Bike Geek

Ok so I've been told that the marks I always get on my calves when I bike are actually called Geek marks and are not cool in the cycling universe. That is unfortunate bc I always thought they looked pretty fun. So, instead of succumbing to the cycling world's oppressive stance on these so called "geek" marks, I plan to get one tattooed on my right calf and popularize the look. One big, black, grease mark all along my leg. Yes, that will do it. But you know, in reality, the only reason I get them is because my calves are so massive that they can't help but brush up against the chain ring while I'm climbing. Why try and hide one's assets, why not highlight them instead.

OK so maybe I'm not going to get a geek mark tattooed on my leg, but it would be fun to get another bit of ink. Those thoughts are for a later date, however. Today's thoughts will be dedicated to the lovely ride that spanned from the hours of 11 o'clock to 12 o'clock this morning and whatever else my stream of consciousness comes up with.

Since it was meant to be an easy day of flats (coach Craig's orders), we went up around Halswell and did a loop, then back nearer the city and around some back roads. These little one-laners were kind of hidden to anyone but a local and once back there it seemed like something out a movie. There were a lot of large, pretty houses and with a lot of land spanning acres in front, behind and to each side of these homes. The hills rose up behind each bit of property, and on each side of the road, reminding me that we were very much in a valley. One home had a horse pasture, another had a cow pasture, each had a gorgeous bit of landscaping shielding it from the unlikely passer-bys on typical road or mountain bike. Then at the very end of this tiny lane, where the road turned to a fine gravel, as we crunched along I suddenly found myself passing dreamily through a vineyard. The rows of grapes stretched symmetrically along as expected of any fruit-producing land, the sun beat down over the valley and the wind blew just slightly as we came to a slow halt at the end of the gravel road. I stood observing the landscape, what the hills were hiding in the palms of their rocky hands, and wondered if I would ever own such a magnificent place; wondered if I would ever have even been priviledged enough to see such a beautiful scene had I not come this way on my bike...had I not come to NZ; to Christchurch...had I not met Craig. And everday I wonder things similar to these, how could it have been different? What would I have missed?

Thought:

Yesterday while I did my hill workout along Evan's Pass and up Summit Road then back down Mt. Pleasant (note all of the names that suggest being up really high...they aren't just for shits and giggles), I was passed a couple of times by the same blue van.

OK, let's get a visual going:

You see, when climbing up Evan's pass, once you reach the top, you come to an intersection where one can go straight, left, or right. My workout meant for me to go right and continue on up Summit Road. Then once I had climbed Summit Road, I'd reach another intersection where Mt. Pleasant begins at my right. That is where I was meant to turn off and begin my descent.

Now that that's settled, back to the blue van:

So this big, blue van passes me and as it goes by, a bit fast by my standards (even if the hill hadn't been littered with cyclists) and I look and see a big family of slobbery, overweight, unkempt, lard-bottoms hanging out the windows with their video cameras and their disposal kodaks and all I can think to myself is, "you lazy pieces of crap. it would do you some good to get out and walk up this hill instead of hauling your fat asses up it in that ungodly blue piece of crap you call a car." As it is about one in the afternoon and I am nearing the top of my first turn-off, the heat is clearly on and I am taken aback by my violent inner monologue directed towards these unsightly characters whom I have never even met. I see them veer left and sigh a violent "good riddance" as I ascend to take my right. As I continue on up Summit, a few cars pass me, some with great care to keep their distance (which is greatly appreciated), but as I near the first turn, who overcomes me, but the fat, blue-van people once more. And again they are dangling out their windows, shoving at one another, trying to see over the metallic blue of their window-frames to witness the beauty of Sumner and the ocean beneath these cliffs. And again I curse them beneath my breath. More cars pass and I realize that they are all headed towards a look-out point where tourists gather like flies on shit for a view of the beaches below. The road levels off a bit and as I pass cyclists coming the other way, gesturing lightly to "have a nice day" I find the energy to consider what on earth has possessed me to be so angry towards a group of people I have never met...a group of people I would never care to meet even in passing...a group of people who I would never have given a second thought to had I been, let's say, pedalling swiftly along the streets of Sydenham.

Some of my reasoning includes but is not limited to the following:

My unpleasant emotion cannot have come from the fact that I'm exerting all this physical energy to reach the top of this climb whereas they are driving. No, that makes no sense as it was my decision, I WANTED to train like this. And I myself have driven up the hills to get from point A to point B. I mean, I can't expect everyone who wants to go to Littleton to ride there for goodness sakes. And I certainly can't expect everyone to ride up the hills in order to witness the sights that await at the top (for it would surely committ some people to the either the ditch, the hospital or both).

But there was something different about this day, whether I was just hot or exhuasted or both. And at a time like that there is something about climbing a hill, about being passed by tourists only to see them stop atop the hillside and gaze out over the cliffs, spend 3 or 5 or even an entire 8 minutes (gasp!) taking photographs and then hop their fat rear-ends back in their metalic blue tourist van only to whiz carelessly back down the hill and be gone long before I had even pedalled my way to the top. There is something about seeing another cyclist pitted against a car be it from an up or downhill perspective (many think coming down hill is easy, well, it's not...it's scary as hell and it really does take talent, concentration and patience.), and thinking "Go you...kick that car's ass". It's something about working so hard to get to the top, trying with such effort to enjoy the beauty that stretches as far as the eye can see, while nearly failing to do so because you only want to focus on the pavement directly in front of you and how much more is left. It's about finally making it to the top and not having driven there to observe the sights, but having pushed oneself in order to experience it. Having to breathe the air in order to stay alive. Having to squint one's eyes against the sun in order to keep seeing. Having to analyze the grade of the hill slowly increase with every downward push of a pedal in order to adjust one's technique. Having to harness the wind as a tool while bombing down through the streets of Mt. Pleasant. Everything is slowed down to a pace which allows one to actually think about life.

So in the end, it's really not anger towards the people in the big, blue van. No, it's more a kind of pity. Because even though I sound angry...maybe because at the time I thought that they weren't respecting this realm enough, or that they weren't worthy of seeing it from their ugly, obtrusive vehicle...it's really their loss, not mine. Maybe it's a sort of arrogance that I'm developing where I'm just a little proud at being able to reach these heights on a bike. I do know that whenever I drive up the Port Hills and see some poor, sweaty fool (yes we are fools) mashing at his pedals with spirits aimed at the summit, I can't help but whisper a little "keep it up" under my breath. For aside from shouting my utmost respect to these warriors of the road and making myself out to be an absolute idiot, there is little else I can do but silently praise them for their suffering...and then remind myself gently that tomorrow is my 'three hour, medium/hard hills" training day and smile just slightly at this insanity.

-NMK