Non-Death-Ride Non-Warmup

I found myself in the Lake Tahoe area just prior to this year’s Death Ride. That ride is so popular it’s hard to get in, and when dudes started scalping spots on craigslist I gave up on it. But this year, a couple days before it, since I was in the area I did a hard ride over Luther Pass (a former DR pass) and Ebbetts Pass, which is the granddaddy, en route to another campground. If everything went fine I wouldn’t have much to report.

My plan was to ride from South Lake Tahoe, where my family was camping, over the west side of Luther Pass, down the east side, through Markleeville, and over Ebbetts Pass and on to the campground some 25 miles farther on where we were meeting up with my wife’s friend and all her in-laws. The road to this place isn’t on Google Maps and my smartphone battery was dying, so I only had verbal directions. I love a point-to-point road ride—it’s the furthest thing from riding a trainer. You really feel like you’re getting somewhere.

Pre-ride meal was Red Hut in South Lake. Great place, where the cops go. Whenever I’ve gone this place has offered a special called The Usual which is eggs, real hash browns, and a biscuit and gravy. I love hash browns and despise home fries. I can kind of make home fries at home, and except for the ones at the dearly departed Spaghetti Western restaurant in the lower Haight, I’ve never had very good ones. It’s easy to screw up hash browns too but I admire a place that tries, and love a place (like Red Hut) that nails it. I got most of my wife’s hash browns but my kids successfully fought me off from their French toast and pancakes.

I almost doomed the ride before it even began by wearing the wrong shorts. The awful chamois of modern bike shorts is a topic I’ll have to tackle as its own post one day. Suffice to say the modern chamois is less like a little pad and more like crotch upholstery. Giant thick thing and they’re bigger every year. This year’s shorts have a chamois the size of a basketball. Paul Bunyan could use it. And where traditional chamois had a little terry-cloth section where your unit goes—we always called it “the penis patch”—these latest ones have full thick chamois all the way up practically to the navel so there’s no ventilation. It feels like you’re riding with a book shoved down the front of your shorts. I’d actually put them on before I remembered their cursedness. Had I ridden in those, this would be the story of a crotch done wrong and maybe of a mid-ride suicide.

My second choice of shorts were last year’s, with all the seams done in bright orange. It’s a really lame Spiderman kind of look, especially the bright seam running right up the front of the crotch, and my wife has said they’re downright lewd. My kids get embarrassed when I wear them. I’d have blown all this off, except that (though I’d met only one of them) I knew the men we’d me meeting up with for camping would all be real men: big strong guys with trucks and boats and biceps. (Not that they’re lowbrow; they know how to make non-grey, non-slimy hash browns and how to roast an entire pig on a spit.) I pictured them sitting around a campfire drinking beers when this skinny little bike guy shows up with obscene orange-piped shorts: not a good first impression. So I had to wear the shorts I’d worn a couple days before during a 55-mile ride over Luther and Carson Pass.

I hit the road a little after 1 p.m., a few minutes after my wife took off in the car with the kids. (She’d have lunch before driving to the campground and would pass me on the road.) It was 95 degrees. The west side of Luther Pass is much harder than the east side that used to be a Death Ride pass. It starts at about 6,500 feet and winds up at 7,740. I could really feel the altitude and my bad leg felt heavy and kind of stiff. The climb is long and straight and there’s no shade. Plus, I had a headwind—not the kind that’s at least refreshing, but the angry hot wind that just parches you. But Luther is not that big a deal and soon enough I was cruising down the east side, then down through Pickett’s Junction and Markleville where I refilled a bottle at a cool old drinking fountain right alongside the road.

My family passed me at the base of Ebbetts. They acted like I was some kind of hero. Then they drove on, and I began my suffering. Ebbetts is a pretty brutal climb. It’s got some switchbacks of grotesque gradient. I’d never ridden it solo before—it’s a lot easier when it’s the Death Ride and you’ve been training and have excitement and camaraderie working for you. Plus, I really didn’t know what else awaited me after the summit. I imagined it would be around thirty miles of gradual descent, but had to keep something in the tank in case the ride turned out a lot longer and/or harder than I expected.

About halfway up I was really suffering, and running low on energy drink. The air was cooler but also thinner. My gearing was just barely low enough. I weaved like a paperboy. The grade blocked the wind most of the time, but in sections it would return and rush in my ears trying to shatter my morale. There is a human impulse to complain even if nobody is around to hear it; I fought this. Ebbetts has a lot of sudden downhills that slam you into another steep uphill section. All they do is screw up your rhythm and undo some of the progress you’ve made toward that 8,736 foot summit.

