learn how to swim. I remember you always wanted to wear goggles. I remember that you were the only kid that the water backpack actually fit on. I remember that I was really gonna learn how to braid hair and use pretty bows and ponys, but I never did. I remember painting your fingernails. I remember when you first drank coffee.

I remember that blue/daisey bean bag chair and how the cat always peed on it. I remember when we got your hair cut short. And when we colored it. I remember Dawn helping you a lot with math and other school stuff. I remember how you were/are a GREAT daughter to Dawn - she couldn't ask for more. I remember how I wished you could be more like me, and now I wish that you could be less like me. And Im sure there is a lot that I forgot and can't remember.

And, I remember just how much I love you. I want the best for you.