I am a cockroach of the road.

Ok, I just like saying it.  

I am a cockroach of the road.

A year or two ago an Austrailian study came out where over 50% of drivers said they regarded cyclists as not only non human, but as the "cockroaches of the road".  Made the rounds of facebook and so forth.  I'm sure you can look it up if you really need to see it.  But like most folks on facebook, why look any deeper than the headline to get offended?  Unless... it's telling you something you already knew?

We were late meeting up with John and Pete.  Riding in the bike lane was the fastest way down to the bridge.

"Get on the F***ing sidewalk!"  

I could see the spittle flying from the open passenger window, as the gray sedan pulled past on South Patrick Drive.  

"Boy, I really hope they have to stop at the light."  I said to Popeye.    
I was spoiling to catch up with these people, especially if Spittle-Woman in the passenger seat still had her window down.  I so rarely ride in a bike lane anymore, that it had been a while since getting cursed at.  So there's been plenty of time to think up a few comebacks and I was itching to try one out.  But no, they made the light, and roared off.  I know.  Probably just as well, right?  Especially in Florida, number one in the US for pedestrian and cyclist fatalities.  

Master Chung used to say there are three levels of fighting.

The highest level was to avoid any situation that would get you into a fight.

The second level is to talk your way out of a fight.  Reason rarely works on unreasonable people.  But sometimes humor, deflection, or asking a simple unrelated question, will.  (One of my favorites is to suddenly ask for directions.  I know it sounds goofy, but it has worked for me - all but once, which is, of course, another story altogether.)

The third level of fighting, the absolute lowest level, is to actually get into a fight.  It's good to be ready if it comes to that, but if you practice your own self control, most of the time it will never happen.

So, the goal of a truely accomplished martial artist is to never actually use his art.  Whoa.

"So, I called the cops.  Then I waited 45 minutes on the side of the road before the traffic let up enough to get by the construction.  And the cops never did come." said my friend, as we chatted in a parking lot about an intersection that we all use.

Yes, some of our friends actually ride with rules.  They take the lane, and signal, and wait for red lights.  

Bless their hearts.

Calling the cops would never have occurred to me.  Heck, just plain waiting would not have occurred to me.

It was at that moment, that I realized I am indeed, a cockroach of the road.

Riding like a roach keeps me safe.  (As safe as possible anyway - knock on wood and all that.)

Anyone who has even chased a roach around the kitchen knows they are damnably difficult to catch.  They are masters of evasion.  They take shelter in unreachable places.  But only until there's a moment to make a break for it.  And when they go, they go fast.  They aren't going to hand you any opportunities to smash them.  

Aim for the spots where cars can't get you.  Medians are a favorite of mine.  The mountain bike my essential tool as a COTR.  Versatile enough for taking ditches and grass to avoid cars, and riding on the wrong side if there's room.  I'll ride an extra block or an extra mile to avoid multiple lanes and big intersections.  And don't even get me started about avoiding traffic circles, aka circles of death.

I am a Cockroach of the Road.  I do what I have to do.  Live to ride, and ride to live another day.

I punched a car.

Close calls make one introspective.

My only physical complaint today is my knuckles are pretty stiff. I punched a car yesterday.

I am lucky to be here.

You know how people drive out of their condo entrances, not a care in the world. So I am always fairly cautious up by the beach. I hit the brakes and laid the bike down three times yesterday. The first two times were just practice, I guess. It was the third time that saved my life.

This guy was coming out, and I hit the brakes hard, basically laying the bike down on the edge of the drive. He was turning right, so he was looking left, and nudging, nudging, further and further over the sidewalk. Meanwhile, I was straddling the bike unable to get free, plastered up against his passenger door, my face pressed into the window, where I could see him in there looking the other way.

So he was nudging, nudging, edging closer and closer to take off. The car was pressing against me, pushing me, pushing me, back and back. I just knew he was going to hit the gas as soon as the road was clear. I started punching the passenger door as hard as I could, trying to get him to look. He took off anyway. I was so lucky – if I had stopped six inches later, both my bike and I would be mangled, possibly beyond repair.

