Flooding at a customer's factory in England left me trapped in my office for 18 hours each day this week, assessing damage, equipment requirements, and sorting through inventory lists which were last touched in the mid 1960s. Despite the hardships at work, I still managed some excellent exercise, mostly in the form of SCRAMBLING over massive piles of machinery parts, SPRINTING down the hallway to the fax machine, and STOMPING on my telephone when suppliers called with bad news late Friday afternoon. So... by Saturday morning I was ready for a much-needed stress-relieving bike ride.
Actually, I initially attempted to sleep-in, ignoring the various alarm clocks and radios which get me to work on time (nearly) every morning. I maintained a defensive position beneath a high pile of blankets, but the sun finally battered it's way through the east window, superheating the bed to a point near spontaneous combustion. So at about 9:30 I was forced to abandon Fort Sleepytime, and consider the day ahead: Sunny (obviously!), high temp in the upper 50s, calm winds out of the east. Good riding day, and there may not be many more like this until springtime, so bike ride it is.
I decide I'll head east, into that "gentle" wind, onto the plateau of gently rolling farmland between Panther Run and the Little Miami River... an easy two hours. Bike of choice? I'm in just the right mood for fixed gear, so Ed's old '63 Bianchi is the ideal set of wheels. Gear of the day is 45x19... lately I can only manage one ride per week; thus I can neither push big gears up hills, nor wind-away at little gears on extended descents. That leaves the 64-inch gear as a comfortable compromise.
I've learned that "high in the upper 50s" often means temps in the mid 40s, so it's double layer of wool jerseys, and a heavy lycra tights. I'm glad for the chance to don the long sleeve woolys, which are soft and warm and comfy, and function better than any other material in the known universe. Bundled thus, I head out the door.
I spend the first 45 minutes trying to remember how to make the sharp-toothed-gear-thingie go around in circles. The peaceful morning air of Panther Run Valley is pierced by the occasional rumble of ex-bike racer cursing his lack of form and failed pedaling technique. The swearjar will be heavier when I get home tonight. I climb up out of the valley, onto the first mini-plateau, and settle into a more consistent cadence around 95 RPM... my legs gradually remember their well-practiced circular pattern.
The winter sun sweeps low across the southern sky, stretching long shadows, even at midday. When I turn south I can see sunlight illuminating the chest of my jersey, heating the wool to a nice fireplace temperature. Wool wool wool! I should now like to sing a song of celebration to my knitted companion. Bikes may wear-away, friends may depart, jobs may come and go, but I know my wool jerseys will last forever, never to be surpassed by any man-made synthetic fabric conceived by the misguided Marketing world. (please feel free to insert the latest d'Alessandro advert here * )
Today is an excellent day for deer-spotting. A doe stands silently at the treeline. Another grazes in the shadow of an abandoned barn. A large buck bounds through a cornfield, past a fallen tree. The corn is tan and bone-dry, and a cloud of yellow dust rises behind the heavy buck. So dry you can hear it... so dry you can smell it and taste it, too.
We're on the high plateau now, gently-rolling roads through corn fields and horse farms. This is the perfect place for the Bianchi. My ears are covered against the cold, so the bike is completely silent. No ticking or thumping or grinding noises, so eventually the bike disappears completely in that familiar way.
Twenty years ago I learned to race on these same roads. Wednesday night club races and Friday night time trials existed here since the 1960s... the courses well established by the time I started riding. The courses were named for the roads or townships or schools... Walnut Grove, Shearer, Mather's Mill, Boomershine, Oregonia, Emmons. The names became legend among the local racing community as, year after year, we learned and relearned the subtleties of the terrain, road surfaces, twists and turns.
Deteriorating pavement brought the time trials to an end about 1988, and by the early 90s the club races submitted to the forces of club liability and local law enforcement. No one races these roads any more... the painted finish lines are faded to mere hints and shadows. The blown tubulars, once tied ceremoniously to the nearest roadsign, have been removed, so that now there are no monuments to mark those places of physical struggle and concentrated competition.
I remember the boys and the bikes of the early 80s... the exploits and failures. Gary on an orange Davidson. Terry on a cobalt Gios. Jordan on an orange International. Bill on a red Ciocc. Me on a Saronni red Colnago. A mixture of Nuovo and Super Record. Clement Crit Setas and Ambrosio Cronos. The old guys... Chuck with his red cloth tape. Pete on an aluminum Alan. Jim on a beige Doug Fattic. My gang of friends... Karl on a white Colnago. Steve on a red TI Raleigh Team. Stony on a burgundy Guerciotti. The last of the wool shorts, the first of the lycra bibs. Skinsuits with Budweiser patches sewn-on front and back. Brett used Hi-E hubs. Bill used Galli brakes. Jim used Cinelli steel track bars.
Certain places still stand vivid in my memory - this is where Terry broke away the night he lapped the field. Gary always started his final sprint -- right ----- about ------- HERE. Pete would attack this corner every lap, and we'd be forced to chase for a minute or two. Steve crashed here, breaking his right arm. I hit a dog here, and sent it rolling along the road, only to have it leap back to it's feet and chase me another 1000 meters.
We learned non-race-related things too on these lazy roads. There's a abandoned brick farmhouse on County Line, been falling down since my Dad was young. The trees growing inside it's shell are taller than the trees growing outside. Ridgeville once had six churches... now there are only a dozen families left. This grinding mill is falling down, the silos are rusted and askew. This guy has been collecting big used Cadillacs since the 1970s. He has a field full of slumping 50s and 60s sedans. You could almost ride your bike from one end of his field to the other without ever touching the ground.... IF you're good at bunnyhopping from hood to hood. There's an abandoned orchard on Bunnell Hill which still produces a few misshapen apples each autumn. The best black raspberries are in the back of this cemetery... always check the briar patch around mid June.
I'm suddenly at the crossroads - it's two hours already, and I can turn left and head home. Or... I could head north again, towards the thin line of purple clouds, up to Pennewit and Clyo, past the gravel pits and pig farms. Maybe across the dam at Caesar's Creek.
I've still got water and food... I deserve another hour or two, don't I?
Aldo Ross