Never Let Em See You Crumble: The Art of Checking Out of a Group Ride

Twice it’s happened this year.   “We going right?” I asked over the hum of coasting hubs.  “No.  Straight.  Straight.  We’ll take Tanner,” was the response.  I knew fully well, straight wasn’t the fastest way to Tanner.   All the bridges back across the Ohio River were east of us, and we were headed back west.  It would surely tack on 8 extra miles to what should’ve been a 70ish mile ride from Cincinnati to Rabbit Hash with some of the fastest dudes in town.  To complicate things, Tanner wasn’t the fastest way home.  Tack on another 6 miles.  At that moment, you’ve mentally checked out.  It’s like being on a club century when your computer hits 100 miles and you’re still a few untold miles from the finish. 

It happened again yesterday on Cincinnati’s Hyde Park Ride, a ride that’s been going on every Sunday since Neanderthals rode wooden bikes with Flintstone brakes.  Normally the ride has a predictable flow over its 60 miles out and back from Cincinnati to Morrow.  A soft rollout from Hyde Park to the top of the first hill in Madeira transitions into a hard tempo into Loveland.  Between Loveland and the sprint in Morrow, it’s race pace.  On the return, it’s relatively tame until the last few miles before the sprint back into Loveland.  After that, guys peel off to respective suburban areas, you pick the train with the most neighbors and ride the steady easier tempo home.  My train is usually the one that takes the bike path.  Only, they didn’t take the bike path back and the switch flipped back to the “game on” position. 

Say Goodbye To Noodling

It wasn’t extra miles, but extra hurt.  I mentally checked out at Loveland.  The bunch that should’ve continued chatting about how the sprint unfolded, their cool new spring kits or how much yard work they had to do at home, strung out and shut up.  On the five mile climb back into Madeira, the pedal was slowly squished to the floor.  I suspect Strava glory is messing with tradition.  Like drowning as the ship pulls away, I slowly slid to the back.  The tank, filled with only a waffle and an Odwalla bar, emptied.  Pop!  Bye bye time.  At least the last time anyone saw me I was setting tempo with my bud Tracy on the front.  (We're on the border of the north and south.  Guys have names like Tracy, Kerry and Kelby.)  I went out on a high note.

F*** you wind!  I shouted it out loud, but was too far off the back for anyone to hear.  It reminded me of a girl we used to mountain bike with that cursed out loud to encourage herself to get up tough climbs.  "S***.  Crap!"  She'd stomp her way to the top.  I stopped at a convenience store for a Coke infusion and was on my way home solo, struggling on the Camargo downhill with this b**** of a headwind.  17mph.  I swear we went up this hill faster than I’m going down.  There were three ways home: up the hill on Erie Avenue, cutting the corner but driving into the full on headwind on the wide-open Columbia Parkway, or dropping into the industrial area along Wooster Pike.  Offering the most protection from the wind, the smallest hills, and the most stop signs, I took option 3.  I even took a neighborhood trail on my road bike across the railroad tracks in Linwood by Terry’s Turf Club to shave a few blocks.  Emergency mode.

The art of checking out of a group ride is to go out on a high note, never letting anyone see you crumble.  It’s like zipping up your jersey before your big finish.  “Good ride you guys.  I’m taking the bike path.”  “I’m going right.  I said I had to be home by 2.”  “I’ll see ya next week.  I’m gonna grab a few things at the store before I go home.”  Yeah, that’s the ticket.

Dropped & Lost at Podunk Place and Boondock Blvd

I’m square dancing on a bike.  I swear I crossed route 125 and 132…twice.  Allemande left and dosado.  I remember the Marathon gas station a few miles from East Fork State Park on 125 having more trees around it and it being sort of a Pony Keg.  I’m officially lost and according to the GPS in my head, at least an hour and a half from home.  That’s an hour and half if I rode straight back on the shoulder-less 45mph posted speed limit Route 125 without getting hit by a speeding Amelia pickup truck driven by a texting hillbilly.  The only thing that really saved me was my internal compass telling me if I kept riding basically southwest, I’d eventually hit route 52 along the Ohio River.  Whether I’d be 18 miles from home at that point, or 10, was the question.  The other question was, "How do I get from this unmarked intersection to something recognizable?"

I didn’t bonk.  I lost contact, (which what bike racers say instead of I was too weak or not in shape enough to hang with the faster guys on the climb.)  At the point of detachment, as Andrew from Zephyr Wheel Sports rode past me, I could’ve just turned around.  I was only 3-4 miles from Batavia, the sprint point for Cincinnati’s traditional Sunday morning Hyde Park Ride.  From Batavia, home was less than an hour away.  Had I hung on the climb, home still would’ve been 2 hours away riding with the big boys.  Eh.  I can figure it out.  I wanted to get at least 3 hours in anyway.  Who cares if I’m riding solo?  I have an IPod, a granola bar, tube/air, a full water bottle and a clue.  I put my head down and pressed on, hoping that I’d make contact at a busy intersection or they’d wait for me.

There is no waiting on the Hyde Park Ride.  That’s what makes it a great ride.  You hang, or you don’t.  Even though I’ve known every butt that was riding away from me for at least 10 years, and the racey part of the ride was over, I didn’t expect them to wait.  Friends or not, the minute you roll out off Awakening’s coffee shop in Hyde Park Square at 10am you better be prepared to hang with the bunch and find your own way back if you don’t.  I’ve been here before.  At least this time there was no terrible headwind, it was warmer than 34 degrees, I recognized a few street signs and I could still feel my fingers and toes.

7-8 years ago, on a similar Wednesday night ride, I got dropped.  A buddy noticed and fell back to help me get back on.  It was Dave Stewart, not long ago he had won the 2002 24 Hours of Snowshoe Solo, just two years after Stamsted was our local hero.  I had only known Dave maybe 2 years; our friendship at the time was mostly on the bike.  Dave told me to dial back the heart rate, keep it steady and hopefully if there was a lull in the bunch, we’d latch back on.  A few miles down the road, contact. 

Dave is also the same guy that once said, "You only get faster by riding with faster people."  In a way he meant to seek out getting dropped.  Seek out getting dropped and lost.  Seek out getting dropped, lost and wondering if you might bonk before you find a convenience store.  Seek out riding so far over your head that you contemplate calling your spouse to come out and pick you up at the intersection of Podunk Place and Boondock Blvd.  One day you will hang and every bout of self depreciation will disappear.