Spring Training Refraining

If you work at a bike shop then you’re probably like me: a seriously die hard, hard-core cyclist to the core. And there’s no time of year where this is more apparent than in the late winter/early spring, weeks before your first ride. You’re bursting with optimism, impetus, and enthusiasm, and in preparation for the riding season ahead, while the snow is still on the ground, without missing a single day, not a single day, rain or shine, hell or high water, dusk or dawn, you elaborate in great detail on how much, unlike last year, you are going to ride.

You resolutely declare that this year is going to be different, and you mean it. You’re not going to miss a single group mountain bike ride or group road bike ride. You’re going to ride a century—no, two centuries—every month. You’re going to compete in the race of truth every week in the Stowe Bike Club’s time trial. You’re going to race your mountain bike each week at Catamount. You’re going to race your mountain bike each week at Morse Farm. You’re going to commute, rain or shine, hell or high water, five days a week. And to really show ‘em, you’re only going to drink beer on special occasions. And on weekends, of course. And on Wednesdays. But that is it, because this is the year when you come back.

And before you know it, and before you are even remotely ready, you’re all geared up for the first group ride, and everyone is there. You’ve got the leg warmers on, the bottom edge adjusted ever so carefully above your three-quarter length socks so as to reveal your freshly shaved legs. You’ve got the arm warmers on, logos facing outward. You’ve stretched a balaclava underneath a ridiculously expensive helmet that you got on pro deal. You’re rocking the Peter Heater and you’re sporting a fresh pair of booties. A meticulously rolled up shell, a spare tube and a CO2 inflator, three Gu shots and a Powerbar bulge out of your rear jersey pocket, and you’ve tastefully finished off the ensemble with a pair of lobster mitt gloves. You cast a smug glance at the new guy, whose leg hair and toe clips stand in great contrast to your contemporary roadie style like an ’80s hair band at a yacht club. When the pack rolls out of the parking lot, you’re already thinking about that first town line sprint. During those first few miles, while you’re spinning your legs and boasting about how many hours you’ve spent on a trainer, you feel great, and at that very moment, you know that this is going to be the year when you come back.

A few miles out of town, the pace picks up. Social time is over. A pace line forms. Your heart rate starts to climb, but you’ll soon get into a rhythm and surely, any minute now, your pounding chest will settle down, so you’re not concerned. You’ve just got some rust to shake off, that’s all. You may be, perhaps, a tad overdressed—the lobster mitts might have been overkill—but otherwise, you’re all there. Toe-clip-leg-hair guy is taking rather hard pulls, driving the pace a bit out of your comfort zone, but that’s okay, because you know that any minute now, he’ll be off the back. He doesn’t know how to ride in a group. You do. He’s not a hard-core cyclist. You are. A few miles later, as expected, he gets blown off. As he fades away, sucking pond water, you cast a glance over your shoulder and give him your own version of “The Look,” and even though you missed your chance to win the town line sprint, it was worth it. You’ve reached the high point of the ride. Now it is time to come crashing down to earth.

Halfway into the ride, you’re close to the red zone, but you’re still there, and you fight to not get dropped on the climb before the turnaround, and you succeed. You recover on the descent, but at the bottom the pace line reforms and becomes a lot more spirited, and within three rotations you’re pedaling squares and hanging by a thread. After your next pull, you peel away and fall off the train and are left for dead. You gave it everything you’ve got, and there’s nothing left, and you’re way out on Route 12.

Disheartened, dispirited, you press on, alone. The first ride of the season has resulted in a resounding bonk. Twelve miles from town, your optimism, impetus, and enthusiasm have been replaced with anguish, desolation, and disgrace. And it is at that moment, when you’ve hit your lowest point, when aside from a flat, things couldn’t get any worse, when you notice a lonely figure in the distance: Toe clip-leg hair guy. And at that moment, to really show ’em, you resolutely declare that as far as drinking beer is concerned, Wednesdays are now out.