Today’s ride started out in wailing misery.
No, I mean that. The Tricross is having brake issues because I lack the tools and know-how to true up my brake rotors, and for the first, oh, six or seven miles it wailed. No squeaked, not whined — no, it wailed like a seventh-grade garage band.
A bad one.
At some point I got completely fed up and disgusted and irritated and decided to do something about it. I pulled up, flipped the bike, and fiddled around with the standoff on the brake pads until I had something resembling a functional bike. When I put it back on its wheels, it still gave a little wheeze a couple times per rotation, but it was tolerable.
Once I’d “fixed” the brakes, I … well, I paused for lunch. That might have been another part of the problem. I realized that breakfast today had consisted of an apple, a couple handfuls of potato chips (mmmmmmh, saaaaaaaalt), and a couple of lemon cookies because I am weak, weak, weak against lemon cookies. I stopped at Wack Arnold’s and threw back a tiny burger, a small fry, and about a gallon of Diet Coke (I’m always thirsty).
Then I got a refill on the Diet, popped it in my seat-tube mounted bottle cage (the one on the downtube was holding … wait for it … a water bottle full of … wait for it! … water!), and peeled out for the park.
Half an hour later, I’d done two and a half circuits — that’s four good climbs — and pulled down a PR (18.8 MPH!) on one climb and a second-best (15 MPH!) on the loop.
Needless to say, after a couple months that have been marked by slowness coupled with more slowness, this was a welcome change.
Tonight, I hammered it home from Bell Choir and made a 14.4 MPH moving average. That’s a heck of a lot better than I’ve been doing, and I had fun hammering it over the rollers on Eastern Parkway.
Today’s ride involved a lot of talking to myself out loud. People probably already think I’m crazy because I ride a bike; the fact that I’m riding down the street shouting, “Keep pushing keep pushing keep pushing!” probably doesn’t dissuade them.
I don’t care.
They can think I’m crazy. They’re stuck in their cars, cut off from the wide world, while I’m in the saddle, having a blast.
In terms of training, I finally feel like I’m back. I can’t wait to get my round roast out on a fast club ride and see what shakes out.