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The Bad Ride

09.11.2010 by Ray Niekamp // 11 Comments

I really enjoy riding. Even a quick half-hour jaunt through the neighborhood leaves me feeling good.  So I was looking forward to my Saturday morning 25-miler.

About four miles into the ride, I had to stop for a red light.  I moved the bike out of the right turn lane, unclipped my right shoe, and made the fatal mistake: I turned the handlebars to the right.

That caused the bike to lean left, and I was still clipped in on that side.  I frantically tried to wrench my foot loose, but I went down on the left side.  If this has ever happened to you (come on, now — I know it has!), you know your only concern is to get upright again, so all those people at the intersection don’t laugh and point fingers.  In this case, there was only one cyclist who had just crossed in front of me.  When she heard me go down, she immediately stopped and asked if I needed help.

I grinned and said, “No, I just didn’t clip out in time.”

“Oh, that’s happened to me,” she said.

I got moving again, glad that the bike seemed all right.  But in a little while, I felt an odd sensation at the back of my leg.  Blood was pooling in my sock from a puncture wound left by the chainring when I fell.

The blood and the chainring tattoo made an interesting pattern.

It didn’t seem as bad as it was, so I kept going.

Several miles later, I turned onto a four-lane divided street that runs through my neighborhood.  It has a bike lane, but as usual, the lane was littered with debris.  It wasn’t long before I sensed that my rear tire was going flat.

I pulled off onto a side street, in the shade, took off the wheel, and found the problem. A tiny nail, a brad no more than a half-inch long, had made a neat puncture in the tire.  I yanked the nail out with my teeth, and changed the tube.

One move I have always had trouble with is remounting the rear tire after a flat.  I can’t seem to get the cassette and chain to mesh properly, even though I have it shifted into the smallest cog.  I must have done something stupid, because suddenly, my shifter cable popped out of the brake hood on the handlebar.

I fiddled with it and fiddled with it, but couldn’t get it to reattach.  I was a little more than a mile from home, and rode in the big ring and smallest cog all the way.

In the bathroom, I cleaned the wound and put a Band-Aid on it — but in a few minutes, I was back in the bathroom again, when the Band-Aid became saturated with blood.  After putting on several gauze pads and applying pressure, the bleeding stopped.  Sort of.

Then I tried to sop up all the blood spots from the bathroom carpet.  The results are less than stellar.

I like to think that every time I’m on the bike, it’s a good ride.  Not today.

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Categories // Injury, Rides Tags // clipless fall, flat tire, Injury

I Must Be Improving

09.05.2010 by Ray Niekamp // 12 Comments

Sometimes, I feel that the last three years on the bike haven’t been leading up to much. Oh, I can tell my fitness is getting better, and I can climb hills that I couldn’t climb a year ago, but overall, I don’t feel I’m any great shakes on two wheels.

Then a weekend like this one comes along.

Bike Noob in a group during the MS150.

Saturday morning, Pat and I took a newbie friend out on the Mopac loop. Usually, I sprint ahead of Pat and wait for her at several points along the route. This day was no exception. But when I stopped at the top of a long downhill, I saw Pat’s friend, Cynthia,  coming up on me faster than I had expected. She went by me before I could get clipped in. Another rider was coming up fast too, but I pulled out ahead of him and started to gather speed on the downhill.

I glanced over my shoulder, and the other guy had grabbed my wheel.  “Okay,” I said to myself, “let’s see what you’ve got.” We caught and passed Cynthia doing 31 mph and getting faster.  I got into an aero tuck, and pushed in my highest gear. When I reached the big left bend at the bottom of the hill, I looked back again.  The guy wasn’t there.

I waited for Pat and Cynthia at the top of another hill.  A rider in a blue U.S. Postal jersey led Cyn up the hill to me.  When he pulled even, I asked, “How ya doin’?”  He seemed surprised.  “Fine,” he said, and he spun by easily in a high cadence.

Once Pat caught us, we set out again. We caught U.S. Postal, and both Cyn and I passed him.  A little farther on, Cyn said, “That was funny when he decided to draft you.”

“That was the guy?” I asked. “He was there, and suddenly he wasn’t. I thought he might have crashed.”

“Nah,” she said. “He ran out of gas, and just stopped pedaling.”

