The number commonly quoted is 10,000 miles for comfort in riding. "The first 100 suck, the first 1,000 are pretty awful, by about 2-3,000 you start having moments where it comes together, by about 5,000 you start relaxing, and about 8-10,000 it really starts coming together," according to Nick. His father told this to him, now he's telling me.
Today I rode 71.9 miles. So I'm up to 171.9! And I can vouch for it, the first 100 miles really do suck. The second 100...not as bad, but still not my idea of freedom. But hey! I got out and I did it, and I'm closer to comfortable.
We rode up 805 to the mighty 5, a 6-lane 80+ mph freeway. The weirdest thing was trying to gauge my speed by the cars around me. I just couldn't do it. I'd think I was moving at a good clip and notice that cars were passing me on both sides. Look down and realize I'm going 65. Which is the speed limit, but obviously the freeway was faster this morning. So I'd try to pick it up and match the cars with me, but I swear I couldn't. It wasn't an issue of the bike's strength. In a car you don't really have any idea of how fast 70, 80, 90 miles per hour really is. Once you get out of that metal cage and onto a bike, though, the reality of speed hits you full in the face. And chest, and arms, and thighs, and calves. Nick and I wear full gear, so we both have on boots, jeans, leather jackets, full gloves, and full-face helmets. In spite of our gear, travelling at high speeds is very noticable. Call it nerves, call it trepidation, call it simple wimpiness--I didn't want to go 80 mph. Nick says I'll get over that.
The reality of speed is the most overwhelming part of riding. I've driven a stick shift for 20 years so that part isn't that difficult, but the fact that I am hurtling through space is always at the forefront of my mind. I feel the wind. I feel the temperature change when I drive into the shadow of the side of a hill or drop into a canyon. I smell the fruit trees alongside the road, or the exhaust of the car in front of me. Moving my arm against the push of the wind becomes an experience in tendon and sinew. The world is at once bigger, and more immediate. Being on a bike is like I'm more fully in the world. Cars separate you from the experience of travel, but on a bike you're a part of it.
We turned off at Encinitas and came back down Pacific Coast Highway. PCH is a legendary road and a peaceful, beautiful ride. The ocean peeks through regularly--it's at most 2 or 3 blocks west. The shops are small and privately owned. The pedestrians carry surfboards and beach bags. Other riders nod or drop their hands in acknowledgement. It's communal, but challenging enough to learn. I had a couple of times when I couldn't seem to start--more clutch! Try first gear, it works better! But beyond that I was doing okay.
When we got home, though, I was done. Thankfully I didn't do it on the bike, but once I walked in the front door I crashed and burned. Hit the bath to warm up and fell asleep in the bath, got out and climbed into bed and napped for 2 hours. Physically I feel like I've been beaten with a 2x4. Nick says that happens with your first rides. Your body isn't accustomed to fighting the wind, and you're tense and tight anyway. Hopefully I'll learn to relax, and the next ride won't wear me out as much! But it was a good 70 mile ride, anyway. I felt good. I was tired on the way home, but I feel like Lucia and I got to know each other a bit more today.
No comments:
Post a Comment