Back on the Bike — Sort Of

I thought I was out of the woods. After my derailleur hanger blew up last weekend, our club mechanic took a quick look at it and told me to order a new one from derailleurhanger.com. I did. They sent it out midweek, and the other day, I installed it on the bike.

So far, so good. It’s a simple job of screwing the new hanger in place. If you order the correct model, there’s no problem.

But when I tried to mount the derailleur to the hanger — problem.

What neither I nor the bike mechanic noticed was the extent of damage to the derailleur itself. I was less shocked to see the broken arm than I was to see that a large chunk of the jockey wheel was gone. I’m not sure if that happened when the hanger broke, or if it had been wearing away stealthily for a long time.

I hauled the bike back to the mechanic, and asked him to find a replacement and give me a call when everything was shipshape. He figured he could find one locally, and that it would cost about $100. Ouch.

But one of the benefits of being a semi-famous biking blogger surfaced the very next morning, when one of my readers emailed me to tell me he had a spare derailleur in his parts box. (I gotta get a parts box going myself.) Not only that, but he was generous enough to offer it to me gratis. I jumped at the offer. Maybe, by this time next week, I’ll be back on my own velocipede.

In the meantime, I still had to get some riding in. Saturday morning, my wife wanted to do her long ride of the week, and I took the mountain bike down from the hooks in the garage, pumped up the tires, and joined her. It’s not in the greatest shape, but it goes all right, if I can ever get used to the way the front suspension dives when I put on the brakes. I feel like I’m going to launch myself over the bars sometimes when I stop quickly.

That’s okay. On the return leg of our ride, I found myself behind two young lovelies at the stoplight just before HEB Hill. Now, this isn’t a steep hill, but it’s long enough to be a tester. I recalled being passed by mountain bikes going up the hill, and felt cocky enough to think that I might be the mountain bike doing the passing this time.

The light turned green. The young women pushed off slower than I expected, given the fact that they were a lot slimmer than I, and were on some decent road bikes — a Scott and a Bianchi. I stayed on their wheels up the hill, past the entrance to the supermarket parking lot, when I saw that I probably could pass them. But I didn’t. You’ve gotta know you’re racing to be in a race, right? They were chatting with each other while pedaling easily up the grade. I could feel myself starting to push hard just to stay with them. At the top of the hill, I crossed over to the left turn lane, and while doing so, drew even with them. They glanced my way, then kept on at their steady pace. No reason for them to care about another old fart on a bike, right?

It’s good that I have the mountain bike as a backup if I need it, but I prefer my road bike. That afternoon, I visited my friends Rick and Penny to once again borrow Rick’s titanium Airborne — the same one I had used several months ago. “The rear tire has a lot of miles on it,” Rick said. “You’ll want to keep an eye on it.” No big deal, and I was glad to have the option to ride a decent bike.

It rained Sunday morning, canceling our regular 8 a.m. club ride. But the skies cleared rapidly, and in another hour, the club president was posting a 10 a.m. start for those who didn’t mind riding on wet streets. I was among the first to show up.

The sun was shining brightly, but the streets weren’t drying as fast as they might have if the humidity hadn’t remained so high. We planned to head south to Buda, then across Interstate 35 into a rural area before heading back — perhaps 50 miles or so. As we pulled onto the bike lane along the major thoroughfare that runs past the coffee shop where we start our rides, I could see that the usual grit and gunk was heavy on the road surface after the rain. I made sure to keep the bike’s wheels pointed away from the trouble as we turned east.

But it was bound to happen. Pffffstt! I heard. “Flat!” I shouted, as I braked to a stop. The peloton zoomed ahead, but one rider, Rob, stopped along with me.

I was grateful that he did. Not because I can’t fix a flat — it’s one of the few bike maintenance tasks I can handle competently — but because my seatbag with the spare tube and the tire levers, along with my pump, was still on my own bike, which is ensconced in the bike mechanic’s garage. Rob gave me his spare tube, and the use of the mini-pump he carries. By the time things were back to normal, he was well behind the group.

“I’ll pedal like crazy and see if I can catch them,” he said. “If I can’t, well, I’ll have a nice ride of my own.”

He took off. I turned back the way I had come. It was just prudent to head home, rather than risk another flat. Anyway, I got a new personal best out of it — at about five miles, it’s the shortest club ride I’ve ever ridden.

What a B Ride Should Be

My friend David wanted to ride together this weekend. Then my friend Buddy wanted to know if I was leading a club B ride Sunday morning.

I saw a chance to kill two birds. I scheduled a B ride on the club Yahoo group, and agreed to lead it. Usually, that brings one or two people out who might not otherwise come. We had a total of seven — pretty good.

