1-Year Anniversary

It was exactly a year ago today that I walked into R&A in Brooklyn with Mr. Picco and bought my very first bicycle (not counting the BMX stuff when I was a teenager), the blue Giant OCR2 sports touring bike, for $600, water bottle cage included. From there, Mr. Picco and I drove the few blocks to Prospect Park for a few laps, spinning through the tons of foot traffic carrying coolers and beach chairs on their way to Independence Day cook-outs. Little did I know at the time that in the space of another two months, I would move to Brooklyn Heights and spend almost every day riding in Prospect Park, enough so that I’m now intimately familiar with every inch of that damn 3.4 mile loop.

A lot happens over the course of a year. I had been riding barely a month when I was dense enough to try and race in Prospect Park. In hindsight, it might have been one of the best things I could have done so early in my riding career. Those seventeen miles were quick to prove just how far I still had to go on the bike and, rather than demoralize me, rather than turn me off from the sport, the experience only served as motivation.

Not long afterward, the fall arrived and weather began to turn, meaning it was time to begin investing in things long-sleeve jerseys, tights, wool socks, booties, and a garish neon yellow windbreaker that would eventually fail me on a chilly day all the way out near JFK airport, although it turned out as a good thing as its failure (failure as in the zipper on the removable sleeve came undone) forced me to buy my first piece of Pearl Izumi apparel, a much more aesthetically pleasing black and silver winter jacket. Pleased with its quality, I now invest almost exclusively in Pearl Izumi apparel.

It was probably not long before that afternoon that I ordered a copy of Chris Carmichael’s training book, The Ultimate Ride. At the same time, I bought a heart rate monitor, did my first set of field tests (3-mile time trials), and began training within a specific heart rate zone while incorporating sprints and fast-pedal exercises.

That was when I still lived in Brooklyn. At the end of October (I realize the chronological order here is somewhat screwed up, but I just returned from mountain biking and I’m struggling to fend off a nap as I write this, so please, reader, bear with me), Mr. Picco hosted a terrific Oktoberfest party in his yard and it was then that I met Mr. Dr. Rob. Toward the end of the night, he mentioned a 100K training ride he had planned in Cheesequake the following day. I should have realized I was getting in way over my head by the way Dr. Rob sort of paused and smiled when I asked if I could tag along. A smarter man would have immediately picked up on the signal and took a rain check for another day, maybe after putting some more miles in his legs, but you know Dr. Rob, he’s a nice guy, so I got the invite regardless. I showed up, met Dr. Rob, Anne, Brent, and Joe C. and by the time we hit those three consecutive hills, I fell right out the back, thinking to myself, You are WAY out of your league here, kiddo.

Maybe two or three months later, after Dr. Rob introduced me to Ed Dalton and the SIBA group, Mr. Dalton invited me on the Cheesequake ride, to which I replied, “Honestly, I’m kind of scared of that ride.” And I was scared of the ride, the hills, the lactic acid that I knew would build up and stay in my legs as everyone just blasted away up every hill we encountered.

And instead of packing it in and taking off for a few months, we rode through the winter--long yet somewhat manageable training rides in Staten Island. Rides that started off with freezing fingers then ended up with okay fingers but freezing feet. And the hill climb ride on a Thursday morning, just Ed and I, avoiding patches of ice as we crossed over Rockland Avenue and worked our way up Manor Road to Ocean Terrace.

In mid-winter came a move to Pleasantville in Westchester yet instead of hitting the roads, I hit the trainer in the basement until the snow began to clear. Soon I bought a new bike, the Jamis I ride now and the switch from aluminum to carbon fiber was definitely a switch for the better considering the number of spokes I broke on the Giant’s rear wheel.

As soon as the temperature began to lift somewhat, I put the trainer away in favor of the roads yet riding through unfamiliar territory proved a major pain in the ass. Reaching the bottom of a hill, I had no idea how long the incline might continue, so I struggled and swore under my breath every time I came around a corner to see the hill heading up another quarter of a mile. Soon, though, the roads became more familiar, as did the sights, so now I know when to push and when to settle in to a friendly, seven mile-per-hour pace.

A month ago, my first time trial. Nothing too long, only eleven miles, but enough test myself. Averaging just under twenty miles-per-hour, I again realize how far I still need to go until my legs can handle more of a beating and get the bike going faster.

Two weeks after that, the second race of the year, a return to Prospect Park and since that experience has already been dissected and discussed, not much need to go there again.

And now here I sit, a year come and gone.