Can I Get an Hallelujah?!

Judging from the overwhelming response to my previous post, it’s clear I’ve managed to capture the attention of hundreds of cyclists interested in reading my marvelous writings.

Okay, let’s move on.

Almost two months after having moved to Pleasantville from Brooklyn, I finally forked over the $20 to join the WCC--Westchester Cycling Club. Not that I’m tight (although I am), I had become so familiar with riding with the group on Staten Island every weekend that it became easy, but not in a physical sense. It became easy because I had grown familiar with (a) the names and faces, and (b) the actual route we ride every week. It’s the same idea as staying at the same job even though you know you could make more money with another company: rather than leave, you stick with what you know, and that’s what I had been doing until today.

Regardless, I joined WCC, spotted a B+ ride scheduled for this morning out of Katonah lead by Joe Gasperino (hopefully, Joe has no issues with the law and won’t mind to me referring to him by his full name online), and figured, “It’s time to do some group riding closer to home.”

Now, after having finished forty miles with Joe and those guys, the most important thing I can say is, what some people consider a B+ pace is not what other people consider a B+ pace. Don’t get me wrong--my intention is not to knock other guys with whom I’ve ridden in the past, but the B+ guys up here are serious.

That and there are too many hills around here.

Can you blame me for thinking I’d be all right in the B+ group considering my limited frame of reference? I’m not making excuses--those of you who know me should know that I have a serious aversion to (a) excuses, and (b) the kind of bullshit people toss around when they say things like, “Man, I’m not feeling too good today,” and then take off on their own after a few miles. All I’m saying is that in my simple mind I figured that if I could hang with the B+ guys on Staten Island, I hoped to at least keep up with a B+ group in Westchester.

Wrong.

As for the ride, there’s a street somewhere up here in Westchester called Keeler Avenue. It’s a street that, with any luck, I’ll never see again. For the Staten Island crowd, the ascent is similar to Hillside Terrace, but a hell of a lot more deceiving in that, just when you think you’ve reached the top, just when you look down and see your heart rate has reached 189, you glance up to see another fifteen-degree bitch of a rise, leaving you incapable of doing anything other than muttering the words, “Holy frigging Christ.”

Halfway up that last bitch of a hill, I lost any sense of pride I might have had at the beginning of the morning and unclipped. My intention was to reach for my cell phone and call 911 for the EMT crew, but when Joe passed me with a smile and a “Tough climb, huh?” I figured I’d walk my broken ass the fifty-feet or so to the top and then try to remount.

Luckily, Joe and the rest of the guys (Brian, Bud, Ken, Mike, Bill, and Patrick) were kind enough to wait for me at the turns, although the fact that riders I had just met had to stop and wait for me, well, that’s just plain embarrassing.

Still, it was a good morning, a good ride, and I look forward to my next crucifixion as soon as possible.