At least, he did pull over down the road. When he got out of the car, I thought he was coming back to beat me up for punching his Lexus. But fortunately, he was very nice, and apologized. Hopefully next time he will look both ways.

I just got back on the bike and got riding toward home. Felt a little scraped where the bike tire was pushing up against my leg – and my knuckles hurt – but otherwise, so lucky! Took about 6 hours for my heart rate to go back down.

Now I have to rethink. Is this some sort of lesson? Should I restrict where I ride even more than I already do? Or - just continue to be careful? Since being alert did exactly what it was supposed to do – saved my life. I already don’t do trails by myself. If I can’t do streets, then what? Drive to rail trails? Ride around and around the walking trail at the park? Not appealing….

My brain on birthday.

Glossary for non-hashers:  

YBF - You've Been Fooled.

Safe Crossing -  An arrow pointing across a road or sometimes a bridge.  Do NOT make the mistake of thinking this crossing is actually safe.  This is Florida.  Look both ways if you want to live.

Merkin - not a hash term, but just the sort of discussion that might come up in hash circles.  Google it.  Then forget.  If you can.

QOM - Queen of the Mountain.  Also not a hash term.  A Strava term for fastest female on a designated section of trail.

True Trail - the correct trail as laid by the hares.  Trail followed without shortcutting.

FRB - Front Running Bitch or Bastard.

LDs - a remarkably tolerant bar and grill, happy to put up with 20 people on bikes making a beer stop.

I've been wrong a lot lately.  Take the hash yesterday.  There was my insistence about the trail leading in behind those office buildings on Spy Glass Road.

"There's no way out of this cul de sac."
"It's a dead end."
"We should go back now."
"Just sayin'."
Wrong.  After all that verbalizing, there was indeed, a way out.  Not a YBF at all.  Honest to god, just last week I was down that road looking for a way through.  Suddenly there it was, an easement across the canal, straight to the nature trail on the other side.  In plain sight.  Amazing.  (Only to me, I realize.)  But very good to know.

And the safe crossing mark, an S with an arrow through it, chalked onto the tiny wooden bridge in front of the 7-11.  I could have sworn the arrow pointed south.  Like you know, to cross the bridge.  Not north - like to cross Wickham Road - a different story entirely.  Who knows why.  Because I was facing south at the time?  Because I was expecting the trail to be logical?

All I really know is, there are days when my brain can't be trusted.  I have known this for a long time.  Since grade school actually.  And yet, it still surprises me with it's untrustworthiness.  I have learned to just say, "Oops."  A lot.

I was SURE I had googled a burning question from a previous hash.  (What is a merkin?)  WTF?  It's not a pointy version of Gobbler's facial hair?  I realize later that I had actually come up with the exact same pictures that Cross shows me now on his phone.  Somehow my overly protective brain blocked that.  But, surprise!  Hashing corrects erroneous thinking - like thinking a trail can't go here - or there.  Hashing teaches you stuff.  Sometimes stuff you'd rather forget.  Maybe my brain will lose the definition of a merkin all over again.  One can only hope.

Oh well.  I'm sure I got some things right yesterday.  3 new QOMs showed up on my Strava.  Although, if Blown Gasket hadn't pointed them out, I would never have noticed.  

And Semi, TKD, and I were the first to find true trail after the halfway.  We followed it to the end a full ten minutes ahead of the usual FRBs.  That never happens!

Halfway at LDs

Silly December birthday.  There's a tree to decorate and lights to put up.  Food to plan.  Cleaning to do.  I won't have time to ride my age in miles today.  (OK, I forgot about that tradition too - Blown Gasket is so on top of things.)

I think it's OK to cut myself some slack on that.  A ride the length of my age can't be knocked off in just an hour or two.  And things do get crazy this time of year.  But sometime before the end of the month, I'm doing it.

No fun alone, though.

