Oil, Summer’s Ice

With the accuracy of a laser pointer Jaden stuck a finger out along his left leg.  Averting a flat on a raised crack, the group flowed to the right along the gutter.  A few miles later, somewhere near the former home of Big Butter Jesus, Rachel shook her hand on her right side.  Deep gravel.  It was an 80 mile ride and I’m sure we exhausted every gesture in the group ride hand vocabulary handbook. 

Big Butter at Solid Rock Church

There’s a sign for everything: a sweep of a right hand behind the back for a parked car, a quick double finger off the hoods says “hi” to a passing rider, a finger moved forward and backward spells out crack in the road, two fingers spread out at the ground usually means double pot holes or a pair of raised gas main covers.  A finger pointed and twirled in a circle at your helmet means the rider in front of you is an idiot.  For the few instances where a hand gesture won’t do, there are a few verbal-only warnings, like “car back, passing, car up, ice and low branch.”  Unfortunately for Don, there’s nothing in the cycling vocabulary for oil slick.

On rides we keep an eye out for the obstacles that could cause a crash or a flat and point only those out to our companions: glass, a topless sunbather, a cake-pan deep sewer cover, a raised metal plate, a pothole filled with water.  Other than that, hands belong on the bars and mouths are for breathing.  Being more of a listener than a talker, the silence of cycling is one of my favorite aspects of the sport.  In probably 15 years of cycling, from crack-fast Kentucky farm dogs to hand-carved riverfront cobblestones, you’d think I’ve pointed at it all.  I’ve never thought to look for oil on the road, in a corner, on a slight downhill.  Oil is like summer’s ice and Don went drifting.

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It was your typical 4 way intersection with a light.  Approaching slightly downhill, we had the green for a right hand turn.  There were six of us probably traveling north of 23mph.  Riding 3^rd wheel, I followed the two leaders on the inside to outside line.  By the time Don rolled through, he was at the mercy of two factors: looking through the turn and having the added man-momentum of gravity. 

Like us, Don never even saw the last 10 meters of the road before the turn.  Like the veteran cyclist he is, he saw the green light and then his eyes watched the exit of the turn.  Having at least 40 pounds on the women in front of him, he brought more speed to the corner and swung a bit wider to avoid touching wheels.  Schoop!  There it was.  I heard the metal pedal scrap the ground and turned to see Don laying in the road at the corner of the intersection.  While the first three of us skated past on the oil’s inside, Don crossed the slick like angled railroad tracks in the rain.

As Don dusted himself off, flexing the pain out of his hand, I futzed with his bike.  I put the chain in a smaller gear, spun his wheels testing for trueness and saw it.  A 10 inch section of his rear Conti 4000 was covered in thick oil.  I looked at the road.  The slick was thick, as if every car for the past 10 years had leaked oil waiting at the light.  If we had a ruler the depth was probably measurable to a 2-3mm.  Still, none of us saw it.  How could we?  It was black ice.

Aside from plumping like a Ballpark Frank overnight, Don’s hand turned out okay.  He blamed the miserable first three holes on his crash, but still managed to stay within his handicap on the golf course the next day.

Summer Face

The neighbor's lillies already have flowers and stand at least a foot tall.  However, I think they cheated and went to the garden store over the weekend.  Tulips two doors down are a few inches taller than their faded mulch.  The red leaflets on our rosebushes grew an inch in the last for or five days.  I can tell already the 10 or so new rose bushes that line the back privacy fence will be spectacular this year.  My cyclist summer face is starting to come in too. 

Winter this year was tough.  It was a full winter, like the ones I remember in Wisconsin, from mid December to early March, schloppy, grey and biting cold.  I’ve lived here now for nearly 10 years and this has been the harshest winter yet.  Usually Cincinnati is blessed with a sprinkling of freak days that reach 50 and 60 degree temperatures in January and February to keep cyclists from slitting their wrists with a rusty spoke.  Not this year.  It was a winter where the time it took to get dressed and undressed for a ride took as long or longer than the amount if time you could survive on a ride.  Winter tested training creativity.  I found a mix of spin classes, frozen mountain bike trail riding, garage iPod trainer sessions, trail work, running, core work and a few winter hikes kept the scale from tipping in the direction that causes Biggest Loser contestants to point fingers when facing elimination.  However, I don’t think I lost more than a pound till daylight savings time and the 40-50-60 degree blanket settled over Cincinnati for good.

Yesterday a coworker commented, “You losing weight?  I can see your cheekbones.”  I’ve been waiting for that.  It felt good, like when my grandma in her shaky soft voice says, “Ooh Joseph you’re so skinny.”  Skinny for a family with its roots in the Milwaukee brewing business I guess.  One grandfather ran a tavern, the other worked at Pabst.   My other grandmother worked at Continental Can Company.  Check the beer cans in your collection for the CCC logo. 

I can see myself in the screen of the laptop right now.  I should take a Skype picture.  But, more than the way my cheekbones look, I like the way they feel.  Washing my face after shaving, I can feel the knuckles under my hollowing eyes.  The edge of my chin feels as edgy and rigid as the bottom of a mayonnaise jar.  Still round, but on it's way to chiseled.  My temples feel as if they were scooped with serving spoon.  Summer face.

On my new Kuota KOM I hung with the big-boy climbers on Dry Run and Kugler Mill last night, two 8-10 minute climbs.  102% of lactate threshold on the ticker-o-meter was sustainable.  It ticked to 105 when someone punched it on the last riser.  I recovered quickly.  Fitness is budding.  Along with the first races, the farmer tan is around the corner.  These are the real signs of spring.