I suggested to David that we make a run to Kyle — 23 miles south of town, for a 45-mile round trip. But when I saw the newcomers sitting around outside Starbucks before the ride, I left the decision up to them: Kyle, or a short out-and-back to Buda, for about 32 miles total; or we could split the difference for a 38-miler. The third choice won.

On the way out, another rider jumped onto our group.  Chris said he had been meaning to come out for a club ride for awhile but never got around to it.

At the end of a long gradual uphill, I heard a shout from one of the women in the group. Tara had dropped her chain. Her boyfriend Lucien came to the rescue and got her going again — but only a mile beyond, the group stopped while Buddy fiddled with his own dropped chain.

“Buddy is an optometrist,” I said while he worked. “So he always keeps a supply of surgical gloves handy.” Everyone chuckled, while Buddy got his chain adjusted, and we moved out again.

The pace was steady. Not too slow, not too fast. Steve, who was doing his first ride with us, found common ground with Buddy, since Steve used to teach the visually impaired in the Austin schools — and had even started a tandem bicycle club for them once. Newcomer Jan showed she was no newcomer to riding, because she had the knack of grabbing a wheel and motoring along smoothly behind a pacer.

When we got to Buda, we stopped at the Walgreens for a break. Depend on the fountains at the drug store to have cold water for bottle refills. I explained the next part of the route to the group, and we set out.

We rode through old downtown Buda, then turned onto Cole Springs Road, which leads through some forested areas and puts us in shade for awhile. The group stayed more or less together, which pleased me. But once we got to Farm Road 1626, we were in for another long gradual incline. Tara, the newest rider in the group, fell behind. Lucien stuck with her and we got to the turnaround.

“Here’s where it gets fun,” I said. “We’ll go downhill all the way back to Buda. We’ll go 30 mph through here.”

Lucien and Chris took me at my word, and shot off the front. I tried to catch them, with no luck. The riders strung out along the road, and we arrived back in Buda with large gaps between us. Lucien said he would wait for Tara while we went back to the Walgreens for a regroup.

Somehow, David had missed the part about regrouping at Walgreens, and didn’t see me as I tried to wave him down. He passed the store and headed off alone. We parked bikes in the shade and took advantage of the store’s air conditioning to replenish ourselves.

The route home varied from the route out. We turned onto Twin Creeks Road, which winds and dips and climbs for several miles. Tara was slowing by now, and I stayed back with her to coax her back to the group. Once we gathered again, we took a new route through a new subdivision — one that lets us stay off too-busy Brodie Lane and skip a dicey left turn.

Tara and Lucien turned off for a shortcut home. Chris turned in the opposite direction to go to his house. That left Jan, Steve, Buddy and me to reach the finish at Starbucks and sit around for some cold beverages. Steve thought the ride was a perfect distance, but Jan was ready for a few more miles. We all agreed the pace was just right — we averaged 14 mph for the 38 miles. A few A riders who had not done their entire route — 5100 feet of climbing — were there to greet us, and we compared notes.

The consensus was that it was a great ride. No one pushed beyond the abilities of the group, we got out in the country and rode some nice roads, and the terrain was varied enough to keep things interesting. These are the kinds of rides I like to do, and we’re going to be doing more soon.

 

The Un-Club Ride

Sunday morning is our usual club ride. But sometimes, the proposed route isn’t one I’m interested in doing. Other times, a more desirable alternative pops up.

That was the case today, when my friend Debra proposed a ride near Dripping Springs, in her neck of the woods. Barbara, a former club member, would be coming up from her new home in San Antonio to join us. Debra’s husband Russ and our pal Jerry would round out the group.

This would be a B-ride alternative to the main club ride. So what makes it the “un”-club ride? Well, see for yourself.

We gather at a nice park on the edge of Dripping Springs. The regular club ride leaves at 8:15. We were to go at “around nine.” At 9:05, we were still milling around, pumping up tires, chit-chatting, putting the finishing touches on our kit. Finally, we rolled out, and made it, oh a couple hundred yards to where a road branched off. Jerry and Russ took that road so they could take a nature break before we really got going. Although we leave from a park, its lack of facilities is one of its most notable features.

Soon we were rolling in earnest, coming up to the junction with Creek Road, which would be our route for the next six miles. Jerry suddenly braked and pulled over. We all stopped to wait for him — all except Russ, who kept going, oblivious to the stop. Jerry had just put new wheels on his bike, and his computer magnet wasn’t properly adjusted yet.

