Every year the email comes. "Middle Aged Superheroes in Spandex" it begins. "Come join me on the Xth Annual 9 Weeks To BadAss!"
Mike is funnier than hell and always inspirational. He has to be to get me out of bed at 4:45 on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to ride my bike in the dark and sometimes wet Pacific NW springtime.
Cycling here is different than cycling in Colorado, and for a while I just didn't start riding until the weather was perfect, like June, July, or August. Of course that meant I was never in shape enough to enjoy the ride. 9 Weeks to BadAss is like ripping a bandaid off. It starts out feeling like hell, but in the end, I've got 9 weeks of hard riding under my belt, which has gotten significantly looser as I've lost my winter lard.
The middle aged heroes in spandex are a motley crew. From very competitive racers to those of us that have put on 25 or more pounds since our racing days, all are welcome. We are loosely affiliated into two basic groups. The Seattle group, aka the Dawn Patrol, rides out from the U district to the island, their Badassery lasts about 45 miles. The Mercer Island group, aka the Misfits, has it much easier. We latch onto the Dawn Patrol train at various points around the island.
I meet up with the Dawn Patrol and a couple of Misfits at the intersection of I-90 and West Mercer Way. The DP has just come off the bridge, they have about 10 miles in their legs, and for a bunch of 40 and 50 year old men, have a surprising degree of testosterone. I'm not quite awake, and feeling less than rowdy.
This means that they tear off like a bunch of teenagers up the first climb up to the mailbox while I'm still waking up. The climb is about a mile long. You can ride it in the big ring but you will pay. The only thing I've got going for me is that I'm not awake, and as a result the lactic acid hits me much later than usual, about 3/4 of the way up the climb, when momentum and sheer force of will can usually succeed over road gradient, speed and early season love handles.
Once we're over the top, the pace increases. I take an occasional pull but for the most part tuck in and try to recover from the climb behind the hardcore racers as they wind the group up over the rollers. It's pitch black outside, and I feel like we're in a tunnel as we negotiate the gentle curves of the west side of the island.
Pain rotates from my quads to my glutes to my back in it's own sick set of laps. I have mixed results keeping my breathing measured and even as the pace winds up faster. 4 miles goes by in a flash and then we're at "The Stop", where the south-end Mercer Islanders wait to jump on the train. We take a brief respite to let them get on, and then pick it back up again.
We rotate through, taking 1-2 minute pulls. The road is getting twistier as we move to the East side of the island, and rotating through quickly is not an option in the dark, through the corners. All I can see is the person in front of me, and maybe the next one, as we lean through the apexes and set up for the next turn, all at speed. All of a sudden I'm at the front, negotiating the curves with a combination of headlight, braille and memory. It's the best, and when I think about it, the most terrifying part of the ride. My front wheel is inches from the rear wheel of the next rider. We're moving at 25 mph, leaning the bikes over hard. We've done the ride enough to know when to pedal and when to coast, but this part requires total and complete attention. When it's wet I back way the hell off. No need to hit the deck at my age.
Now we're nearing the north end of the island. The road straightens out and the pace picks up to the point where it doesn't matter if you're on a wheel because at 30+ mph the shelter doesn't help. We're winding out for the sprint by the JCC. There is enough ambient light now to see everyone jostling for position down the final straightaway. The usual suspects fire off the usual attacks. In the early season I'm happy to let them go. Over the weeks I get used to the pain and the effort of the wind up. Sprinting all out is never easy, but I try to stay in contention as much as possible. I've never come close to winning, as I'm not a true sprinter (nor am I a true climber, or roleur, or soloist, which means at my best I'm mediocre at all aspects of cycling :). The sprint goes off and we circle back to the JCC to recollect the shattered group.
We head back around the island, starting slow, then winding it up. By the time we hit the steep downhill past Clarke Beach, it's back on. The uphill out of Clarke Beach is where the pain begins in earnest. It builds around the south end of the island through Schuler Chutes, as the more fit members of the tribe put the hammer down. The pack shatters again on the relentless grade, and we re-group at the Spot for one final push to I-90.