Finally I reached the top. There were already port-a-potties set up for the upcoming Death Ride. I took a leak and started the descent. The road is steep and twisty and I was so tired my hands were hurting just working the brakes. In very little time I’d reach Hermit Valley, which is around 7,000 feet above sea level. This is where the Death Ride has you turn around and climb the south face of Ebbetts. From this point on I had little idea what to expect from the ride but was still shocked to find myself climbing again. Not just a little roller or two, but serious grades, one melting into the next. Eventually I realized that Hermit Valley wouldn’t be a valley if it didn’t have a grade on either side of it. I’d literally never considered this before in my life. I’m not very bright.

As I toiled away, trying to be like a robot (and thus incapable of misery) some guy in a jeep drove down toward me. He slowed down and asked, “How far is it to Hermit Valley?” Of course he didn’t deserve scorn, and of course this is a reasonable question, but at the time I felt true contempt. What—is your foot getting tired on the pedal? Is this drive boring you? Are you in a rush?

Finally I reached a sign: Pacific Grade Summit, Elevation 8,050. Only then did I vaguely recall seeing that on a map. Now, though, I figured it must be all downhill to the campground. But it wasn’t. The road continued to roll up and down and put the fear into me. How much longer could I hold out? Strength aside, there was the matter of fuel. I had some gels left but nothing to wash them down with. I encountered a lodge at Alpine Lake and topped up my bottles. When I got back out to the main road, I suddenly wasn’t sure which direction to go in. My brain was that muddy. I figured it out but wasn’t completely confident.

It took me forever, still fighting the wind, to get down to 7,000 feet. Fortunately I didn’t miss the single sign to the little uncharted road leading to the campground. It was at this point I realized two unsettling things. One, my assumption that by the end of the ride I’d have logged as much vertical loss as gain was erroneous. That rule only holds true when you start and finish at the same place (i.e., home). There is of course no guarantee of this when you don’t know the elevation of the destination. Second, I realized why it had seemed like I’d done more than my fair share of climbing over the last 40 miles: it’s because after climbing Luther, I’d gotten more than my fair share of descending. Markleeville is more than a thousand feet lower than South Lake Tahoe. I’d dug myself into a hole I’d have to climb out of. So maybe point-to-point rides aren’t such a great thing after all.

So yeah, there was one more brutally steep grade to get over, a few miles and maybe 600 more feet of climbing. I made it. Hardest ride in ten months. I guess there’s not much more to tell.

I'm Not Complaining

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The new kit

My bike club just got its 2010 clothing (or “kit” as people like to call it) and I have to say, I’m tempted to complain. We switched to a new manufacturer this year, which I’d never heard of, and I knew something was wrong when I hefted the long-sleeve jersey and it felt like you could mail it with one stamp. Don’t get me wrong, cyclists like lightweight gear, but this jersey seemed tissue-paper thin. Normally long-sleeve jerseys are thicker than short-sleeve because (duh) you wear them when it’s cool out. So this was a little odd.

I put the jersey on and found that when I reach forward with my arms, like when I’m on my bike, the sleeves don’t come all the way down to my wrists. I expect this when I’m wearing a suit jacket, but with a cycling jersey? I didn’t try on the shorts right away because we were only suiting up for a photo shoot and I’d be standing in the back anyway.

Next I tried on the short-sleeve jersey and it was just as lightweight. And it felt, well, small. The sleeves didn’t come down very far, requiring me to pull up the wafer-thin arm warmers as far as they’d go to reach the sleeves. Like most “race-fit” jerseys, everything was tight everywhere except the elastic on the sleeves. Why do these clothing manufacturers think cyclists have big biceps? Do they think we bench-press or something? The arm warmers would only stay up for about two or three seconds at a time, so it was a challenge having them both up long enough for the camera shutter to open and close.

The short shorts

When I got home from the photo shoot I took the shorts out of the bag. Uh-oh. They looked like something I could dress one of my daughters in, or one of their dolls. Plus the chamois seemed absurdly thick. (A chamois shouldn’t be thicker than a pancake. A couple years ago we got these overly thick chamois we nicknamed “full-stack.”) I looked at the label to make sure it was really a size Large. It was indeed labeled Large, though the label also said “Made in China.” That’s a first for me. Most cycling clothing I’ve owned was made in USA, Europe, or South America. I’m not saying the Chinese can’t make good bike clothing; after all, they seem to do a good job on everything else. Perhaps they just get the sizing wrong; maybe to them this pair of shorts did seem large.

Anyway, I tried on the shorts, and when I tried to slip the shoulder straps on (they’re bibs) I found I couldn’t—they just didn’t reach. Of course, they’re Lycra, so with some effort I managed to wriggle my way in, but when I was done it was kind of hard to breathe. It was also hard to stand up straight; this clothing should come with a few handlers to carry us over and put us on our bikes. A few days later I chatted with a cycling pal who had similar difficulties. He said he practically had to lie on the floor in a fetal position to get his shorts on, and once they were on he felt like Borat.

