For whatever
reasons, I seem to be biking more this year than most summers previous. Call it a second wind in semi-retirement.
On Wednesday, I
did the lakefront, down to 91st Street close to the Indiana border
and up to Ardmore, not far from Evanston.
Call it an easy “45,” and by easy I mean my palms don’t get blisters
from leaning on the handlebars for so long and the serrated edges of the pedals
don’t rub my feet the wrong way. That
all changes—for the worse—if I do 60 miles.
I also got to
race people for the first time in memory.
On the way up, I followed a chiseled-physique guy for twelve miles, from
55th Street up to Belmont; I got close but could never catch
him. On the way back, I kept playing tag
with a girl Clare’s age. As that was
going on, a guy in full racing attire passed both of us, so that faux-Clare and
I spent miles passing one another as we tried to pass him. After four or five miles, the girl dropped
out, leaving me to go after Mr. Speedo alone.
It pains me to
admit he could’ve my age, or older; you
just don’t want to get passed by an elder.
Twice I passed my opponent, and twice he quickly pulled ahead. This went on for probably close to fourteen
miles until the other guy pulled off the trail; he looked totally gassed. So, I either outraced someone my own age or
made an old man cry “Uncle.”
You take your wins
where you can get them.
No comments:
Post a Comment