At this point it's about pain management and attitude. Some days my head and/or body is not in the game. I fly off the back and soft pedal home. Some days I've got the eye of the tiger and gut it out. In the middle of the hardest efforts I pull for as little as I honorably can, then recover in back. Sometimes I peter out just before the crest of a roller, then think about what could have been on the long solo ride back in. My fitness is as much mental as physical. In the beginning I crumble easily, overwhelmed by the pain. By the end of 9 weeks I'm expecting it. On good days I'm looking for it.
If the hardcore racers have stepped it up too much, I can at least roll in with some members of the 'B' team, as those of us who are less than elite call ourselves. As we pile back down mailbox hill toward the finish, everyone is spun out. Mike usually leverages his size to zoom off the front. We dive through the final corner to the big uphill climb. If I've got anything left, I try to leverage my rapidly diminishing momentum up the first half of the hill, then grind it out up the last half. My arms lose sensation, and on good days, I start to get tunnel vision as I try to keep up with the real cyclists. Those are the days I feel the best about, because I left it all out on the final climb.
We top out at the stop sign, then roll down to the I-90 trailhead. Much shit is given, especially to those that peeled off the back, or lost it on the climb. Many battles are relived, either the sprints, or the grinds through the rollers, or the final uphill. It's always fun to catch up with everyone and relive the morning. Eventually the Dawn Patrol rolls back to Seattle, and the Misfits roll around the top of the island to get some more miles in. The pace is usually mellow, we're spent, and rolling gently as we drop people off.
These rides, just like my morning SUP sessions, are essential to my well being. They get my head right for the day ahead, and ensure a good night's sleep. Without them I start to get a little crispy around the edges. My temper gets short, my stomach gets large, in general I go into a bit of a decline. I don't think I could muster the discipline to do this alone, and it certainly wouldn't be as much fun as it is with these guys.
Mike is funnier than hell and always inspirational. He has to be to get me out of bed at 4:45 on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to ride my bike in the dark and sometimes wet Pacific NW springtime.
Cycling here is different than cycling in Colorado, and for a while I just didn't start riding until the weather was perfect, like June, July, or August. Of course that meant I was never in shape enough to enjoy the ride. 9 Weeks to BadAss is like ripping a bandaid off. It starts out feeling like hell, but in the end, I've got 9 weeks of hard riding under my belt, which has gotten significantly looser as I've lost my winter lard.
The middle aged heroes in spandex are a motley crew. From very competitive racers to those of us that have put on 25 or more pounds since our racing days, all are welcome. We are loosely affiliated into two basic groups. The Seattle group, aka the Dawn Patrol, rides out from the U district to the island, their Badassery lasts about 45 miles. The Mercer Island group, aka the Misfits, has it much easier. We latch onto the Dawn Patrol train at various points around the island.
I meet up with the Dawn Patrol and a couple of Misfits at the intersection of I-90 and West Mercer Way. The DP has just come off the bridge, they have about 10 miles in their legs, and for a bunch of 40 and 50 year old men, have a surprising degree of testosterone. I'm not quite awake, and feeling less than rowdy.
This means that they tear off like a bunch of teenagers up the first climb up to the mailbox while I'm still waking up. The climb is about a mile long. You can ride it in the big ring but you will pay. The only thing I've got going for me is that I'm not awake, and as a result the lactic acid hits me much later than usual, about 3/4 of the way up the climb, when momentum and sheer force of will can usually succeed over road gradient, speed and early season love handles.
Once we're over the top, the pace increases. I take an occasional pull but for the most part tuck in and try to recover from the climb behind the hardcore racers as they wind the group up over the rollers. It's pitch black outside, and I feel like we're in a tunnel as we negotiate the gentle curves of the west side of the island.
