My husband and I usually spend at least one day of the weekend doing a long bike ride somewhere locally. Our overall objective is to improve our long distance endurance and speed as we are interested primarily in solo, unsupported road biking and touring. We are not all that interested in speed competition, racing, climbing, stages, or endurance intervals. As a result we have a variety of 30-60 mile rides mapped out in the area. Many of the routes we have discovered overlap the routes of the various bike groups that do weekly testosterone and estrogen laden hammer fests and heavy training rides. You know the ones I mean. These are the men and women riding the stripped down, aerodynamic, rocket technology + $2,000.00 racing/road bikes carrying only a bottle of water and a small repair kit in their back pocket, fashion plated in matching shorts, jersey, gloves, socks, shoes and helmets, all riding bent over their hoods or crouched over their drops in a single line with a pace rider and a tail lookout. The ones that start out at 7:00 AM and are finishing their second, third or fourth 25-30 mph hour as we gear up to start out.
As we cruise past at 15 mph on the other side of the road, I have been observing the various attitudes and signals. Invariably the lead rider is too busy setting the pace with his or her head down to do anything else. That's fair enough so rarely do any of them respond to a friendly wave of the hand and a smile. I did think a tail rider was actually responding the other day with a sort of unobtrusive hand wave open palm greeting with his hand down beside his hip but it turned out he was just getting ready to spit and had automatically put his hand down to stop the spit and spray from flying back to hit anyone behind him. Somuch for contact with fellow road warriors.
Women, even if they are only riding in pairs or the occasional solo rider, will rarely respond or even make eye contact with other riders while men, at least if they are of a slightly older or less fashion plated persuasion and in smaller groups will almost always lift their hand from the handle bar and waggle it, or smile and nod.
When I am out riding solo and am passed by another rider, the only exchange is the occasional “ on your left”, but more often or not they simply blast past me before I am even aware that they have come and gone. If they warn me, I try to react fast enough to say thank you and pull over to give them room, but by then they are usually past and receding into the distance. This past weekend, for the first time in over two years of solo and partner riding with Phil , the leader of a three man group passing us actually said “how ya all doing? And have a great day.” It was remarkable and actually brightened up the rest of the ride.
This past weekend, a local bike shop did an open group ride to celebrate a new venue. Phil and I took the opportunity to do an organized group ride together. I have ridden in some small woman’s groups on organized tours, but these experiences did nothing to prepare me for a group of 50 or 60 Saturday club riders showing up to do a quick 34 or 47 miler or to get some extra TITS (time in the saddle) , before continuing on with their day. Besides Phil and I, there were three or four other riders who looked as cowed and overwhelmed as we felt.
As everyone mounted their bikes and started rolling through the parking lot there was a continuous sound of cracking like bones or dry sticks breaking. It took me a moment to realize that it was the sound of the riders locking into their pedal clips. It sounded more like an orthopedic clinic than a bike ride starting out. Of course it was also disconcerting to watch one rider fall over sideways and take several other riders with him as he tried to stop suddenly and could not kick out of the clips. He ended up beside his bike, stocking footed with both of his shoes still firmly set in the clips. Since he was also one of the riders who had bolted out to stay directly behind the leader , it seemed to me that someone was clipped just a little too tightly in every sense of the word
The first five miles of the ride was a brisk 18 mph through a residential area with all of the riders grouping and regrouping and trying to take the front right behind the leader. Because the entire group ended up stopping at traffic lights and taking the intersections en masse, Phil and I were able to keep up, but once the route opened up the group split up with the largest group jack rabbiting up with the leader at 20-25 miles an hour. Although at this point we were not the very last in the pack, we were definitely in the second half or last quarter of the group. In spite of taking a scenic detour along with a couple of the other riders and having to be chased down by the sweep, I hit the SAG stop at 17 miles in a respectable, for me at least, 65 minutes. Of course, by that time, the front group had hit the SAG, done the 13 mile extension, returned to the SAG and were starting back. That was pretty depressing.
At the Sag stop I met up with Phil who had stopped to help someone look for a piece of lost equipment while I took the scenic detour. So we did that 13 mile loop together at a reasonable pace, considering some pretty vicious headwinds that were gusting enough to throw our bikes around. As we returned to the SAG stop, they were in the process of closing it down, and actually had to unpack water and ice for us. At that point I began to realize that if there were riders behind us, they were in the few and far between category. Unlike an organized road tour where the sweep rider is the last rider, always, in this ride, the sweep rider blasted past us about three miles after we had started the return leg from the SAG. So much for "no rider left behind."
Still fighting the headwinds we contiued on the return leg . As we rode, I kept hearing splashing sloshing noises that sounded like they were coming from the flooded ditches along the sides of the road. I kept looking for turtles, or frogs or at least ripples to indicate that something had hit the water, and was puzzled at not seeing any. Finally as we rode along a section with no ditches, and I heard the sound again, I realized that I had been hearing my "camel bak" (a water filled back pack) sloshing. At least the searching for amphibians had kept my mind occupied for a good part of the ride.
At 3 hours and 45 minutes and an overall average of 13.5 mph, we were definitely the last ones back to the bike shop and staring point where, of course by this time, they had taken everything inside and were starting to pack away the coffee and bagels and get back to the business of the day. It was an interesting experience, but one I doubt we will repeat in the immediate future. It all goes to confirm our mutual enjoyment ofunsupported solo and pair riding and our disinclination to be “groupies.”
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