That taken care of, we started rolling in earnest for real now. Another mile and a half down the road, we take a fork to the right along picturesque Onion Creek. Barbara stopped quickly, then Debra. One of the arm rests for Barbara’s aero bars had fallen off. Barbara picked it up, and then she and Debra looked for the mounting screw and nut for the arm rest, without any luck. We were now 1.8 miles into the ride, and had stopped three times. It’s a good thing the weather was glorious.

We were rolling in earnest for really real now. Our aim was to catch Russ, who was well out of sight. Our blistering 12 mph pace probably wouldn’t enable us to do that, so we meandered along, chatting about things that have to do with bikes, and other things that don’t. As always, I enjoy riding through this area. I’ve done it often enough that I tend to take things for granted. Today, I tried to take in the sights and sounds — like this uniquely-named road that met ours.

Debra had suggested doing the Mt. Sharp Road route — one of several options we had in this area. Mt. Sharp was the longest and hilliest of these. I hadn’t been on that road for nearly a year, and was looking forward to riding it again. But in the meantime, we had some hills to climb, some cattle guards to cross, and some more stops to make.

We’re close together for a change. Barbara, Debra, Jerry and Russ. (Click pics to enlarge.)

At one of those stops, a whopping 12 miles into the ride, Debra opined that Mt. Sharp was out of the mix today. She didn’t have the energy to ride a long hilly route. The rest of us thought that was a smart choice. We decided to take Longhorn Trail instead, which is considerably shorter, but includes a decent hill that delivers a high speed descent, and winds through the middle of a small ranch.

This goat parked atop a small rock, master of all he surveyed.

Debra and Barbara cruise through the Hill Country.

After the ranch, the route is more downhill than up, overall, and on one stretch we were traveling between 25-30 mph when we rounded a bend and found the road ripped up. the county is going to resurface it, but in the meantime, the existing surface has to be removed. It looked like one of us would wipe out for sure, but we’re nothing if not expert — or lucky — bike handlers, and we managed to stay upright across some bone-jarring road. It probably didn’t last more than a half mile, but it seemed like the longest section of the day. We regrouped for another brief rest stop — this would be about our sixth this morning. We were averaging stops roughly every four miles. Except when we fit one in after only two miles.

Jerry stoically waits for the others to catch up so we can take yet another rest.

Back at the park, Jerry asked me what mileage showed on my computer.

“27.3 miles,” I answered.

“Hm, that’s a problem,” he said. “Mine shows 27.4.”

“That’s what mine rounds up to,” I said. “I’ve got 27.365. I think you’re in the ballpark. Don’t worry about it.”

But Jerry grumbled that his computer just wasn’t right. Debra’s showed 26.6. She wasn’t concerned about the discrepancy in the least.

Once we got all packed up, Debra suggested stopping at a little Mexican restaurant in Dripping Springs for a post-ride lunch. Most of us ordered tall iced teas. Russ ordered a Dr. Pepper (He’s a true Texan). The waitress brought the drinks, except for the Dr. Pepper. Seemed they were out. We placed our orders for food — Russ went for the Carne Asada (thinly-sliced grilled steak) — and chatted about a myriad of non-bike subjects, when the waitress came by again. No carne asada. He had enchiladas and a Coke.

I always look forward to Sunday mornings. Club rides are great. But on days like today, the un-club ride can be even greater.

Snippets From a B Ride

The emails flew fast and furious last evening. Our usual time to leave for the Sunday club ride is 8:15 a.m., but the forecast called for temps in the 30s at that time. I had planned to go, but wimped out when I saw the prognostication. Looks like a lot of others did, too — including some A riders. We had 13 in all for the B ride this morning at 9.

One of the problems we have in Texas is that the weather is rarely that cold when we ride, so most of us don’t have the kinds of warm cycling clothes our Northern brethren have. I was feeling a bit out of place in my red long-sleeve jersey (over a short-sleeved club jersey) and screaming green vest, because our club kit is white, blue, and yellow. Most riders had at least a club jersey on the outside. Then Jerry D. pulled into the lot.

“I’m glad I called you to coordinate clothing,” I called to him.

Bike Noob (left), Jerry D.

“Why, we’re the Gay Blades today, aren’t we?” he retorted.

Lots of chatter before the ride about clothing. Many wore glove liners, multiple layers, booties, ear muffs. Then there was Brian, our club Canadian. He showed up in a windbreaker over a short-sleeved jersey, and shorts. “It’s nice to ride without 10 feet of snow on the ground,” he said. The temperature when we rolled out was 38 degrees (3C).