Pain rotates from my quads to my glutes to my back in it's own sick set of laps. I have mixed results keeping my breathing measured and even as the pace winds up faster. 4 miles goes by in a flash and then we're at "The Stop", where the south-end Mercer Islanders wait to jump on the train. We take a brief respite to let them get on, and then pick it back up again.
We rotate through, taking 1-2 minute pulls. The road is getting twistier as we move to the East side of the island, and rotating through quickly is not an option in the dark, through the corners. All I can see is the person in front of me, and maybe the next one, as we lean through the apexes and set up for the next turn, all at speed. All of a sudden I'm at the front, negotiating the curves with a combination of headlight, braille and memory. It's the best, and when I think about it, the most terrifying part of the ride. My front wheel is inches from the rear wheel of the next rider. We're moving at 25 mph, leaning the bikes over hard. We've done the ride enough to know when to pedal and when to coast, but this part requires total and complete attention. When it's wet I back way the hell off. No need to hit the deck at my age.
Now we're nearing the north end of the island. The road straightens out and the pace picks up to the point where it doesn't matter if you're on a wheel because at 30+ mph the shelter doesn't help. We're winding out for the sprint by the JCC. There is enough ambient light now to see everyone jostling for position down the final straightaway. The usual suspects fire off the usual attacks. In the early season I'm happy to let them go. Over the weeks I get used to the pain and the effort of the wind up. Sprinting all out is never easy, but I try to stay in contention as much as possible. I've never come close to winning, as I'm not a true sprinter (nor am I a true climber, or roleur, or soloist, which means at my best I'm mediocre at all aspects of cycling :). The sprint goes off and we circle back to the JCC to recollect the shattered group.
We head back around the island, starting slow, then winding it up. By the time we hit the steep downhill past Clarke Beach, it's back on. The uphill out of Clarke Beach is where the pain begins in earnest. It builds around the south end of the island through Schuler Chutes, as the more fit members of the tribe put the hammer down. The pack shatters again on the relentless grade, and we re-group at the Spot for one final push to I-90.
At this point it's about pain management and attitude. Some days my head and/or body is not in the game. I fly off the back and soft pedal home. Some days I've got the eye of the tiger and gut it out. In the middle of the hardest efforts I pull for as little as I honorably can, then recover in back. Sometimes I peter out just before the crest of a roller, then think about what could have been on the long solo ride back in. My fitness is as much mental as physical. In the beginning I crumble easily, overwhelmed by the pain. By the end of 9 weeks I'm expecting it. On good days I'm looking for it.
If the hardcore racers have stepped it up too much, I can at least roll in with some members of the 'B' team, as those of us who are less than elite call ourselves. As we pile back down mailbox hill toward the finish, everyone is spun out. Mike usually leverages his size to zoom off the front. We dive through the final corner to the big uphill climb. If I've got anything left, I try to leverage my rapidly diminishing momentum up the first half of the hill, then grind it out up the last half. My arms lose sensation, and on good days, I start to get tunnel vision as I try to keep up with the real cyclists. Those are the days I feel the best about, because I left it all out on the final climb.
We top out at the stop sign, then roll down to the I-90 trailhead. Much shit is given, especially to those that peeled off the back, or lost it on the climb. Many battles are relived, either the sprints, or the grinds through the rollers, or the final uphill. It's always fun to catch up with everyone and relive the morning. Eventually the Dawn Patrol rolls back to Seattle, and the Misfits roll around the top of the island to get some more miles in. The pace is usually mellow, we're spent, and rolling gently as we drop people off.
These rides, just like my morning SUP sessions, are essential to my well being. They get my head right for the day ahead, and ensure a good night's sleep. Without them I start to get a little crispy around the edges. My temper gets short, my stomach gets large, in general I go into a bit of a decline. I don't think I could muster the discipline to do this alone, and it certainly wouldn't be as much fun as it is with these guys.