Popeye and I often try to get people to come on long'ish rides with us.  Like our ride around Lake Apopka in October.  We made a list of 32 riders. The very first question every one of those 32 people asked was, "How far is it?"

Lazy?  Stubborn?  I don't know.  But we decided not to add up the precise number of miles.  At the end of the day, it doesn't really matter.  You can always do more than you think.

So, when people ask the distance of this birthday ride?  Ha!  It's a daunting number, for sure.  I will only say, come along and find out.

And if you choose to bail early, that's always an option.  I won't hold it against you.  Heck, I probably won't remember anyway.

The Magic of Mid-night Madness

A night without sleep is a day added to your life.

                                                                            ---Master Chung

I got a new bike last month.  Really, it’s a new back-up bike.  A Pivot 429SL.  It seems as if, between the two of us, there is always a bike in the shop for something.  And since we both ride a medium, we have the luxury of sharing a back-up.

But - I keep shifting the darned thing down when I want to shift up.  And vice versa.  

It is frustrating that my subconscious brain insists on doing what my rational mind knows is simply a matter of clicking the opposite direction from what I am used to on the Cannondale.  

"I can switch it so that so that both bikes are the same," volunteers the always helpful Popeye. 

No doubt he thought I was just being stubborn when I said "No, thank you.  My brain needs the exercise."  

It's a small thing, I know, but I want my befuddled brain to adapt. Without practice, that which is difficult remains difficult.

(And wicked frustrating.)   

*****

It is 1:50 AM.  The alarm won't go off for ten more minutes, but I am wide awake.

My bike shorts and jersey are ready to go on the chair beside the bed.  You know it's early when your toothbrush is still wet from the night before. 

In the kitchen I hit the button on the coffeemaker.  No need for breakfast.  It feels as if dinner was only a minute ago.

I've always been a good sleeper.  Sleep-when-you-can was an essential skill back in the day, living on sailboats and merchant ships.  On the ship we called it "sleeping fast", the ability to grab sleep anywhere.  Any time there was an opportunity. 

Sleeping fast was a skill appreciated best as a flight attendant, though. Grabbing sleep for an hour, or a minute, eventually became easy stuff. Even on a hard plastic chair in the chaos of Concourse C.

It's been a long time since ATL, and a long time since I've been out of my comfort zone on sleep.  My current life is one of ease, in a house that never drags anchor, or lands in an unscheduled stop far from home.  This subconscious brain of mine cherishes good sleep, and takes good care of me.  I wind down at ten and wake up at six.  Day after day.  No questions asked.  No effort required.

But a week or two ago, some comments on the Singletrack Samurai facebook page raved about middle-of-the-night training.  And, just like a surprise jolt from shifting the bike in the wrong direction, suddenly here was a new challenge. 

Karlos A Rodriguez Bernart - in Alexandar Springs - June 25 at 6:53PM

When I'm prepping for a huge challenge it's important to ride at odd times.. we left the shop at 445 expecting to battle the heat.. instead...the weather was cool and downright chilly.. the forest teeming with wildlife and sounds.. it was a magical voyage

Bryan* I was totally expecting a lot of suck but that was one of the funnest and most enjoyable rides I've had in a long time!

Chad*  I love rolling out around 2:00am.  On my 200+ rides.

Vicky*  Sounds like a blast to me!  Wonder if I could get anyone to do this here?  (Midnight hash?  Scott*?  Kevin*?)

Kevin*  Let me know when and where.

Thank you, Karlos.  Some day you should meet Master Chung.

And thank you, Kevin, for the perfect response. 

Popeye sees the benefits immediately.  "That would be cool!"  I can't be sure, but I don't think he means the night-time temperature difference.

In a group email, I try to talk it up. 

It will be cool - literally!  No traffic!  No sunscreen!  I borrow the words of my co-hare, Cross: "It Will Be Glorious!"

And guess what.  It was all those things. 

3am.  We roll out, five riders, each sporting lumens enough to outshine any car on the road.  But - there aren't any cars on the road. 