One of the reasons I enjoy the B rides is that ride leader Jordan insists on keeping them “pleasurefests,” as opposed to what he calls the “sufferfests” of the A rides. But some A riders joined our little group this morning. David V., a Cat 3 racer and the club bike mechanic, said he’d done a hard hills workout the previous day, and wanted a recovery ride. There was New York John, and Marianne, who rarely rides with the club. She brought Tom, a friend of her husband’s, who was fixed up with a less-than-perfect bike. It wouldn’t shift out of the big ring. That didn’t seem to bother Tom, who is visiting from Boulder. Pippa, another A rider, was there to keep Judy company. Judy would normally ride with the As, but has been recovering from two broken bones in her wrist, suffered during a fall (don’t brace!).

About three miles into the ride is our first challenge: Davis Hill. It’s an ordinary hill, that can be tough for newer riders. The problem is, there’s a stoplight just before you make the turn for the hill, and hill begins immediately. “The difference between As and Bs on Davis Hill,” said my friend Rick, “is that the Bs shift down and try to spin up the hill, and the As get out of their saddles and attack the hill.”

I attacked today, but I was huffing and puffing, and sitting down again by the time I got to the top — when to my left, Tom glided by. In the big ring. Not a care in the world. Okay, I won’t worry about him today, I said to myself.

We crossed Interstate 35, and were headed for the country, when David V. and New York John caught and passed us. We had taken a major road to the I-35 junction, one that had a short stoplight. David and John had taken a side street, but their stoplight was a long one. “I don’t know why you Bs complain about As going too fast,” said David, “when you leave us behind.”

Out in the country, I found myself next to Laura, who’s become a regular on the B rides. She was ecstatic over her recent bike fit. “I feel so much more power than I used to,” she said. Her husband Mike, one of our A riders, had taken her to a prominent local racer who fits bikes at a local bike shop. “He put some things on my shoes that keep the angle natural,” Laura explained. “The fit took about two hours. When Mike asked him if I already had nearly a good fit, he said I wasn’t even close. I can really feel the difference.”

At the turnaround in Creedmoor, Jordan asked me to explain the return route to everyone. We were riding a “lollipop” route, with the same out and return, but a nice loop in the middle. “When we get to the 90-degree right turn on the way we came,” I said, “look for the fork onto Thaxton Road. Take that.”

Back on the road, I was near the rear to keep tabs on one of our slower riders. Sure enough, when we got to Thaxton Road, Judy and Laura blasted by without turning. Several of us raised a shout to get them to turn around. I kidded Judy about missing the turn even after the route had been explained at the rest stop. She was unapologetic.

“When people start telling me directions, it’s like the teacher in the ‘Peanuts’ strip,” she said. “All I hear is Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah.”

I’m glad she didn’t miss it, because Thaxton Road was repaved last year, and it’s nice. The highlight for me is a turn at the top of a hill. We get to blast down into a subdivision on a smooth, wide two-lane with no traffic. I made sure everyone was behind me, and started down, pedaling hard in the big ring. At the bottom, I waited. And waited. I could see back to the top of the hill. Apparently they had decided to gather there to wait for slower riders. Eventually, I saw them coming down. When they finally caught up to me, I asked who had the highest speed down that hill. I had hit 34.8 mph. I figured at least a couple could go faster than that.

“I rode the brakes all the way down,” said one. “That was scary,” said another. “No way I was going to look at my computer going that fast,” said a third.

Two miles from the finish, we passed several of the fast group fixing a flat at the side of the road. We kept on to the finish. They caught up to us a few minutes later. Marianne had been the flat victim.

“A screw went right through the middle of my tire,” she said. “I got screwed, and I couldn’t even enjoy it.”

The outside tables at Starbucks were full. The A ride had come in after a trip out to the Formula 1 race track being built in Austin. The chatter was loud, full of laughs. Several passers-by stopped to ask about the club, its rides, average speed. We urged them to come out next week. It looks like the B rides will start at 9:15 for the next couple of months — everyone seems to like leaving then, instead of the earlier time. A good day in the saddle — the kind of day that makes me want to ride again.

Two Cycling Viewpoints

An interesting discussion flared up on our club’s email board this week. It all started innocently enough. The club president posted that riders new to the club shouldn’t worry about getting dropped on club rides.

“For some part of nearly all of my rides I could fairly be said to have been dropped,” he wrote. “The fast movers [they are NOT all guys] will head off into the distance while I am apparently not bright enough to wait for the slower riders.”

But he added that eventually the fastest of the slow riders will catch up to him, and they will pull each other to the next rally stop.

