Tuesday, January 17, 2017

It's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life. (Rita Rudner)

We pedalled to the Rickenbacker Causeway, a convenient two miles from our home. Someone once asked me what I do to train for the type of cycling we do. "That's easy," I told them, "I just chase Al down the road."

It's true. At least on Tuesdays. That's when we go to the Rickenbacker and do a metric century's worth of loops up and down the causeway, Virginia Key, and Key Biscayne. Other days we ride together. But on Tuesdays, we have "meet-up" points. He gets to ride as fast as he wants. I chase. I can almost hang on to him during the first part of the ride. Then, bit by bit, he disappears into the distance.

Today I was giving chase when I had to slow briefly as I came up behind two middle-aged guys on their road bikes. "Good morning, gentlemen. Passing on your left. Chasing the bunny in the white jersey up ahead!" As often happens when a woman passes a couple of guys, they quickened their pace. A couple miles down the road they passed me when I slowed, breathing very hard, still trying to pedal-pedal-pedal, but now slumping over my handlebars. "We decided to chase your bunny, too!" they said as they passed me.

We did the last 15 miles at a comfortable speed, enjoying the best part of the ride. Somewhere around 40 miles into a ride or so, we slide into a zone. This is where the "ride" begins for us: muscles moving smoothly, breathing deeply, the road stretching pleasantly into the distance ahead.

Pedal, pedal, pedal.

Sunday, January 8, 2017

Cheers to a new year and another chance for us to get it right. (Oprah Winfrey)

2017 has barely begun, but those resolutions to be active, get in shape, and ride your bike more may already be falling victim to work and family. The Everglades Bicycle Club (EBC) decided to give us all a little love and encouragement.

EBC threw a fun tailgate party for folks that rode over 4,000+ miles in 2016. It was a party to celebrate those who rode a lot in 2016 and to encourage everyone to ride more in 2017. We all had a great time.

Al and I ride a lot because a long bike ride is fun and makes us happy. It expands the senses. It leaves me, at least, with that same sense of brightness and wonder I remember from childhood, a sense of being fully alive. Over the years Al and I have tried rides of various lengths and intensity. We discovered that we were most satisfied when our rides were around 50-75 miles and the intensity determined by our mood and how we felt that particular day. (We are retired. While we love being out on our bicycles, we limit our riding to just 4 mornings a week to give us time for the rest of our life.)

It isn't hard for us to ride a lot. Personally, I am awed by people with jobs, businesses, family, and sometimes school, who find a way to get out each week and ride 80 to 200+ miles. Because that's what it takes to do 4,000+ to 10,000+ miles a year. These are the ones who deserve the accolades.

Here in Miami, we got to party with a whole bunch of them. Awesome.
(Some of the folks that rode over 4000+ miles. Photo by Alex Pruna, re-edited for post by Marsha)

(Some of the guys that rode over 10,000 miles. Photo by Alex Pruna, re-edited for post by Marsha)



Wednesday, January 4, 2017

From there to here, and here to there, funny things are everywhere. (Dr. Seuss)

Starting back on the bike after being off for three months has been a hoot.

The first time out was just Al and me, and it was ugly and slow. But I finished 35 miles. (Thankfully no one I knew saw me.) The second ride was much better. I went with a group of friends who pulled me the whole 35 miles. The third ride was 41 miles, with a group, and a little faster. The fourth ride was with a small group of friends, another 35 mile ride. Each ride was a little better than the one before.

Then yesterday I headed out with just Al. We did 50 miles, keeping 3-5 bike lengths apart so I wasn't drafting him. I was working hard, but I wasn't focused on speed. I was using my power meter to determine my new baselines. You can't see improvement if you don't know where you started from.

About halfway through the 50 miles I had a funny thought. I'd been doing the wah-wah-wah-this-is-sooooo-hard thing. Then suddenly a light bulb switched on: this was no harder than any other day Al and I were by ourselves doing a training ride. The numbers on my little bike computer were just a bit smaller than 3 months ago, but (duh) I was expecting that. It was a typical training ride. I was working my butt off. It was a training ride, not a touring ride or a ramble. First you train, then you get to have long satisfying, pleasant, enjoyable rides.

So I smoothed my shoulders and chased Al down the road. From there to here, and here to there. Just like that I decided to stop bitching and start looking for the funny things.





