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Spilling up
from the valley below, the cold gray spring day gathered round us.
Only slight relief came from the faint pearlescent glow of the
clouds spread high above. Just two days ago it was 95?, but today
the bitter cold soaked deep into each of us. A circle of seven
riders ringed a smaller group of three huddled close over a bicycle
lying on the side of the road.
I shivered
and felt eerie and transported, like the fabled soldier lured into
the hollowed tree by the crafty witch. I was excited and somewhat
overly proud to have kept pace with these biking fanatics so far,
but...
It could not
have been a more primitive scene. It was as if we had snugged in
around the last dying embers of a precious fire. Blackened grease
had spread from hand to hand, to nose, to itchy heads (just below
the cocked back helmet brims) of those toiling over the problem.
The yellow
jersey of Charlie (Chatmandu) Brown, who was most entwined in the
fallen bike, served to heighten the feeling that this was a
campfire, our group's polar center, a totem.
The three
squatting on the ground peered up with an amazement that reflected
in the whole group as they all stood staring slack jawed at the
outstretched hand of Crazy Mike. He dangled a length of chain.
A quick pan
around revealed the same expression on the wondering faces of the
Whiz Kids (Tony Domenick, aka: Flying Tony and Ingrid Arlt, aka:
Aero, aka: Iron Maiden), R& (Randy Dakan), (Shiftless) John Handago,
John (Go On and Enjoy My Hill) McAuliffe and SlingShot, on down to
the inner Circle of the Bike, Charlie (Chatmandu) Brown,
Jumpin' Jerry Latrine and the bike's owner Tom Gustainis, on out to
the focus of all ire: Crazy Mike Bocchino. All stared with eyes like
saucers.
Mike's limp
chain length hung lifeless in his outstretched hand. He stood with
the remaining contents from his saddle bag littered at his feet. "I
have some extra sections, if that will help," stammered Crazy.
Someone
emerging from a deep involvement with the bike's broken chain
blurted that the extra sections would have indeed been a great help,
"...a half hour ago."
As it was,
the chain was now already back together, though slightly shorter and
a little stiffer than perfect.
We had all
learned some important lessons. First, just about everybody carries
chain tools while almost nobody is very good at using them. Second,
it's a good thing that just about everybody carries chain tools;
because, if a group of ten works together in chattering concert
(using several of slightly varying tools), a chain can actually be
put back together. Third, nobody whose bike has failed is ever
allowed to do much of the fixing themselves. Everybody scrambles all
over each other to grab, wrestle and suggest the problem out of
their hand. Finally, never put Tom Gustainis (forever after to be
called: "Chainman") on a large degree slope in a big chain ring. The
power transfer is just too great for standard materials. The metal
will give way long before the sinew.
In the thick
of things someone had suggested that maybe we needed to let our
resident bone doctor and surgeon, (Shiftless) John Handago, handle
the re-assembly. Somebody else pointed out that Shiftless could
probably get the job done pretty quickly, but it would take six
months to be fully functional. That discussion dovetailed into one
about Crazy's newly found production technique vis-a-vis the dangled
chain. It expanded on the Japanese technique of JIT (Just In Time)
manufacturing. The new process was dubbed "Almost In Time
Manufacturing," but it is probably not patentable.
It seemed
only a moment later that we were beginning the descent of another
big hill. A skittering projectile slid out and away from the left of
(Aero) Ingrid's bike. It was John (Go On and Enjoy My Hill)
McAuliffe just ahead of me who yelled, "Ingrid lost her trip
computer," and surged ahead to tell her. He didn't mind surging
ahead. His house is at the bottom of the biggest of the day's
Last Hill, as in: "Not another last hill!?" He'd soon be bailing
out of the ride. I yelled, "Go on ahead, I'll get it," and then
pulled across to the side of the road and stopped.
As I reached
down, I heard Tom (Chainman) from the back and above yelling, "On
your left...on your LEFT...ON YOUR LEFT!"