“At that point it is not at all unusual for some riders from both groups to talk about heading home while others continue to make tracks,” he continued. ”Practically never do I ride home alone.”

Our main club ride is on Sunday morning. We meet at a local Starbucks at 8 a.m., and roll out at 8:15. Most of the riders usually fall into what I call the A group. They can maintain a pretty good clip. Last week, they averaged over 17 mph for a 50-mile ride. That’s a pace that would scare off newcomers.

He was called out by the club secretary, who lives some distance west of town and seldom does the Sunday rides, unless a group heads out to her neck of the woods to ride the Hill Country.

“This message is a bit misleading,” she posted. “I know if I rode with the group, I’d have to bust my rear to keep up, and then would eventually poop out and be dropped.  Not fun.”

She added, “Unless a person is a hammerhead (not that there’s anything wrong with that!), he/she won’t particularly enjoy the regular club rides.”

The president’s wife, who started out as a B rider but worked her way up to A level (athletic woman, she) chimed in with a valid point: “The reason the Sunday ride has become what it is, is because it has been the one consistent ride of the group [departing every Sunday] and these are the riders who have consistently showed up.” ‘Tis true. That may be one reason that the club has a reputation around town of being a bunch of hammerheads.

This has been an issue at least since I joined the club several years ago. I got tired enough of trying to keep up with the fast pace of the rides that I started calling for B-level riders to come out, and we’d do our own thing on Sunday. That met with some success, especially in the more temperate months. The fellow who began the B rides in our club has now rejoined after living elsewhere for several years, and he’s begun organizing B rides again. Turnout is starting to pick up — even bringing in some A riders who want to go easier on a given week, for whatever reason.

The controversy (perhaps too strong a word) may be situated in differing objectives for different riders. The president revealed his point of view later in his post: “Don’t pass up the opportunity to test yourself a bit,” he wrote. That seems to indicate a point of view that cyclists ought to strive to get faster, maybe to ride longer. But it’s just that point of view that puts off a lot of would-be members.

“I do love to ride, and love the workout it gives me,” the club secretary posted.  ”I just prefer to get my workout a little more slowly.  I’m in no rush.  The social factor is a big one for me.  If I’m riding so hard that I can barely breathe, then I can’t talk either.”

That viewpoint is shared by most of those who call themselves B riders — including yours truly. Some riders want to physically improve themselves. Others like cycling for its recreational value. I just posted a B ride for Sunday, so whatever a rider’s tastes, we can accommodate them.

Is this yin and yang between different ability levels unique to my club, or does it exist in yours, too? Comments are open.

Big Ol’ Club Ride

The word went out early in the week: Our club sponsor, the Bicycle Sports Shop, would be involved in today’s club ride. They would have a mechanic on hand at the beginning of the ride, and make water, Nuun, and energy bars available. Afterward, they’d furnish a light breakfast. The member who posted the ride urged a big turnout of both A and B riders.

And he got it. I counted 38 riders at the start. Our typical Sunday ride draws 15-20. We jammed the parking lot of the Starbucks where we traditionally start our rides, much to the consternation of casual coffee drinkers who tried to negotiate their way to an open space.

We do tend to clutter the parking lot.

A Bicycle Sports Shop mechanic fixes a flat before the ride.

Pre-ride chit chat.

Penny, Judy, and Barbara. Judy is the A rider.

Although I often lead the B rides, I opted not to today, since both As and Bs would be traveling the same route. The Bs would just turn around sooner on the familiar out-and-back. So there was no designated B ride leader. That probably led to problems later.

One problem that set in involved my cyclocomputer. I cleaned the bike yesterday, but didn’t realign the speed sensor with its magnet, so I got no reading for the first two miles of the ride. When I stopped to fix things, most of the peloton had passed me by.

A few people were straggling, I knew. We take a convoluted route to get out to the main road for this trip, cutting through Granada Hills, a hilly neighborhood with lots of turns. If you haven’t done this ride several times, it’s easy to get lost. My friend Penny pointed me out to several riders who were back with her. “See that guy in the club jersey?” she said. “He won’t leave you behind.”

I almost didn’t. I made a bad shift going up a hill and dropped my chain. When I stopped to get it back on, several more riders passed me. I guessed I was now at the end of the pack. Unbeknownst to me, Penny and three other women were still a bit behind, but they lost me in all the left and right turns I made through the neighborhood.

I got stuck at the stoplight at U.S. Highway 290, which we have to cross to continue on our route. Now I was alone, and catching the group was out of the question. But it’s also a familiar feeling to me on this ride, so I didn’t fret about it.

