Off the Front

I know that when you're rolling along with a constant force it's either going to pop your legs into torpor or lift them into possibilities previously unknown. Rodger's popped me a few times this spring. He and Rich have similar riding styles: gyrating activity that just goes and goes and goes. If anything, they pop themselves eventually, but that's usually long after the rest of our legs have turned to rubber.

A week ago Tuesday, Brian declared the first of probably many rides from town, out through the Poto and back in an evening. It's basically twenty plus miles out on dirt roads, eighteen on the Poto itself, and then the twenty mile return on the dirt. Cross bikes are the compromise choice. An MTB is preferred on the Poto, but cross will pull it off and the forty some miles back and forth on an MTB can be cruel when pitted alongside bigger lighter wheels. People like Lummis are exceptions on their 29ers, but he's an exception anyway.

I know that when I think about doing the Poto on my own, I don't immediately think cross bike. I love tackling it on my Epic. But for some reason, when Brian or Randy or Andy or somebody says let's do the Poto ride from town, I immediately prepare my Fuji for the adventure. I've done the complete circuit alone on the Epic and enjoyed the experience (thought it definitely means an obligatory afternoon nap on the return). But with these guys it's the cross and for some stupid primal reason I even look forward to the challenge.

Rodger was sparking on the way out, which I hoped would mean diminished abilities somewhere along the way and maybe a full bonk on the return. Putting others in pain right away usually brings out a lack of buddy support for their endurance. I like to think I'm supportive of my teammates, but good will only exists when they're making me feel good, not when my face is twisted from too many miles just trying to hold to their wheel and barely surviving.

Andy was strong, as usual this spring, and Brian, strong too, brought an MTB due to a plea from Matt, who didn't. I'll let Brian and Matt work that one out. But Rodger had this little boy catch-me-if-you-can kind of thing going on from the start. I honestly think he loves riding with everyone, but at the same time forgets the rest of us are there. Interesting how some minds work. Even after crossing Foster Bridge and up into the Barton Hills he was sailing along and over the top, while the rest of us huffed our way up. All the way out he often went off the front and stayed there, letting the rest of our egos stew for a while trying to figure out whether we wanted to bridge to his wheel with the risk of overdoing it early on, or just letting him pull farther and farther away. We are weak. One of us usually bridged to his wheel dragging the others along behind. What is it about racer types that just have to reunite the pack even though we feel like our lungs will explode in the effort? Is it genetic? Lack of certain brain cells? Lack of many brain cells?

(Just an aside: We have three Brians on our team. Juxtapose two letters that sit side by side and you get brains. Was that the original families' intent, only they screwed up the spelling? Have we gained three Brians or lost three brains?)

The pace was a bit relentless mile after mile and the Poto lay ahead. Trying to apportion our efforts so the ride back is not only somewhat enjoyable, but even somewhat possible was on everyone's mind. The Poto tends to sap a lot of endurance. It's quite satisfying to do the Poto on cross bikes, since there is some primal excitement about getting beat to a pulp with a no suspension bike and still having the will to ride back. But that has to be tempered with a small amount of common sense. You don't want the return trip to feel like the cranks turn with these floppy things you're ashamed to admit were once your legs. After all, a small amount of common sense is better than none and riding with these guys over the years has certainly helped me understand the limits of my own judgment. I still try to cling to a speck of dignity even with their efforts to erode it over time.

I have a recurring dream. I'm riding with these guys along a thin ridge, deep water on both sides twenty feet below. My bike hits a rut and I'm immediately plunged into the wash. The buckle on my Sidis is caught on a brake cable and the bike is pulling me down. They're all lined along the ridge looking down at me. My face is all that's above water and the bike tugs down as I flail my arms and gasp for air. There's a moment of potential heroism on their part and I can see the quizzical look on their faces trying to decide the best course of action. Andy, Brian, Bald Boy, Rich, T-Bone, Ric, Randy, Peter, Matt, Blair lined together along that ridge. All at once they look at each other, smile and nod. Hands go into pockets. Things come flying out as their arms fling them forth. Chains, cranks, cassettes, whole component systems (Sram Red no less), carbon wheel sets, frames. It's like rain. I get pelted and they catch onto my lycra like magnets. They're all nodding happily as I go down with enough parts to make some really great bikes. I like to think they're on my side.

Rodger is very tall, very lean, and he has this open friendly way about him. He's a Zingermans guy. Runs the deli or something. He says he likes being back behind the scenes, not in the face of the customers, though I'm sure he'd do fine there. He's a pretty affable guy. I'm not sure how he stays so slim in amongst all the offerings around him at the deli, but there isn't an ounce of fat anywhere. I guess the answer lies partly in biking. He burns off a lot on a ride. But I know he thinks about food because he really livens up when we talk about it. He made a paella for a bunch of us one night late last summer and it was like eating Spain. He knows how to put flavors together.