Thursday, December 8, 2016

Never again is what you swore the time before. (Martin Gore, Policy of Truth)

I enter the gym five floors below our little studio condo home and head over to the spin bikes. It is an hour before dawn. I give a nod to the two guys who are already there working out. They return my little greeting.

I'm retired. I'm wearing baggy gray knicker sweat pants, an old cycling event t-shirt that's been liberally customized with scissors, and a pair of well-worn Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers. The two guys are young, pulled together, sculpted, and stylishly tattooed.

I adjust my ear buds and the volume on my music. Pedal, pedal, pedal. Sweat drips down my neck. My mouth is open as I gasp a bit for air. Every five minutes a Metorail train crosses the Miami River on the bridge outside the gym's wall of windows. My eyes follow each train as it goes by.

I'm getting back to my old cycling schedule. This is the time I normally head out for a bike ride. Since a spin bike is the only bike I can ride until January 1, I'm in the gym. The workout is good, but the going-nowhere-ness of a spin bike is just plain weird. Every day I swear I'm never doing this again. But here I am, back one more time.

The sculpted, tattooed gym rats watch me warily as I gasp for air, concerned, I fear, that they may have to call 911 at any moment. But before they actually feel the need to panic, my playlist ends. Another day on the spin bike is done.

I nod a goodbye as I head for the door. See you tomorrow. 




Sunday, October 30, 2016

If you haven't got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me. (Alice Roosevelt Longworth)

Al and I were mountain bikers years before we decided to pedal around on road bikes. Back then we lived in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and mountain biking was just what you did there. Unfortunately, mountain biking had a shorter shelf life for me than other types of cycling. Mountain biking is exciting, but it also has constant pounding on tendons and joints. I finally decided the rougher stuff was something best left behind. It was fun, and I've got the memories.

Al and I still own and ride our mountain bikes. We just do it a lot slower than we used to. And with our tires in constant contact with the ground. What we do these days is the mountain biking version of hiking. We go out and enjoy nature and wildlife and skip the adrenaline stuff.

But back to the point of this post.

I am sitting in our tiny Miami condo recovering from a crash I took on a road bike. And this past week my entertainment has been some very funny mountain biking friends. Friends that have made me laugh by shamelessly making fun of my whining and complaining.

They do not tolerate whining. Or pity parties. And why should they? Each of them has survived a serious crash or two. They are supportive, but they are quick to let me know when I need to suck it up and get my act together.

Their current undertaking was getting me to put more weight on my left leg. I whined that it hurt and that I just looked like a penguin. Of course I was immediately inundated with penguin GIFs. So I sucked it up and started working on learning to put weight on the left leg. And (surprise!) after a wickedly bad couple of days, it got better. I still look like a penguin. (And will for some time.) But I'm a much happier penguin.

You just can't have too many crazy friends.







Sunday, October 23, 2016

Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society. (Mark Twain)

I have never considered myself an athlete, just someone who enjoys being active. So I was retired before I joined my first sport club. Naturally, it was a bicycle club.

Teams and clubs, I learned, have uniforms. In sports these are referred to as kits. I don't know much about sports, but I love clothes. What could be better, I thought: Sports let you play dress-up.

I really wanted the kit of my first cycling club. But when I went to buy it, I discovered that women were expected to buy the smallest men's kit. I was skeptical. I am barely 5'2", which is to say way shorter than even the shortest man in the club. I went to a local bike shop in the little rural community near our home, and I tried on the jersey. It was just so funny. The jersey was so long I could have belted it and worn it as a tunic! Needless to say, I skipped buying that particular club jersey.

Not all clubs and teams made this fundamental sizing mistake. In the years that followed, our jersey collection grew. And grew. We've belonged to several clubs, often more than one at the same time. And there were groups that came together just for an event or tour, using an event jersey in place of a club or team jersey. We soon needed rules to keep the number of cycling tops we owned under control:

  • If there was a date on them, they had to be retired in a couple of years. 
  • Immediate retirement for white ones that got dull and dingy. 
  • Ditto sun-faded or raggedy ones. 
  • Absolutely no magenta or brown ones.

It is tremendous fun to run around with friends who are all wearing special jerseys. Some folks get pretty emotional and territorial about their team or club kits. But I think most of us understand that kits are an adult dress-up game that should be enjoyed for what it is. Particularly in very large clubs, it is inevitable that common interest sub-groups will coalesce and want their own special kits. Fine. The more the merrier. After all, it is all about friends, riding bicycles, and memories. Life is too short for childish bickering over minor matters.