Soon I came up to a rider on the side of the road. It was Rick, Penny’s husband, talking to her on the phone. He waved me by, then caught up to me a few minutes later.

“Penny got lost in Granada Hills,” Rick said. “I told her to track the route on her GPS. She’ll be okay.”

Rick pulled away in an effort to catch the main pack. I plugged along, and a half hour later reached the turnaround point for the Bs. Several other riders were there, and two I had passed came up to round out the group. We had an uneventful ride back for seven miles, when we pulled into a convenience store. (I wish I had some pictures from the road, but I dropped my camera, and had to reassemble it once we got back.)

Three women who had started with the group were at the store. I think they were part of those who lost us early on, because they were joking about having to find their way back through Granada Hills again, and weren’t sure they could do it. Even though two wore club jerseys, I had never seen them before and did not know them.

“If you wait five more minutes,” I said, “I’ll show you the way. But let me rest a bit.”

“No, that’s okay,” said one of the women. “You’ll probably catch up to us anyway.” They headed out with some other riders.

I remained in the lot with Barbara, whom I had ridden with several times before. We talked about dogs and drank some cold water, then I said I planned to take it easy on the way back. I knew she wasn’t familiar with Granada Hills either, so I told her I’d stick with her to guide her through it.

It was a good thing I did. At several intersections, she wanted to turn the opposite way from the route. We finally got to Starbucks, where we joined the Bs who had set out from the turnaround before us. The three women weren’t there.

Barbara bought her coffee from Starbucks, rather than drink the outside stuff.

Bicycle Sports Shop made good on their breakfast plans. Bagels with different varieties of cream cheese covered one outside table, as well as a container of coffee. I’m not sure about bringing outside coffee to a Starbucks, but I was grateful for the food. By the time I finished my bagel, some of the A riders were drifting in. Soon, the three women showed up.

“We couldn’t find our way through Granada Hills,” one of them told me. “After we rode around in circles, we finally asked some residents how to get out. It turned out they were cyclists. They got in their pickup and guided us out.”

“I got lost in Granada Hills” became an oft-repeated refrain as more riders showed up. Although it’s a twisty route, I thought once people rode it two or three times they’d have it figured out. Nuh-uh.

Penny rolled in, too. She did find her way out of Granada Hills and rode over to the Veloway to get in some extra mileage. “My GPS kept sending me out to Highway 290,” she said. “It thinks I’m a car, and won’t show me the side streets to take.”

Despite the problems, everyone seemed happy with the turnout and the ride. It’s the biggest club ride in my memory, and I’ve been a member for more than three years. But if we go through Granada Hills again, I think I’ll have to ride sweep.

I’m Through Riding With the Club — Unless…

The club ride posted for this morning would take us west of town into the Texas Hill Country. The hills aren’t killers — they’re mostly rollers — and the road doesn’t have too much traffic. I figured that on Father’s Day, traffic would be even less than usual.

I told the ride leader that I would turn back at Ranch Road 12, which makes for a nice 30-mile round trip. The rest of the group would go another eight miles before turning around.

“Good,” he said. “You can wait for me there.”

He always jokes about being a slow ride leader — even hangs a tiny red lantern from his saddle.

About 13 of us started. Father’s Day held down the turnout, too. Most were A riders, although I was happy to see “Big Steve” turn into the parking lot. (We call him “Big Steve” to differentiate him from “Little Steve” — a former state champion in the time trial and road race in the 60-64 year-old class.) “Big Steve” is younger, taller, and a hefty 240 pounds.

As usual, a pleasant rollout. Less than a mile into the ride, a tiny fawn — not much bigger than a dog — darted across the road in front of the lead riders. We got a good dose of warmup hills going through a nearby neighborhood.

Out of the city, speed picked up as we got closer to Fitzhugh Road, which would be our main route of the day. I noticed that the gap between the group and me was starting to widen. But I caught and passed Big Steve, who seemed to be having trouble with the rolling hills.

Usually, when we turn onto Fitzhugh Road, the peloton regroups to wait for laggards. I made the turn, and no group. I looked back, and no Steve. Hm. He must have abandoned the ride. The wind was fierce, and I started up Fitizhugh by myself.

Church Vacation Bible School sign at RR 12 promotes "Hometown Nazareth -- Where Jesus Was a Kid"

The run up to Ranch Road 12 is about six miles. I was alone for the entire six. Crosswinds threatened to knock me off the bike. The ride was more of a slog than I like.

I got to Ranch Road 12, and the group wasn’t waiting there, either. They’d moved on. I turned around and moved the bike off the road into the shade of some trees. The temperature was well into the 90s by now. Time for a break.

