Saturday, April 21, 2007
 
OK so I show up at the White Hen at 7:30 this morning. I’ve cleaned my bike and greased my chain the night before and dragged myself out of my warm bed to lead an intrepid group of Cranksters on a brisk ride through the moderately rolling Carlisle hills and a brilliantly blue Saturday morning.
 
Who could possibly refuse such an irresistible invitation? Apparently, EVERYONE!!
 
Not one Crankster showed up. But I was not deterred. I headed west towards Harvard at a steady pace. Eventually I reached Concord Teacakes and decided it was time to stop and fuel up with a small coffee and a cranberry orange muffin. I sat outside enjoying my breakfast as the morning sun warmed my back and planning my leisurely solo route, when I was spotted (damn my monster jersey!) by a passing Spinster on his way to the 8:00 rendezvous. “Why don’t you join us?” asked Will. “OK, mmnnnnph snds goofg” I replied, mouth full of muffin.
 
I joined a small gang of sinewy spinsters, the usual group, Philip, Peter, Andrew and seven guys named Dan. They seemed friendly enough on the outside but the smell of testosterone and EPO lingered in the air. Come on Sean, they said, and proffered individual assurances of their lack of fitness. “I’ve been sick for 3 weeks”. “It’s only my second time out since 1980”. “I’m recovering from a broken arm”. “I had a vasectomy earlier this morning”. “Come on, you’ll be fine.” I finished my coffee, wiped the muffin crumbs off my paunchy midriff and saddled up. This was not going to be good.
 
We head out, chatting and smiling. We were averaging 32 miles an hour up the first hill on Laws Brook road. “So how’s life?” somebody asked me. I tried to reply but all I could do was belch coffee and muffin fumes, which prevented me for about 1.5 seconds from taking an essential breath. I then tried to answer the question, again forcing me to use vital inhaling time, but did manage to squeek out, “Fine”. That was the end of that fascinating conversation as far as I was concerned and I was getting back to the business of inhaling. “So what’s going on?” my affable biking partner continued. I’m thinking, shut the fuck up, can’t you see I’m trying to breath here! My heart rate was at about 170 and a mixture of dark roast, cranberry orange muffin and stomach bile was fighting its way up my throat. I think I managed to croak something like “Oh, you know, the usual”, but by this point he had stood up in his pedals and accelerated up to join the group.
 
This was the last I saw of them. I looked down and my odometer, which mockingly read 1.8 miles. I dropped my pace to a respectable 11 mph, caught my breath, belched a few more times as the bilious mix receded and fell into a comfortable rhythm. I was somewhere in Stow when I decided to experiment with a different route. I think secretly I didn’t want to run into the spinsters again out in Harvard, looking sweaty, red-faced and one step from needing a defibrillator. So I took a left where I normally take a right and was totally lost in about 3 minutes. Houses started to get scarce and those that I passed now had appliances rusting on their lawns and young, malnourished boys playing banjoes on the front porches. I stopped and asked a one-eyed man where I was and all he did was look at me in my spandex cycling gear and say “You got purty lips, son.” I rode on.
 
Eventually I reached a main road that I recognized and I was relieved to have regained my bearings. I know it might not be the safest thing to ride in the breakdown lane of route 495, but I knew where I was and wasn’t going to risk the back roads where I’m sure I was going to meet a Ned Beatty like fate. Ultimately I was blown off the highway by a Winnebago called “Freedom Rider” doing 90 miles an hour, towing an SUV, an ATV and sporting an NRA bumper sticker and driven by a member of AARP.  Fortuitously I ended up on route 111, where I stopped at a Dunkin Donuts to refuel.
 
It was dark when I got home but I managed about 22 miles at a respectable 16 mph and plan to ride again tomorrow. Any out of shape 50-somethings who like to chat while riding 12 miles an hour are welcome to join.
 
Ah it’s biking season again. Let the pain and humiliation begin.