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.

On Having Made "The List"

The Road Crew: one man working, 15 others watching.

We were going nearly 25mph at the time, and I was on the rivet in the middle of the fall-back lane of the paceline trying to snarf down a Clif Bar.  Ahead lie the last relatively uninterrupted 20 or so miles of the regular Sunday racer ride, Cincinnati’s Hyde Park Ride.  Even with the hammer down, it was still nearly an hour or so home and I felt like I was struggling, on the cusp of letting a gap go or missing tagging onto the rear of the rotating paceline with the fastest guys in the city.  “Hold up!  Joe’s got a flat!  Hold up!”  Wha?  Wha huh?  Sure enough, I looked down and my rear end was a tish mushy, slow leak. 

“Igussadoo evaflat,” I mumbled out between heavy breaths with my mouth full of chocolately goodness.  Well at least it wasn’t my legs this time.  One of the most veteran riders in Cincinnati was on my wheel, spotted it and waived the flag.  Miraculously yet thankfully, the whole ride pulled over to the shoulder.  “Quick change Joe,” he said.  Sweet, I thought.

Either everyone needed a break, or maybe, possibly,  finally, I made “The List” as the Two John’sPodcast half jokingly calls it.  That warm faint feeling of coming to a dead stop after riding at 25mph rushed through my head as I tossed the last quarter of my Clif Bar on the wooden post of the roadside barrier and dug out my tube.  It wasn’t the quickest tube change in the world, but respectable.  I threw my leg over before the last guy finished a natural break, so all was good.

As I thumbed the bead of the tire off the rim, I was grateful.  On this same ride, nearly a year ago I got tailed off on a climb.  Flat backed and head down I tried to claw back on before a stop sign but ended up dropped, a good hour and a half from home.  Solo and lost, I literally had to navigate like a sailor to get home.  I kept heading south to the Ohio River, then followed it west back to town.  Judging from the stickieness of my tube, it’s been a long time since I flatted.  Here, as I tugged to peel the old tube from the inside of my tire, were all the Hyde Park Ride veterans and their teammates chatting patiently.  I tossed the spent tube to the guy next to me to roll up, stuffed the new tube in, double checked the bead and shhhhhhhtt!  I hit it with CO2.

Now I’m not going so far as to say there’s a physical list taped to someone’s stem of guys who the group will wait for in case of a flat and guys that the group will leave behind to navigate their way home by the turns of the river and the setting sun.  It’s not like that.  This ride has been going on in Cincinnati since everyone had steel bikes, down tube shifters and oogled over fine welding.  In every town, there’s a similar standing ride, hang or get dropped.  Know the route and be prepared to fend for yourself.  Bring teammates, make friends, or be left without a draft on the way home.  It’s a necessary evil of a good weekly training ride.  There can be upwards of 40 or more riders sometimes.  You can’t stop every time someone has to take a leak, adjust a rubbing brake or change a flat. 

Courtesy Stronglight

So, on rides like this, it’s not so much a pecking order as it is a level of camaraderie.  While I shrug off the term, an unwritten rule.  When the yellow jersey takes a natural break, so does everyone else.  When Spartacus calls the race neutral, it’s neutralized.  When a veteran rider says, “Hold up! Joe’s got a flat.”  The ride holds up.  Some stop, some take a natural, some snack, some noodle at 12mph up the road.  In five minutes time, the ride is back together rolling toward downtown at 27mph again.

One thing is for certain.  More than anything, somewhere between mile markers over the past 8 years of doing this ride the idle chit chat that began with relative strangers in double pacelines has turned into true friendships.  While of lesser importance, in skillfully avoiding mishaps, mindfully trading work and knowing which direction the paceline should rotate depending on wind direction, trust has been earned.  It’s certainly not the category on my racing license.  Since rap stars and gangstas have ruined the true meaning of the word, I cringe at saying respect.   But, while I may not have stripes on my sleeve from competing at cyclocross Masters Nationals and Worlds, maybe I have earned something intangible and intrinsically valuable. And, I'm truly humbled by that.

Personally, I wasn’t worried about riding home alone on Hwy 52 along the Ohio River from New Richmond to Cincinnati.  No doubt my 4 teammates would’ve waited for me.  You’re always on someone’s list.  However, maybe now I’m on a new list...The List.