He brought me a bag of Portugese salt on the Worst Day of the Year ride in January. He said it was only a pound. I've been using it regularly and five months later I still have a bit left over. It was the heaviest pound I've ever carried. It sat for the whole ride in my back pocket and it felt like someone was latched on to my jersey as I pulled them through the cold wind. I'm still trying to figure out if it was a gesture of kindness or a not so subtle attempt to slow me down. Like Rodger needs to slow me down. I've tried to get him to understand the injustice, but he usually just smiles and then effortlessly rides ahead where I have to strain more muscles to catch back on to his wheel.

This time, as we stood in the parking lot of Barton Dam, he handed me a nicely wrapped selection of heady rich green asparagus. I envisioned it rubbing against my sweaty back alongside my pump and cell phone as we bounded through the Poto, turning to mushy steamed vegetable matter, so I planted it in the crotch of a tree at the side of the parking lot to pick up after the ride was over. Later, on the trail, as we waited for Andy to repair a flat, Rodger brought up the subject of nice raw sweet asparagus and how wonderful it would taste at that moment.

Rodger was awfully spunky all the way out to the Poto. There was even a stretch along Gregory Road where they'd recently regraded and the stones were big and kicking us about. It was like riding through a poorly paved bad dream for about three miles. Rodger plowed ahead, chatting away. Not an issue. I was in my drops shagging along, worried that I was using too much energy this early on in the ride. For that matter, Andy and Brian looked a bit too relaxed about the whole thing as well. Brian had shamed me into this ride and I began to wonder why I'd let his berating me in an email open me to such a vulnerable state so far from home.

Matt was laying back. I figured he was waiting to wail on us once we hit the Poto. He's one of these all around good riders, but I think his real heart lies in trails, since he's been doing that since he was about two. He's not really that old yet, so it's only been a few years. He's a young lad still trying to figure out whether to wear loafers or laced shoes.

Once past Stinchfield Woods we did the roller coaster roads that take you to the backside of the Poto, right near Hell. They soften you up for the pitched battle of the trails, which were suddenly upon us. Everyone let loose on well worn trail and we had a good pace going. I realized at the first Y that Rodger was already out and away. We charged on after him down the long rocky sweeping path that leads to the entrance of Silver Lake State Park. At the bottom we slipped alongside the gate and took a right that led up some steep embankments. Over the second climb in succession I found Rodger waiting. He bore on in front and I watched his dancing Lemond pounce along the trail ahead.

After a while I looked back and it was just the two of us and it was all I could do to keep him in sight. We came upon a slower mountain biker who Rodger passed, but who then sprang into form and I watched the two of them dice it out for a couple of miles. At Pickerel, the MTB split off in another direction and Rodger looked back. I was there, and Matt was behind me, so we pressed forth along the single-track up to Hankerd Road. There we waited and soon realized something was wrong. Brian and Andy weren't there. No slouches on the Poto, there had to be a problem if they weren't right behind us.

Another biker road up and told us they were fixing a flat. They showed up a few minutes later. We dove across the road and back into the woods toward the two toughest hills in on the trail. We were together over those and out past Blind Lake, across Crescent Drive and up the long sandy hill past the old Boy Scout camp and on toward the bridge between Watson and Halfmoon Lakes. Rodger was still driving on ahead. I didn't know where anyone was behind us anymore. It as enough to keep Rodger in view. We crossed Max Drive, the small dirt road, and did a sandy up and down section before arriving at the halfway point.

I thought we'd hang there while the rest caught up. "We doing the whole thing?" Rodger asked. "Yup," I said, and the next thing I knew he was off again. "Let's do it, then," he said over his shoulder as he rode off. I saw Andy coming up the hill toward us, but Rodger was under way and I figured I might as well do the same. We crossed Patterson Lake Road. I had Rodger in sight until I caught a tree branch between my brake and wheel that skidded me to a halt.

I was starting to wonder if it was smart to have told Rodger we were doing the whole Poto. Now he was out of sight, it was getting kind of late and once done with the trail we still had the twenty mile ride back. With all the exertion on the trail, my legs were feeling the effort. The ride back was going to be painful. A short time later my phone rang. It was Andy. He, Brian and Matt were headed to the party store in Hell. They were out of water. Aborting the rest of the trail route sounded especially good to me at that moment.

I forged on, and about a mile up Rodger was waiting. I told him about the party store stop. Sounded good to him, too, though I could tell he would have been just as happy taking on the whole trail ride. We got back to Patterson Lake Road and turned left, pointed toward Hell. He still looked fresh. You just feel like slapping people like that sometimes, but it wouldn't do any good.

We replenished with the other three in Hell and headed back on the dirt roads. It was tough, as I'd expected it to be, though Rodger was still flying off the front and disappearing ahead every now and then. The rest of us were tired enough that we let him go this time and put up no chase. The only time that changed was along Huron River Drive when Andy and Rodger took off together trying to see who would crack first. A while later when they'd pooped out and we caught up, Rodger said that Andy popped him sometime before Zeeb. Finally. The perpetual motion machine was momentarily stalled. It needs to be that way sometimes to bring the forces of the universe back into alignment. Don't worry though, chaos is only a ride away.