When I first started cycling, it was January. It was cold. Actually, it was *freezing!* I showed up to my first ride with the retiree group carrying a 30-year-old Bridgestone (a “10-speed” with just 2 working gears), driving a 15-year-old pine-sap-stained beater, wearing ski pants. Not one of the old guys in the retiree group batted an eye. The most that was said? “Soooooo… you like skiing?” 🙂
And, we took off.
And, I kept up.
Back then I was a “masher”, weighing 20 lbs more than I do now, riding a 30-some lb steel frame bike from the 80s, loaded with 5 lbs of needless gear, bundled in puffy pants. I was a sight. But, that ride was the best ride ever. From the old guys to the route, the feeling of flying down hills, and the struggle up hills, it was all fantastic.
I rode that 30-some-year-old Bridgestone until the end of May, for four months. When I transitioned to a Specialized Dolce, it was like the heavens opened and choirs of angels sang just for me. My first ride on that thing… was incredible. Not only had I lost 20 lbs of me… but my bike lost 15 lbs. Downhills weren’t discernibly different, but flats were firepower packed and hills were cake!
The retired guys suggested that I join the “main club”, of which they were a “social division”, and I did. At the inital “main club” meet, I did really well for the first half of the ride. Then, midway, a woman suggested that my seat was too high, and she strong-armed me at a stop sign, saying she *had* to lower my seat. Mind you, I recognized the woman from a doctor’s office and (mistakenly) thought she was trustworthy, that she was trying to help me. Also, she claimed to be a multi-year cyclist, and I *assumed* she knew what she was doing. Instead, she lowered my seat so much that I was pedaling with bent knees. And, it wasn’t until she lowered my seat that I noticed hers was in an almost regular-chair position for her knees, too. At the very next stop, legs aching and knees stinging, I took out my own tool and raised my seat. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the original position, and the remainder of the ride was a bust. I not-so-fondly remember this as my own “Dumbest moment in cycling.”
On that ride, I learned:
— Unless the person is my own, chosen-shop mechanic, no one touches my bike.
— Mark stems once the mechanic makes placements… just in case.
— Pay attention to other people’s riding styles and their bikes, not for comparison, but for familiarity. If a person is far from my own style and comfort zone, and little of what they’re doing looks appealing or appropriate, trust my gut. If that same person attempts to “school” me, smile nicely then “grab my purse and run.”
For the past two months, I found other things to do, not wanting to ride with the “old” group for various reasons other than someone messing with my seat. Even as my new bike called to me from the trainer, I denied it.
Speaking of trainers, lemme tell ya! The human kind, not the bicycle “stand” kind… I’ve heard people sing the praises of trainers, but I didn’t see the point. I figured, I can do bench presses, goblet squats, and some leg presses, on my own. At least, that’s what I thought.
For the past two months, after working with a trainer twice a week for an hour at a time, my hip flexors, quads, and knees are in the best shape! Even as a kid 20-something, a crusty 30-something, I didn’t have the kind of development or power in my lower chain. Imagine how that translates to cycling!
This past weekend, my first ride out, after two months benched, I was able to not only keep up, but I was able to “race” with the strongest riders in the “new” group when we hit flats and took hills.
Shortly, I’m off to another hour with my trainer. I love that guy.
Cats…
This cat isn’t mine. He lives here as do I, but his “mother” is my partner. She’s away on business this week, and he’s desperately seeking comfort. This means, I’m sorta-kinda alright for snuggling…
and hand holding…
but… he’s spending an inordinate amount of time sleeping in his mother’s chair…
and lying about in her laundry basket…
and, as much as she would deny that this is love…
for little pochemuchka… this is love.
weronika* /vəˈrɒnɨkə/ 