First time out

I suited up early Sunday morning for my first ride in the new kit. It’s a good thing I was wearing leg warmers, because these shorts don’t come down very far; with that much leg showing I’d have felt like a woman in a spin class. I’d layered up with a long-sleeve thermal top and an old sleeveless jersey, and over these garments, the new long-sleeve jersey fit especially tight. It might not seem like this is a bad thing; the fit is supposed to be close. In fact, the first Lycra bike clothing was called “Second Skins.” But putting this jersey on, I felt like a reptile trying to put back on the skin it had just discarded via molting. As I pulled up the zipper, a little puff of air was forced from my lungs.

Feeling straitjacketed, I climbed on my bike and set off. At least the clothing was warm enough … no air was finding its way in, that’s for sure. I felt like my outfit was hermetically sealed. And the chamois didn’t feel so thick when I was actually riding—probably because it was stretched out way thin, like bubblegum, since the shorts fit so tight.

I’m not complaining!

But as I said before, I’m only tempted to complain. It might seem like that’s exactly what I’ve been doing, but I actually wasn’t complaining. I was just sayin’. I rode to the coffee shop to meet up with some of my teammates, and the first thing I noticed is that of the six or eight guys, only two (including myself) were rocking the new shorts. Some sort of laundry-day-harmonic-convergence, perhaps? Mm-hmm. It didn’t take long for the first person to complain about the new kit (I think his exact words were “This clothing sucks!”), and I was invited to offer my opinion. I didn’t take the bait.

Why not? Well, for one thing, when the officers of my bike club were out looking for a clothing provider and negotiating discounts, etc. I didn’t offer to help. And it’s not like I’m bringing glory to the club and thus deserve to behave like a prima donna. The other thing is, it’s not like there’s any recourse anyway. The clothing was printed up with our logo, our sponsors’ logos, etc. so we can’t exactly return it to the manufacturer. Even if they could sell it at their factory outlet, we wouldn’t want any non-racer-types flying our colors for us. (Imagine how tight the clothing would be on them.)

A couple decades ago I was on a bike club in San Luis Obispo, and the manager sent all the jerseys back because the manufacturer had put their own logo on the sleeves of the jerseys, without paying for that privilege. Our manager insisted they replace the sleeves with blank ones. He got his way, but in retaliation the manufacturer took the elastic band for each sleeve and put a full twist in it, making it into a Möbius strip, before sewing the fabric around it. Not sure we want to go down that path again now.

The danger in griping

Meanwhile, I feel I should be cautious in deciding I have a basis to complain. The normal grounds would be a) the clothing doesn’t look good, or b) it’s not comfortable. As far as looks, what am I—vain? As a man who wears hair gel and has been known to clip his fingernails without being prompted, I’m already on thin ice and have to be careful about seeming to care too much about my appearance. As far as comfort, why worry a lot about it in a sport that’s famously painful and uncomfortable? How am I supposed to retain bragging rights after a cold, rainy ride if I’ve been complaining about a lousy chamois?

There’s also the matter of a stoic tradition I would like to be a part of. Some of the world’s greatest heroes were all the more heroic for making do with what they had. Think “Apollo 13.” Think of the miserable, oft-bombed, food-rationed Allied Forces enjoying their finest hour during WWII. Think of John Cusack’s character in “Better Off Dead” who won the skiing race in the end after losing a ski. I dream of approaching their mettle when I’m out there in my new kit, pedaling away while the new shorts gradually prepare me for joining a boys’ choir. (On the flip side, would I rather earn a comparison the anti-heroes of “The Princess and the Pea,” or “The Fisherman’s Wife”?)

On the plus side

On top of all this, it’s too early to tell how the clothing will work out in the long run. Maybe having all my organs compressed like that will toughen me up, like doing pushups with a kid on my back or bench presses while somebody sits on my chest. And I figure with these tiny shorts my butt is squeezed so skinny that Kate Moss would be jealous; might that not help me psych out my competition at the Everest Challenge next year? And speaking of that race, with its typical 90+ degree temperatures, I have to think this ultrathin clothing will be appropriate, so long as I don’t get a sunburn through it.

Meanwhile, there are small pleasures afforded by the new gear. The tight fit of the jersey fools me sometimes into thinking I actually have a chest, like I’m a big burly man or something. And at the beginning of a downhill the other day, I was intrigued by the shriek of the zipper, its teeth chattering together at high frequency as it strained against the taut fabric. Best of all, at the end of my ride I got something like that delicious relief you get at the end of a day of skiing, when you free your poor feet from the iron-maiden-like grip of your ski boots. Après-bike has never felt so good. dana albert blog