Sweet Memory

I wanted to ride with the dudes on Staten Island this morning (Sunday), although when the alarm went off at seven and I took a glance out the window, everything was soaking wet and the clouds were still drizzling. So instead of hauling my butt out of bed and packing my gear for the ten-mile drive to New Dorp, I killed the alarm and rolled over. Call me crazy, although I don’t see the attraction of riding in a paceline with dirty street water spitting into my face for two hours.

Later that morning, once the sun had broke through, I got dressed and hit the rode for a two-hour ride, working in a handful of fast-pedal exercises, bumping my cadence up above 110. For whatever reason, Chris Carmichael thinks this is a good idea. Feels funny to do so while on the bike, but if Carmichael thinks it’s good training, that’s enough for me.

Usually, I would keep to Prospect Park and stay out of traffic, but after six months of riding in a 3.4-mile loop, the experience gets a bit boring. Instead, I did my normal loop down Ocean Parkway, through Brighton Beach to the path that runs along the Belt Parkway, over Marine Parkway Bridge, and then back again. Granted, the stoplights that line Ocean Parkway are numerous, although I approach that conundrum with 5-10 second standing sprints each time I take off from a red light. A steady, continuous pace would be a better for training, but sometimes, especially when you live in NYC, you just have to roll with the punches.

Okay, enough about that crap.

Somewhere on Richmond Terrace yesterday morning, Ed Dalton called out, “Stevie!”

“Yo.”

“Slow it up.”

I think that was the first time I’ve heard those words directed at me, but honestly, it’s not because I’m fast. Far from it, actually. Now that the weather has turned to real winter weather (meaning below freezing temperatures), the group rides on the Island have become progressively smaller. Further, it probably makes sense to slow things down a notch in such weather, to not tax the body so much, but every time I get in line and notice my heart rate monitor reading 119, I get nervous. Why? I can’t help but think of my first and only race (so far) last August. That was the Category 5 criterium in Prospect Park that saw me get spanked by six minutes in a forty-five minute race.

I know I’ve mentioned this before, but bear with me on this one. It’ll only take a minute or two.

I could sit here and hide behind the excuse that I had only been riding for a month when I entered the race (I bought the bike on July 4th and raced August 5th . . . or was it the 6th?), but I hate excuses. There are two things I dislike in day-to-day life: excuses and exaggeration. For example, years ago a friend tried to convince me that a tree was growing in the middle of Great Kills road. “It’s right in the middle of the street,” he claimed, and when we drove by, sure enough, a tree had grown through the pavement about six inches from the curb. “That’s the middle of the street?” I asked, pointing out the window. “If that’s the middle of the street, then what’s that?” I then pointed past the steering wheel to where a double-yellow line would have been if the Transportation Department ever decided to paint one on that particular street.

Anyway, back to the race. After the first lap, I got dropped on the longest climb in the park (which really isn’t that long), in the biggest way. They just spit me out the rear without so much as an adios and left me panting like a dog in hundred-degree heat. I think of that experience every time I throw a leg over my bike. I’m sure it’ll never fully leave, but since then, every time I’m out on the road, I can’t help but remember how physically demanding it was to ride that pace. I could go ahead and make the argument that I’m in much better shape now than I was in early August, but it’s not enough. I don’t even want to risk falling back on reasoning like that. If I do, I might grow complacent, and if I grow complacent, I have no doubt the next race this spring/early summer will see me spit out the back once again.

So when I’m on Staten Island with the guys and it’s freezing and only a few of us show up to ride, I have something of a mental block when it comes to putting it on cruise control, even for a few minutes. I know damn well that if the rest of the guys in that group wanted to step on the gas, they’d leave me for far, far behind. It happened a few weeks ago when T-Mobile Tommy and Lester took off on Richmond Avenue and never let up. Within minutes, I was once again kicked out the back and I never caught up until the bagel shop. A week later, same thing. Dr. Rob and Lester wanted to go on the hill near Killimeyer’s (I have no doubt I just mangled the spelling of Killimeyer’s). About a minute later, they were completely out of sight. Gone.

My point is, if I push toward the front and make a few pathetic attempts at sprints, it’s due to that race from last year. Those fifty minutes of complete decimation and embarrassment have lodged themselves in my brain and, fortunately or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, I’ve been unable to let go. If I mention I want to pull up front most of the ride, it’s only to push myself, to get ready for what I know is going to happen in the coming months.

As for disliking excuses? That’s a whole other story.