All These Islands

“It's funny that pirates were always going around searching for treasure, and they never realized that the real treasure was the fond memories they were creating.” - Jack Handey

Arrr.

From the gun, I was off the back, unintentionally drifting from the pointy end of Smashfest ‘21. It’s not a road race, mind you. Just a big group ride the day before IM Lake Placid. Things were moving away from me in fast forward. There were zero podium spots on offer. Not that I’ve ever earned a real podium. Despite this being a group ride, many appeared determined to win the unwinnable. In the distance I saw the leaders dancing up a hill. The big, bright group snaked past the Northwood School and then disappeared into a crisp left-hand turn. Gulp.

I had spent the first mile lazily chatting with a few friends under unmoving clouds and the big July sun. As we rolled past Mirror lake, I realized both how slow I had been going and that I was dropped. Being “Not-dropped” has always been the goal, albeit a sometimes unrealistic goal. Cue urgency and a delayed Zwift-style race start. Full throttle for 15 minutes in search of something, a heart rate spike, snot on my sleeve, and blurred vision.

When I eventually bridged the gap, things were all stretched out. At the front, a triathlete-type rider was down in TT bars, fighting the wind while holding 300 watts. I caught my breath and attempted to see straight and wondered how long he could hold. Apparently for a while. We rode over slightly downhill terrain like this for the next fifteen miles. During this time, I could hear faint bits of reggae music drifting in and out. Maybe I was still a little bonky from chasing back on. The moment passed and we took another left and the road went straight up. Our group suddenly went from thirty to four. “Pressure Drop” from Toots and the Maytals was now rocking loud and clear and coming from a speaker on the handlebars of a guy named Jon Spinney. Meanwhile, I hoped for no pressure drop in my tires. Jon Spinney. Really? What a great name for a cyclist, I thought. But then there was the sticking point of his bluetooth speaker. The traditional road-side of my brain quietly mulled over this addition.

Then we climbed and climbed and climbed. The reggae music continued and everyone was smiling. It was just the four of us amongst the evergreen trees and the Lay’s potato chips and the aforementioned sun and the too little air in our lungs. And on those slopes, to the clean rhythm of a steel drum, I considered something a little blasphemous. Maybe there shouldn’t be so many rules. Maybe there’s a place for tank tops and short socks and good music. Maybe there’s room for photo stops and rope swings and “shortcuts”. Maybe you just wear what makes you feel good. Maybe you ride what you can get your hands on and talk to people you don’t know. Maybe you flat or fizzle out or hike-a-bike too much. Maybe you get dropped or lost and end up riding alone. Somewhere hidden among all these islands is real treasure. Arrr.

木漏れ日,
Andy