This morning, we were together again at another Mamma Jamma training ride.  Pat was doing the 22-mile route, Cynthia, her friend Liz, and I were doing the 37-miler.  I knew from past experience that Pat would be waiting about an hour for us, and I didn’t want to keep her too long.

We got out into the country, and I fell into a comfortable pace. But that pace put me well ahead of the rest of the 37-mile group. I made it to a convenience store about nine miles into the ride, where I stopped to wait. The 46-milers, who had started a little before us, were just pulling out.

I decided I wouldn’t push too hard for the rest of the ride, and when we got started again, I fell in behind several others.  But my comfortable pace took over again, and pretty soon I was out in front.  I stopped at an intersection another five miles along, and waited for everyone to regroup.

Again we set out.  Again, I went into the lead.  I raced a dog that wanted to get in some speed work. I waited for the group one more time before we pulled back into the convenience store for another break.

The ride leader seemed content to lolligag at the convenience store, and it must have been another 15 minutes before we finally pulled out. He and I separated from the group quickly. When we reached a turn three miles down the road, he said he would regroup again. I told him I was going on.

I got back into my comfortable pace, and soon caught some of the laggards from the 46-mile group — then some more.  When I got to the starting point, Pat told me she had waited more than an hour. I loaded up the bikes and we pulled out — with no sign of the other 37-milers.

Sometimes when I ride with my club, I get discouraged about my lack of progress.  I’m always bringing up the rear.  This weekend, I was out in front so much I felt out of place.  My average speed was 15.1 yesterday, and 15.5 today, so I’m not burning up the road. But I wasn’t tired, never was short of breath, and felt good throughout both rides. It might not always seem like it, but I’m a better rider than I used to be.

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Categories // fitness, Rides Tags // improvement

The Climb

08.10.2010 by Ray Niekamp // 4 Comments

Guest poster Jeff Hemmel tracks his relationship with a hill, from hate — to love-hate — to love.

I live in Florida. That means I ride lots and lots of flat roads, and never leave the big ring. The biggest hills I get are a pair of bridges over the Intracoastal Waterway, decent in many respects but barely a speed bump for any serious climber.

Every summer, however, I get to escape to the Adirondacks in New York State (the perks of a work-from-home journalist), and there, awaiting me like my own mythical Ventoux, is The Climb.

Okay, it’s really just a big hill, less than 2.5 miles in total. But to me it’s become somewhat of a yardstick to measure my cycling fitness. The hill rises to only about a 5 percent grade by mile 1, but throws a 9 percent grade at you during mile 2. A lot of people hate that climb, but in my own perverse way, I’ve grown to love it.

A number of years ago, following a problematic ACL reconstruction, I tackled the hill as a challenge on a mountain bike. Truth be told, I wasn’t even sure I could make it the first time. When I first climbed it on my road bike, I seriously questioned whether I could do it on my compact double without the safety net of a third ring. (Believe me, I got down to the smallest cog in my cassette!) Now, I return to that hill at the end of every ride, no matter how many miles I’ve put in. The climb has changed from “can I get up it” to “how many miles can I ride and still get up it” to now just a “time to get up it” conclusion to my ride. (I’ve even found another one to throw in mid-route, but that’s another story…)

Yes, there is one other way to return home that’s far less steep. But to me, tackling the hill at the end of my rides is the only way to go.

By now, I’ve gotten to know it intimately. I know where the house is that sometimes has sweet corn and vegetables for sale, all on the honor system. I know the dip that at one time signified I was about to be eaten by the most vicious dog I’ve ever met, but now just signifies I’m about to drop into the small ring as the toughest section lies ahead. And I know the secluded spot where I once felt like someone was watching me, only to discover a deer standing inches away as I rode past.

And starting this year, I also know just how long it takes me to get to the top. Like some kind of glutton for punishment, I started timing myself.

Summer’s winding down and I’m returning home, back to the flat, congested roads I’ve ridden time and time again. Yesterday I clocked my fastest ascent of the summer. Doing so, however, made me realize it’s not how fast I get up the hill that’s important, it’s the climb itself — and all its idiosyncrasies and personal meanings — that I most enjoy.

I’m going to miss it.

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Categories // guest post, Rides, training Tags // guest post, Hemmel, hills

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