And who do I see coming up the road but Big Steve!

“Man, I’ve been off the bike for two weeks,” he said. “It really catches up to you fast.”

We chatted a bit while munching on energy bars and drinking water. Then it was time to head home. Steve took the lead, and it was fun for me to draft the big guy. He pedaled like crazy, while I coasted. But it wasn’t long before the hills got him. I passed, and pulled him most of the rest of the way home.

Under a flapping umbrella at Starbucks, we talked about the ride. Both of us agreed the Sunday club rides had lost their allure for us.

“The group is getting smaller,” Steve said. “We used to have lots more come out.”

“A process of self-selection seems to be going on here,” I said. “The fast riders turn out, and when slower riders show up, they’re scared off because they get dropped just like we were today.”

I mulled it over a bit, then made my decision. I won’t be doing any more Sunday club rides.

Unless…a couple of years ago, we had a small, but reliable, cadre of B-level riders who would come out on Sundays, if they knew there would be a ride for them with people of their ability.

Maybe it’s time to revive the Bs.

Captain Slow

James May ("Captain Slow")

Last week, I rode with my friend David. It was a standard Saturday morning ride in our area, but with one difference: I’ve gotten faster than him over the last year or so.

“You really should ride with the A group,” he said, referring to our Sunday morning club rides. “Challenge yourself.”

I was sure I wasn’t ready for that yet. The A group consistently leaves me in the dust after several miles into the ride. But this weekend, there was no scheduled B ride. And although I wasn’t crazy about the proposed route, I knew I could break away from the group at a convenient intersection and go my own way. That’s what I told the ride leader I would do.

It’s always fun to start off with a big group. There’s a lot of chatter, and the pace is moderate as we get our legs warmed up. Today’s route took us up a longish hill, a turn onto a street of apartments and condos, then out to Southwest Parkway — a six-lane, divided highway with a wide shoulder.

Before we got to Southwest Parkway, I was off the back. Once I turned onto the highway, the group was out of sight around a bend. When I got up to that bend, they were out of sight for good.

The route turns onto Barton Creek Blvd., a favorite of mine. It’s a wide, smooth road through an upscale residential area. It rises and falls, with lots of curves. I’ve hit my highest speed ever here, and even today I easily cranked it up to 35 right off the bat. But a ferocious wind from the southeast — at my right rear quarter — made me keep my speed in check.

The monster we call Hail Mary Hill was just ahead. I finally got to the point last year where I could pedal all the way up it. It was slow going, in my 34 x 28 gear, but I always finished. Not today. I walked the bike up the hill. When I reached the church parking lot at the top for the usual rest and recover stop, the group was already gone.

I made my way home against a 20 mph headwind.

What’s changed? Last year, I built up mileage early, because I was training for the MS 150. I wasn’t in it this year, so I haven’t been piling on the miles. I do hill work, but my neighborhood hills — as much as they have helped — haven’t prepared me for the bigger grades. I’ve only recently started riding with the club again. Most of my riding up until about mid-May was on my own, or with maybe one other person.

Finally, I turned 60 this year. I know, that’s not an excuse. In fact, there were at least two guys over 60 on today’s ride. They had no trouble keeping up with the pack.

But for me to get back to where I was last year, I’m going to have to work a lot harder. And frankly, I don’t think I want to. The riding I do is keeping me reasonably fit. When I’m out of the club milieu, I can hold my own against most other riders I come across. If I decide to continue riding with the club, it will be on B rides, with slower riders. I’ve never been able to keep up with the A’s — even last year — and I’ve concluded it’s not worth it to me to put in the effort to do it.

The British TV show “Top Gear” has a co-host named James May, who is always getting ribbed by the other co-hosts for his slow driving. They call him “Captain Slow.” If that becomes my new nickname too, well — I’m OK with that.

The Noob Helps a Noob

Today, the club was planning a 52-mile ride east of the city. I haven’t been doing enough base miles to handle a 52-miler, especially with the recent humid weather that has hit our area, so I volunteered to lead a “B” ride to a nearby town. Distance would be about 36 miles round trip.

I must have publicized my decision too late, because only two people were interested in doing the B ride, and one of them set off with the A group. They were going down a four-lane divided road with no shoulder and fast traffic. I told the other B rider – someone new to the group – that we would take a safer route.

I had met the young lady – Tina – once before, at a meetup organized by another biking acquaintance. We follow each other on Twitter, but had never ridden together. She indicated she was up for 20 miles, and when I told her how far we’d go, she agreed.