Our tail lights blink red in a string up the bridge.  No one at all goes by on the Pineda.  A single, white pick-up passes on the five mile dash down Tropical Trail to Mathers Bridge.  Cars are zero to scarce for the entire first half of the ride.  

We cross the causeway, bomb the alleys, and cross US 1, not a car in sight. We cruise the trails in Wickham Park, then ride on to Lake Washington.  

At the lake, with 23 miles under our wheels, we stop to change out spent lights for spares, and have a snack at the end of the dark wooden pier.  I drop my unwrapped Larabar on the deck.  The guys are amazed when I automatically pick it up and throw it overboard with no regard for the five second rule. 

Hmm.  Perhaps another challenge for my subconscious brain?  Then again - nah.  This time my brain knows exactly what it's doing.  I've seen that deck in the daytime.

I try for a group selfie.  Another skill I find challenging for lack of practice. 

At 5 or so, we ride back the way we came, heading east in the dark. 

In one of the alleys in Eau Gallie, I either hit something, or something has come off my bike.  What feels like a slim metal rod hits my calf and falls away to the ground. 

The Cannondale misses a beat, the chain hitches up just for a second, then pedals smoothly.  Then hitches up again.  It will not pedal backward at all.  John and Greg stop with me to look for a source of hang-up in the rear drive train.  We see nothing.  But there is definitely something wrong.  Forward pedaling is not smooth, and getting to be more effort with each revolution. 

Still not a lot, but definitely more cars now.  And other bikes.  And runners on the bridge.  The world is waking up to it's Saturday.  There is a hint of sunrise in the beachside sky.

The bike is getting worse and I am a little worried I might damage it if I keep riding it like it is.  Popeye trades bikes with me and takes on the extra resistance of pedaling the last few miles toward home.  I am disappointed we won't get to cap off the ride with sunrise at the beach, but no one else seems to mind skipping the extra couple miles to take a direct route to the house.

The sun is full-up now.  Breakfast is over.  The guys have gone home to get on with their day.  Popeye is wisely napping, but I am wide awake.  The dishwasher is going, the bed is made, and I have fought the usual fight with blogspot to get this into a legible format.  I only have to wait for 9 o'clock so I can call the bike shop.

I feel like I should be getting dressed to go for my usual 10AM ride.  I actually feel like doing a 10AM ride.  The Pivot, in the garage, is ready to go.  I have to remind myself I've already had my fun for today, to keep typing instead.

Once again, Master Chung is right.  Like magic, I have added a day to my life.  

At the pier on Lake Washington. 

Greg, Popeye, Kevin, John, me.

Tour de Felasco 2018 Enough at 50.

The Tour de Felasco was last week. 

In general it was a dismal affair, as it so often is, cold and long and lonely.  This year there was the added pleasure of long stretches of wild pig ruts.  Enough to convince me.  I didn't once consider shivering my way back over those pig ruts in reverse to make it a 65. 

Except for our bike group all gathering for a joyous cocktail hour back at the nice, warm hotel when it's over, San Felasco in January completely lived up to it's usual level of north Florida misery.  I guess that's the reason we go back year after year.  It feels so good when it's over?

Something for everyone.

Easy flats.

And pukey, after-lunch climbing.

OK, that was my own fault. 

I broke the first rule of Felasco. 

Don't eat the chili at the lunch stop.

Peter's been living in DC for a few years now. 

Check it out . 

40 degrees, short sleeves, and a big smile.

I realized I had taken very few picture throughout the day,

so toward the end I stopped three or four times, 

trying to catch a photo representative of the trail.

Along came Greg and Lora.  Perfect timing! 

Kinda rare to see a fat-tire tandem on trail. 

But a tandem fattie AND a Swamp Ape?

Glad I choose not to do the 100k. 

The shadows are already long by my 4pm finish.

The newly redesigned Cabot, aka Doubletree.

We miss the fireplace, the free cocktail hour, and our favorite old lady bartender!