Needless to
say I already knew the computer was on my left, but the words were
strangely reminiscent of the previous Sunday ride, when I heard R&
(Randy) yelling, "Right turn...Right TURN...RIGHT TURN." That was in the
midst of a conversation about cell phone service providers. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how
"right turn" had any
relevance to cell phones, but soon I felt Randy's shoulder on my
own, immediately followed by his face in my space, at which point I
commenced responding by repeatedly bouncing away from him then
falling back in, as he bobbled me through the right turn. Apparently
his hand signal had come up behind me...but enough of this gratuitous
and formulaic flashback. Something is about to happen. |
Whatever
could it be that was at the root of Tom's tedious inability to
realize that I knew full well where the damn computer had fallen? I
looked around just as his volume peaked and the pitch dopplered up a
minor third.
Shit!
Chainman, with eyes like saucers, was coming full speed down the hill...directly at me. I looked down and was relieved to see there
were 23mm between me and the gnarled grassy edge of the road. "Whew,
at least there's plenty of room for his tires...if he keeps them in
line...well, too bad it is 23mm of gravel...hmm, look at those trees...YIPES!
I froze.
The
Chainman's jacket snap, snap, snapped as he whipped by at 40 mph.
With barely a fish-tail he slid slightly off the road then back on,
off again, then back on again and was gone, out of trouble and into
the next hill.
I was left in
the near silence, my own jersey snapping in harmonic resonance with
Tom's jacket which had just brushed my nose in the passing.
You get a
refined understanding of speed when you see it up close and personal
like that. If he'd hit me, Shiftless would have come back to find
two large articulated sacks full of interesting orthopedic projects,
a free standing derailleur or two, some errant spokes and not much
more.
I was sort of
glad to survive too, because a little later a couple of wonderful
things happened.
First, coming
down into Unionville, there's this big bump. I was following Crazy
fast and furious and put on a quick burst when I saw it coming. I
was shocked that I actually got air when we went over the bump. I
was twelve years old again, and out of control.
Suspended above the
pavement, I was wondering if a road bike might be ill designed to drop
from that height with such as me astride it. Just a momentary but
riveting adult thought.
Then later,
Jumpin' Jerry paid me the highest complement that I have yet
received in biking circles.
Nearing the
Fleet Bank parking lot in Pine Island, I had capitalized on my very
smart day of refusing to pull by letting the usual suspects (R&,
Shiftless and Jumpin') carry me to the top of the final two hills.
At the crest of each I jumped on them and hammered thinking, "Hah, I
made them weep." However on the last hill I didn't hear R& whisper to
Jumpin', "Just let him go, he'll fall back again." And I was.
They pace line
passed on my right, and I dropped in behind Jumpin' to lay in wait
for the last stretch back to the parking lot.
Almost as soon as I
did, Jerry lost his final snort of steam, and we both dropped off the
pace as R& and Shiftless opened a gap. I dug deep and passed,
working toward a last-gasp bridge to get to the front group.
As we
approached the final downhill curve to Fleet Bank, a car at the last
intersection pulled out from the left and in behind the two leaders.
"There's my big draft, and I'm taking it."
I pushed and
got into the car's draft, then followed it past the other two riders
like their bikes were on maintenance racks.
I sprinted toward the
Bank for a good long pull of about 6 or 7 seconds before Handago was
on my left, then out front with R& just behind him. They were gone.
No matter, I
made it to the parking lot soon after they did as Jerry came in laughing
behind us.
Turns out he had taken his own initiative, when I slid in
behind him, to slow down on purpose.
He had taken a bullet for the
team, so I wouldn't be able catch them, or at least be too wasted to be a
threat even if I did.
Later I made
Randy tell Seth (The Biker) Piker about it. Seth had missed it
because he came in late. He was helping his new main squeeze Lisa
Noble finish an impressive 48 mile ride. She's only been biking for
about a month. It's not clear she knows how truly impressive what
she's doing is...both with Seth and the biking.
Somebody should tell
her.
In any case,
Seth had missed the whole thing, and I felt it important he heard
about it.
Seth doesn't
have the highest opinion of my abilities (probably because he knows
me), so I take every opportunity to change his mind. I made Randy
tell him how Jerry paid me the highest complement by deciding I was
worth blocking.
Seth
retorted, "No way, he just did it because you're irritating.?
"I'll take
it!" I said...with eyes like saucers.
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