It wasn’t long before I realized she was not used to club rides. She fell behind almost immediately. I slowed down to keep a reasonable gap between us, and waited for her at lights. This was going to be all right. I had ridden hard the previous day, and didn’t mind taking it easy on the Sunday ride.

Three miles out, we reached our first major challenge: a pretty good hill. I’ve ridden it many times and am used to it now, but it still makes me work. I stayed seated as I climbed, figuring it would keep me closer to her. Once I crested the hill, I coasted down the backside. I looked back – and no Tina. I pulled over and waited. No Tina. I reversed course to find out what the problem was. She was pulled over at a turnoff, hunched over her bike. I thought she had a mechanical.

“Need any help?” I called. By now I could see she was just taking a breather.

“That hill really took it out of me,” she said.

We waited a few more minutes, then set off again. I soft pedaled, and averaged about 9 mph, but she still fell behind. This was our pattern for the rest of the trip. She did a great job of staying with me through a dicey section, as we had to brave heavy traffic and cross under an Interstate highway bridge. But once we were out on a semi-country road, she had trouble keeping up.

I pulled into the entrance to a mobile home park and waited. “This is where I usually make a rest stop,” I lied, as she pulled even with me. “Grab some water, walk around a little, or sit.”

“I think my rear tire is soft,” she said.

Soft, nothing. It was flat. We moved her bike to a shady spot and took off the rear wheel. She had a fancy tire lever that hooked under the bead then attached to the axle. The bead was supposed to come off easily. It didn’t. I got my stuff from my bike and took off the tire, then put in her fresh tube and pumped it up. While I worked, she was busy texting on her phone. I finished, and she said, “My roommate is coming to pick me up.”

As we waited, we chatted about biking and her new venture: a triathlon. “I still have to swim and run today,” she said. “This is the fastest I’ve ever ridden.”

It took us over an hour to cover 10 miles.

Her roommate showed up, and I rolled the bike to the SUV. On the way, I squeezed the front tire. It was very soft, too. Clearly, she couldn’t have continued the ride.

I went on to Creedmoor by myself, and headed back to the ride’s start. Everyone from the 52-mile ride was already there.

“Sorry it didn’t work out for you,” said the A ride leader, after I told my story.

“On the contrary,” I replied. “It was fine. When I started biking, you and others did the same thing for me. I’m happy to help out others now.”

How To Join a Bike Club – Part 2

Guest poster Don Blount continues his quest for the perfect bike club.

Stockton, Calif., where I live, is not far from the foothills of the Sierra Mountains. There is plenty of serious climbing and steep grades available for any rider who goes there. Everyone tells me that you can fake it on the flats but that climbing really shows the type of rider you are.

The Stockton Bicycle Club does a lot of riding in the hills.

During a day off from work, I did a first-time solo 27-mile ride around Lake Camanche with 1,900 feet of climbing and some 14 percent grades. The friend who provided me with the route described it as a nice “introductory” ride in the hills.

It was not easy but it was fun. Some of those roads obviously were not designed by a highway engineer but were once cow paths that someone decided to pave over.

A few days after I did this ride, I received an e-mail notice of a 40-mile ride with the Stockton club. It was described as a longer but similar ride to the Lake Camanche ride.

I was in.

It took me about 45 minutes to make the 29-mile ride to the meeting place – Charles Howard Park in Ione, Calif. The park is named after the owner of Seabiscuit. The group of about a dozen people included both men and women. Introductions were made and we took off.

This was a talkative group, which makes sense if you’re going to spend a few hours with someone whether on or off a bike. Of course quiet settled in as we hit the rollers and more steeply graded hills.

Again, all of these riders were older than me, a few retired including a 62-year-old podiatrist who rode 18,000 miles last year. He planned on riding 100 miles that day.

We ended up with just under 43 miles and 2,300 feet of climbing.

I think I held my own as several other riders asked me if I had ridden much in the hills and were surprised when learning I had not.

I submitted my membership a few days later.

It was not much money and riding in the hills with anyone will help make me a better rider, which is ultimately what I want.

I eventually heard from the Stanislaus County Bicycle Club.

I was told I hadn’t heard back sooner because the “general email address” I found on its website went to spam. Apparently had I kept looking I would have found more specific contact information.

However, I was fine with how things worked out.

When deciding on a bike club I would ask: What are you looking for? Do you want to be challenged? Do you like to ride fast? Do you want to climb? Do you want to just go out leisurely and putz around? Do you want to volunteer at events or mind if you are required to do so? And how deeply involved do you want to become with the club and its events?

Some of these things I still need to figure out, but I probably made the biggest decision in joining a club, which also enabled me to meet one of my cycling goals for the year.