By bringing our own cooler, we still don't pay for drinks, though.

(Showed them.)

Mike, Sean, Gobbler in flip flops, and Altar Boy.

Diane and John.  The selfie pros.

See you next year, Felasco?

Nah, don't think so!

(Well, maybe.)  

The first ever, lumpy, bumpy, god-awful, totally awesome BINDeR 100k

It's a Thursday morning. 

Small Package waves and pulls his UPS truck into a side street.  I pedal up to the drivers side of the open panel truck so he doesn't have to get out.

"Still going to the Death Loop?" he asks.

"Yup, we're planning on it," I say.  "Even though my legs are still shot from the BINDeR."

"Mine too!"  He says with a grin.  "I don't know why I'm doing this!"

"Me either!"

"So, guess I'll see ya Sunday, then."

"Yup, see you there!"

I pedal away, shaking my head.  Why do we do this stuff?

I pedal home at a sedate pace.  My legs really don't have any snap today.  I had started out for Wickham Park but called it good enough by the time I got to the back alleys through Eau Gallie.  It's surprising because I rarely get sore and almost always recover from being tired with a single night's sleep.  Feeling that slightly whipped feeling four days after a ride is highly unusual.

By Friday, I get it.  It's a good old fashioned cold coming on.  Sneezes to start and then that thickheaded feeling on Saturday.  I had a cold last year, the first one in ten or fifteen years.  I guess I was expecting another ten or fifteen before the next one. I'm a little dismayed at  further ruin of my record, but not surprised.  Popeye came home from work with sneezes a week ago.  I only hope I can fight it off in 3 days like he did.      

And I probably could, if I were to stay home.  But the Death Loop is coming.  And who among us can resist a good Death Loop?  Not me.   

So, all week, I've been stubbornly trying to shake off what I assumed was the after effects of the BINDeR.    Turns out the BINDeR wasn't really to blame. 

But it was a completely reasonable mistake.    

The BINDeR 100k - a brand new ride with all the alluring ingredients for an off-road suffer-fest.

Weenie's been working on this one for awhile.  64 miles of cross country riding.  A series of trails through southern Brevard, into INDdian River county (BINDeR, get it?), and back again to Malabar in a wide loop.  100k.  Singletrack, doubletrack, some gravel is advertised.  No pavement. 

Weenie gives us the lowdown at the start.

We pretty much knew from the start it would be mostly god-awful, lumpy, bumpy, palmetto-root ridin'.  With a mix of sand, fences to climb, and maybe a shoe-sucking, goopy canal crossing or two for variety.  And we weren't wrong.     

Weenie's route began in Malabar.  Twists, turns, singletrack, then double.  Ever southward down toward the Grant landowners land grant.  Or some title like that.  Just try looking up landowners grant - in Grant.  Google seems confused.  And so am I.  There's sure a lot of information about land grants - for everywhere but Grant, Florida. 

Whatever.  There's a vast tract of scrub in southern Brevard County, down toward the C54 canal and the Sebastian River.  And you need to pass through a mind boggling maze of gates, trails, fire roads, and roller-chopped-to-prevent-fire roads, to get through it. 

Snack stop.

Some fence hopping.

Some of the more defined track.

Sign of civilization!

We wind our way southward through the scrub.  I am not watching the mileage.  But somehow, someway, after enduring a long, jaw rattling stretch of roller chopped trail, we pop out at, of all things, a welcome station, complete with restrooms and a screened in porch, on the gravel road along the north side of the C54 canal.

It's half way, and an excellent place for a lunch stop.  We spread out, sprawling across the porch chairs in the shade.  Peanut butter and jelly is the order of the day, with one notable exception.  Mark has a bona fide sub sandwich.  It's been in full view the entire time, riding enticingly in the pocket on his Camelbak.  It is the envy of nearly everyone.  Everyone but me.  I can barely choke down one PB and J, a nibble at a time.  I save my second one.  Maybe once we're done, I can eat it.  Not now, for sure.  That turns out to be a good thing.  There's about to be a change in plan.