Wearing a team or club kit gives you a sense of belonging. It also communicates our shared understanding that we have the responsibility to ride safely and take care of each other. Each time I peer into my drawer of cycling jerseys, each different jersey reminds me of fun rides where I wore each one. It is a collection of treasured memories of riding with special friends.

Back to that club that didn't have women's size jerseys for women members. I decided not to argue with the guys. From their decidedly sexist point of view, most of the women fit into the men's jerseys so there wasn't a problem. Life being too short to bicker, I decided to go out and buy a tacky, cheap garage sale rhinestone cocktail necklace. I paired it with my usual tank jerseys, and it became my bike club outfit. I enjoyed the comments about the necklace but never explained it to anyone.

We moved before another woman my height joined the club so we both could wear tacky, cheap rhinestone necklaces.  It would have been a lot of fun.

Sunday, October 16, 2016

We scare because we care. (Monsters, Inc.)

It wasn't my first visit to an emergency room. The first time was when I was a kid, competing with my next door neighbor to see which of us could swing highest. Coming down from the very top of our highest arc, laughing at the fun of it all, our laughter suddenly turned into hysterical screams when, Billy, my neighbor's pet goat, wandered into the path of our swings. The goat survived with a minor lump or two. My neighbor got stitches for an ugly gash on her shin. I broke my collarbone.

This visit to the emergency room, a lifetime later, was because of a bike crash. Al and I were out on a group ride. Someone lost control of his bike and swerved into me. Fellow riders handled moving us off the road, calling the police and ambulance, and answering all the necessary questions. I was put on a stretcher and lifted into the ambulance. I had identification and my insurance information with me. (Never go biking without them. And there is one thing I am going to add to my bike wallet: a laminated card with the names of my doctors, a brief list of my medications, and a note about my most important medical conditions. I fumbled to give them this simple information, and it made me feel frustrated and helpless.)

Here are the two points that I didn't know would be important:
  1. My bicycle helmet came with me in the ambulance to the hospital
  2. How fast I was going when the crash occurred was important. It determined which hospital I would be taken to. The faster you were going, the higher the level of trauma care they anticipate you will need.
When I arrived at the hospital, I was whisked into the emergency room. At this point hospital protocols took over. I was immediately put into an examination room, and the first of wave after wave of nurses, doctors, and other hospital staff began coming through. My lycra bike clothes (or rather what remained of them) were removed, and every bump, bruise, scrape, bit of road rash, and other areas of suspected injury were quickly probed and catalogued. My helmet was examined, and they actually discussed whether and where the helmet had hit the pavement. (They even matched up some minor abrasions on my head with the cable ties used to secure my helmet mirror to the helmet!) Then I was rolled off for head to toe CT scans. Back in the examination room, more questions from the doctors, more people walking in and out. The doctors pronounced that I had a broken pelvis. I had also fractured a vertebrae in my neck. There was some concern about the possibility of internal bleeding in the area of the duodenum. There was damage to a vertebral artery leading to the brain. That artery was a serious concern and their first priority. I was whisked off to a Neuro ICU, my hospital home for the next 12 days.

If you have never been in an ICU, all you need to know is that patients are hooked up to all manner of monitoring machines. This in addition to IV drips and the like. I teased the nurses that leather bondage fashion would make as much style sense in an ICU as hospital gowns. From the patient's viewpoint, an ICU is a place where everything beeps and pings, constantly, 24 hours a day. But it is also an amazingly comforting place. (Then again, that may just be a result of whatever they added to the IV drip running into my arm.) In the next hours I was whisked off for MRIs and blood was drawn repeatedly. My last memory of the evening was a doctor coming in and summarizing my condition and reviewing what was going to happen next.

Was it scary? Of course, it was. But my personal take-away was this: Everyone that was part of this experience, from the ambulance attendants to the trauma team to the nursing staff, knew what they were doing and did it well. Am I OK? Yes. Thanks to the excellent care at the hospital, I am feeling good and am on the mend. The doctors say I will probably be able to start riding again in January.

And, oh yeah, I learned something valuable about my friends and family. Not one person suggested I should stop riding my bike. Not one. And they all asked, "Is the bike OK?"

Are these great people, or what?