So last night was the SIBA dinner-dance and although I didn’t witness a whole lot of dancing (actually, I didn’t see anybody dancing, although my back was to the room the entire night), we did indeed have dinner.
What first struck me when I walked into the Marina Grand down near the Great Kills Yacht Club was not the ever-present smell of salt water (which brought back a ton of childhood memories), but the fact that I recognized all of five or six faces amongst forty or so guests. I stepped inside, shook hands with Mr. Dalton who introduced me to his wife, and looked around. As a friend had warned me, I was the youngest person in the room by twenty or thirty years, although I found myself standing there thinking, Is this the SIBA dinner?
Over the past few months, only a handful of members have shown up to ride on the weekends and I guess I somehow got it in my head that these people--Ed, Trek Tommy, Colnago John, Brent, Kelly, Anne, Rose, T-Mobile Tommy, Horace, Andy, Hugo, Glenn, etc.--made up the core membership of SIBA. Clearly, based on last night’s attendance, there are a hell of a lot more cyclists who belong to the club, although I’m going to go out on a limb and assume most of the members put the gear away when the temperatures drop below forty and wait until next spring before they pick up the habit again.
How little I know.
Regardless, after the awards were handed out, there was a serious amount of metal on our table. Considering Horace pretty much won everything a person can win on a bicycling in the Empire State Games in his age group, he took an award for doing as much. Further, Ed took an award for winning his age group in the NYC Triathlon, and Rose received a medal for most-improved rider, which means I found myself seated around a bad-ass group of cyclists.
Then we had steak for dinner and before the cake came out, I hit the road hoping to make it back to Westchester before I fell asleep.
Next thing I knew, today had arrived when my alarm went off at 6:18. I opened my eyes to find my cat less than three inches from my face, staring at me with that look she gives me every morning, the one that says, “Don’t you think it’s time you put some f#cking food in my bowl, food guy? I ask you to do one simple thing every day and here you are, sleeping on the job.”
Considering it was Sunday, I had choices. I could eat, pack, and drive to Staten Island for the group ride, or I could eat, get dressed, and ride a few miles to try and find a group ride that starts at 7:30 not far from here in Pleasantville. Or I could kill the alarm and just go back to bed with the idea of riding solo later in the morning. Take a guess what happened?
At 10:30, I hit the road with a revised cue sheet in my pocket and put in a solid 45 miles up here in the hills. And like I’ve been saying, there are hills up here, like Cheesequake, but more of them.
Two-and-a-half hours later, I clicked out of the pedals in front of my place to find my rear wheel rubbing against the brakes. Believe it or not, I broke another spoke and god only knows how long I had been riding with the rim rubbing against the brakes like that. Regardless, I just ordered a new bike, so we’ll see if the flex of a carbon fiber frame will help prevent all these freaking broken spokes (which I seem to suffer once a month at least).
Oi. I’m exhausted. It’s nap time.
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