Originally the 2nd half of the route was planned for trails to the west, through some place called the Stick Marsh, and then back north to Malabar.  But the stick marsh is on fire. Weenie decides the eastern route is more prudent.  There will be pavement after all.  And I am with some of the strongest fat-tire-on-pavement guys around.  Then again, if I get dropped, at least I know the road home. 

So our tour of the stick marsh will have to wait for next year.  We head east on the gravel road along the C-54 canal.  The dike is so high no water can be seen until we get to the spillway crossover.  We wait in the shade for the last few guys to catch up, and I stop in the middle to look at the canal.  It's big!  Yes, I've been here before, on a mid-summer hash last year.  But the only sight I cared to see on that 90 degree day was the cooler at the half way. 

We cross to the south side, where there's more gravel to grind before reaching the road.  Alongside one small canal, a man holds up an enormous bass while his wife takes a picture.  It's at least three feet long, with a mouth big enough to hold a cantaloupe.  I have never seen such a fish in my life. Why I didn't stop and take a picture, I can only attribute to herd mentality.  I have no wish to be left behind - at least not until we are back in the land of pavement, street signs, and Google maps.

And soon we are.  The final obstacle is a sissy looking, grassy-sided ditch to cross in the back of a residential neighborhood.  But the ditch is just a little too wide to jump.  The first two guys splash in over their ankles and I know we'll all be riding the last thirty miles with wet feet.  What I wasn't counting on was being the only one to step in a hole.  My left foot strikes on fairly firm bottom and is merely wet to the calf.  The right plunges down past my knee, into gluey muck. 

Gak!  The Keens - yes, with socks (hey, it was a chilly start) - are both coated in black, slimy goo by the time I crawl up the other side.  While the remaining few guys take their turn, I make an executive decision to remove my socks.  Inside out, they are size ten pockets of thick goo.  Now what?  I push them up under a nearby bush.  They were my favorite old XTerra socks, but they've done their duty now.  Although they probably deserved a better retirement.  I ease my bare feet back into the slimy Keens, and prepare for some fat tire pacelining.

It's been a while since ditching the road bike, but paceline etiquette comes back quickly.  Popeye leads out with a massive pull, then Pete takes over for another.  I take on the role of self appointed gatekeeper, letting in the lead guys as they drift back from a pull, and never taking a pull myself.  I have no illusion of hanging on to this group any other way.  Mentally, pacelining is a high-alert game of sucking wheel.  Physically, it's amazing how easy it is to hang at 20+ on a mountain bike, when you're mid-line with a dozen strong riders.

But easy or not, it's still a paceline.  If you aren't the lead dog, the view never changes.  There is a side-blur of mail boxes and horse pastures, and frequent peeks at the long stretch ahead.  But the crucial focus is on holding the perfect gap.  The rear wheel ahead spins relentlessly upward, just inches ahead of my downward spinning front wheel.  Falling off the pace may be undesirable, but touching wheels is far worse.   There is no time for sightseeing now. 

The final miles take forever.  Yet, they end too soon.  The lead guys sprint off the front for the last quarter mile.  I sit up and look back over my shoulder.  There are a couple riders way back there, but more than half the group is long gone.  

The rest is an easy glide to the parking lot.  Two bikes lay flat on the ground, riders alongside.  Popeye has the car doors flung open, all business, already scrubbing off.  Riders trickle in, in various stages of exuberance.  I might have heard someone throwing up. 

More riders arrive.  The coolers come out.  We toast to sand and roller-chopping.  To the worst god-awful trail through the scrub.  It is by far, the best 64 miles any of us have done all week.   

Most of our friends have brought real beer, but Popeye and I will have to wait for Malabar Mo's for that.  Meanwhile we make do with our cans of Coors Light.  It goes just fine with camelback-smashed PB and J.

So. 

Next week, the Death Loop. 

Next year, the Stick Marsh.  

And hopefully, a couple hundred god-awful, totally awesome rides in between.