One Extreme to Another

Yesterday, I managed to get Kenny Picco on his bike without having to put something on the calendar two weeks in advance.

I can now consider myself a miracle worker.

Despite how well the afternoon turned out, the morning started off on a fairly miserable note. When the alarm sounded, I opened my eyes to dark skies and the pitter-patter of rain drops splashing against the window next to my head. Every instinct in my body instructed me to kill the alarm--not just hit SNOOZE, but to turn the damn thing off completely--roll over, and get back to the serious business of sleeping in late, although a small voice in the back of my head reminded me of how seven-time Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong would ride regardless of the inclement weather.

Where this small voice came from, I’ll never know. Why I even bothered to listen to it is another story all together.

So like a complete jackass, I packed my gear, grabbed my bike, and stepped out the front door into a drizzling rain with the hopes it would clear up by the time I reached Sandy Hook. Why Sandy Hook? Why travel so far in such cheerless weather? I recently invested in a copy of 30 Bicycle Tours in New Jersey and wanted to feel like I was getting the most for my $7.

Luckily, I was completely packed in the truck when it started to pour. Even luckier, the rain had let up almost all the way by the time I parked in the first lot at Sandy Hook. I felt pretty good pulling on my new Under Armor long-sleeve base layer (I get such a hard-on for new cycling gear--something for which I should probably seek counseling) and my new Nashbar jersey. I felt even better during that first mile along the park road, yet I felt like killing somebody when thunder cracked overhead and the rain started coming down harder than the Yankees spanking the Mets in the World Series.

(I know I could have done better with that one, Picco, but I couldn’t help myself.)

After ten miles, I pulled it in. If Lance wants to ride in the rain, let him ride in the rain. Unlike Mr. Armstrong, no one is paying me to ride a bicycle, so what the hell was I thinking? I’m either (a) joining a gym so I can ride a stationary bike when it’s raining, or (b) investing in a trainer so I can ride in my apartment when it even looks like it’s going to drizzle outside.

Heading back to Staten Island, I made sure to stop in the Taco Bell on Route 36 for a ghettofabulous meal of cheesy fiesta potatoes, one soft beef taco, a steak quesadilla, and a jumbo-sized Mountain Dew. I would have ordered a small Mountain Dew, although I recently read a book by Lance Armstrong’s trainer, Chris Carmichael, and he recommends always order the super-sized soda when eating out. Clearly, the guy’s a professional, so who would I be to contradict the man by ordering water?

By the time I left Jersey, the skies had cleared up and the goddam sunshine was everywhere. At Kenny Picco’s place, he regaled me with tales of his recent vacation in North Carolina’s Outer Banks until I felt fully regaled. For a moment, we discussed heading out for a ride considering the day had taken a turn for the better.

“My gear’s wet,” I said.

Kenny pointed to the corner of his basement. “The dryer’s right there.”

“Let's go.”

We stepped outside to discuss the possibility further when the sweet sounds of Queen’s Bicycle Race reached our ears from a neighbor’s stereo across the street:

Bicycle bicycle bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle bicycle bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride my bike
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride my
Bicycle races are coming your way
So forget all your duties oh yeah
Fat bottomed girls they'll be riding today
So look out for those beauties oh yeah
On your marks get set go
Bicycle race bicycle race bicycle race
All I want to do is
Bicycle bicycle bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle
Bicycle bicycle bicycle bicycle
Bicycle race

Kenny looked at me. “I guess we kind of have to go now, huh?”

I think the correct term for such a situation would be coincidental. I know a lot of people would say ironic, although I’d disagree.

And that was it. I tossed my soggy gear in the dryer, held his wife’s hair dryer in my shoes for a few minutes, and off we went to ride twelve or so miles on the flat road in Gateway Park.

I’m also going to own Mr. Picco’s ass this coming Sunday, a day which he agreed to go riding again. Hopefully, we’ll hit Central Park for a few laps, or at least Prospect Park. Get ready to sweat, Mr. Picco.