I had the day off this past Saturday--a rare luxury in the world of retail. I took advantage of the lovely morning by taking the lovely Nicole to West Hartford Center we we picked up her birthday gift (a lovely, fancy-schmancy longsleeve hiking shirt at REI). Sadly, Nicole did have to work that afternoon. My plan was to drop her off in Wethersfield, ride to the credit union so I could deposit my check, and then ride home by way of the Rocky Hill Ferry.
Ah, but the best laid plans of mice and men . . .
Well, it wasn't a complete disaster. Once I got to the credit union I realized I didn't have a pen to write out the deposit slip. Urg. I thought. This meant either buying a new pen or riding a mile and half up two steep hills to get back to the car its treasures trove within. A deep breath. A few thoughts in my head. I'll save the money and get the exercise, I figured.
After this unintended bonus warm-up ride, I rode through scenic Old Wethersfield, past the Town Green, past Spring Street pond and its cadre of Canadian Geese and onto Old Main Street in Rocky Hill.
The hills aren't so rocky anymore, courtesy of suburban development, but the hills are there. I crossed a bridge over an inlet to the Connecticut River and felt some fatigue as I reached my first post-bonus warm-up hill of the day.
Damn, I thought, I'm hungry. I hadn't eaten since breakfast and I didn't want to buy any food from the gas stations that I'd passed. (They are an interestingly freakish concept: processed corn for your car, processed corn for your food. All they need is processed corn in lieu of Tobacco and they've got a tri-fecta)! I guess I'll stop at Gardner's market once I cross the river, I thought.
These thoughts were interrupted--politely I must add) by a friendly cyclist. "On your left!" He alerted himself.
Damn. Painfull as it is to admit, it hurts my ego when someone passes me while riding a road bike. A road bike is lighter and faster than a touring bike, though they look quite similar at first glance. I was carrying a rear rack and panniers packed with a change of clothes. I was riding at six--count 'em six miles an hour. He had every right, even the duty, to pass me.
"How are you doing," he asked politely.
"Eh, I'm allright," I said, as he passed me. Though polite and collegiate, my warrior mind shifted into racing mode. I stayed pace tightly on his rear wheel as the top of the hill flattened out. It was only a year ago that Old Main street was my bicycle to and from work. Like a pro, I knew the course well.
Midway through the next incline, I attacked. My GPS showed me going a respectable 18 miles an hour as I powered of the grade. I could see that he was way to stretched out on his bike to ride that speed--too long a reach compromises ones ability to steer the bike at high speeds. My inner beast probably set a record for my touring bike and me across Old Main Street that day.
Arriving at the ferry landing was also much quicker than the days I rode to work last year. There was always sort of a Murphy's law going on when I was commuting. 9 times out of 10 I would have just missed the ferry as it chugged out to the Glastonbury side, hoping that I could make up for lost time on a 350 foot climb up Chestnut Hill.
Today was perfectly timed. The ferry was boarding just as I rode in. About half a dozen or so cyclists had the same idea as me and we all boarded together. The wind off the water made for a relaxing breeze as the ferry chugged us to South Glastonbury.
From there it was off to Gardner's market. I picked up some trail mix and pedaled to Hopwell Street. I stopped on the side of the road near to re-nourish but felt awkward eating in such a manner. I better get used it. Instead I convinced myself that half a bag of trail mix would be sufficient. I mounted the bike and soldiered on, up a 350 foot climb towards home.
On the way I saw a swimming pool near Cotton Hollow Preserve. I looked at my panniers, knowing that within a month I'll always have a bathing suit and towel for such an occasion.
The half-bag of trail mix was barely enough to get me back, though. I could ride up the hills, but I found myself coasting down instead of pedaling hard, as I usually. I'd spend a lot more fuel than I should have chasing down that cyclist in Rocky Hill.
Lesson learned: half bag ain't gonna do it next time. And try not to race anybody on a road bike.
~KM
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