This last long weekend was a blast. Two bike rides, one surf n’ turf meal (lobster and steak), one late evening concert in Tacoma (Lost Dogs, Michael Knott, Five O'clock People), one Memorial Day cookout complete with sauted mushrooms, whole onions, and plenty of asparagus.

Mmm... food, music, cycling. My kinda weekend.

The long bike ride on Saturday was my favorite thing, though. I outlasted two barking dogs, saw a few new roads, and set a new personal best for distance in a day: 43 miles.

It looks like doing the Tour de Whatcom isn’t so far-fetched, after all. Could the Mount Baker Hill Climb be far behind? (Answer: Yes.)

Today was the first major (to me) ride of the season. I even pumped up the tires on the fancy-pants road bike and donned the silly bicycle gear.

Using Google Maps as a basis, I went about 24 miles. I only gotta do 8 of those in a 2-day stretch to reach my summer goal.

So as long as the weather plays nice, I’m back, baby.

I’ve interrupted my self-imposed, unintentional blogging hiatus to re-bring you what you really should not have been missing:

A return to “what I did yesterday.”

So, let’s see... by the time you read this, it’ll be not today, so my ‘yesterday’ is right now.

Today... er, yesterday... I got tossed about on the waves at work and left not feeling like I accomplished anything. As a pick-me-up, I left a few minutes early to get some time in on my fancy bicycle before the sun went down.

I always feel better after riding. If I don’t ride for awhile, I start to miss it. My knees and legs start to ache from inactivity, and I start going a little stir crazy. As I'm in my car or walking down the street, I wistfully watch other cyclist pass me, wishing I could be where they are.

When the exception of the “ache from inactivity,” I used to have the same reaction to a lack of TV and corn chips. Used to.

After I got home from the ride, and while I’m feeling all full of myself, a friend stops by and suggests that I need to date more.

Talk about a buzz killer.

Ladies and Gentlemen (and Todd),

I’m proud to introduce you to the newest member of my personal bike fleet:

2006 Specialized Roubaix Elite

This Roubaix, classified as an endurance road bike, has a carbon fiber frame (I could throw it like a baseball), fancy Shimano components, and a sale price. A fool and his money are quick to buy a bike.

I’m not exactly sure how to express how cool I think this is. It just is. Because.

Because I’ve been thinking about buying a new road bike for the past 2 years. Because the mountain bike just isn’t doing it for me on my 20-mile evening rides. Because I have never in my life owned a new vehicle of any kind (my GT and my Rockhopper are pre-owned and were $75 and free, respectively; the motorized cars have all been used).

Buying the bicycle was a bit of trip itself.

My pastor/friend Bob knew I was interested in buying a bicycle, and he suggested a time (Saturday morning) and a place to check out a few models. And with my house sale finally complete, I was a little more free to spend.

I met Bob at his house and we rode over to the first bike shop. While Bob got his handlebar replaced on his new bike, the salesdude introduced me to a few Treks. He didn’t take any off the rack or suggest that I ride any, and I may have scared him a bit with my comparatively small budget (in my view, my budget was pretty darn big, thankyouverymuch). I didn’t have a strong attraction towards any of those bikes; Bob and I headed on to the next shop.

We walked in to Fairhaven Bike and Mountain Sports and Bob found the guy who sold Bob his new bike the day before. Erich was very clear on what was available, gave me a few ideas on which models were good for what, sized me up, and gave me a bike to test drive.

See, the thing is, I’ve never really ridden a road bike before. It was different (everyone said it would be), but not so weird (riding a bike is still just riding a bike). I could do this. In fact, I did do it.

But not immediately. I didn’t want to jump in head first--I thought that would be impulsive and imprudent. No, instead Bob and I left to grab a burger and a milkshake, just to mull things over. And because milkshakes are yummy. We got to talking about the bicycle, the church in Whatcom County, the spiritual significance of milkshakes, East Coast/Left Coast differences... a little bit of everything. We finished the lunch and Bob asked, “So you wanna go back to the bike shop and...” “Yes.” I interrupted, to Bob’s amusement.

We went back to the bike shop, and I told the guy, “I want the bike. But all I have is $6 in my pocket.” I was on my bike, and when I go out on my bike, I only take my ID and a few bucks. He said, “That’s good enough for me.”

$6 down, and a promise to come back later. That’s a sweet thing. I bought the first bike I rode, and it was over my budget. Not so sweet. Except that the bike really is "all that."

I came back later in the day to pick up the bike and pay the balance. Because of the sale, I got enough store credit to pay for pedals and shoes (which’ll happen this week or next).

Since Saturday was a busy day, I had to wait until Sunday morning before church to get in the inaugural ride. The morning was grey but not wet, and I took a route that led me in to and back out of the fog. The bike handled wonderfully, but the rider had issues getting comfortable.

In a moment of coolness, though, I climbed a hill on Smith Rd and caught up to a dude on a Trek mountain bike. I’m sure he was thinking two things: “How in the world did this fat guy catch me?”; and, “Man, that’s a cool bike.” I was thinking, “Why did it take me so long to catch this old guy on a mountain bike”; and, “Man, this is a cool bike.”

I honestly couldn’t tell too much of a difference in my climbing and/or my overall sense of ability riding this road bike versus my other bikes, except when climbing the final incline to my house. I wasn’t nearly as wasted after the climbing was over, and the climb itself didn’t seem as difficult. So that’s new.

All in all, I’m still very happy with the bicycle. Probably because I’ve only ridden it once. And with rain in the forecast, the bike will likely stay in the living room where it belongs (the garage is for dirty bikes... this is a clean bike). And I can't wait to give it another go.

Bicycle commuting can be challenging. Take yesterday, for example.

In the summer, I aim to commute to work via bicycle as much or more than I do via automobile. Since I produce a more than healthy amount of perspiration in this endeavor, I like to take a shower and change clothes once I get to work. Luckily for me, then, there is a shower stall at work.
 
Monday as I’m getting dressed, I discovered that I forgot to pack pants in my pack, and I ended up wearing my exercise shorts until noon when I went home and changed. My boss even said, “I thought you seemed a little more casual than normal.”

This certainly isn’t as bad as the day I forgot my shirt, since I discovered that in time for my roommate to bring me a clean one. But I’m not so sure if this is better or worse than the day I forgot underwear. It happened months ago, and I didn’t say anything at the time. And, fortunately for all of us, no one seemed to notice.

These things... they happen.

I woke up early Sunday morning for no apparent reason other than going to bed early (on a Saturday!). Since there was plenty of time before the morning church service to get in a decent ride, I decided before I got out of bed to tackle Yew St and redeem myself.

But I upped the ante. Climbing the hill would undo my personal embarrassment, but doing a little more would return myself to good graces with, um... myself. I choose a route that intersected the very bottom of the hill (on Woburn, between Iowa St and Lakeway (previous attempts always began at Lakeway)) and biked from there to the top.

Limped is more like it.

Midway up I purposely slowed my pace so I could breathe a little easier and keep my legs from buckling. And to stop my heart from exploding, which seemed imminent. Any reasonably ambulatory person could have walked most of it faster than I pedaled. But I did do it, and that was the point.

My prideful side likes to remind me that not everyone could do it. My cynical side reminds me that not everyone is stupid enough in the first place. My back side just hurts.

(Maps that show roads' elevation gains in and around Bellingham can be found here.)

Yesterday, as in, um... yesterday. Friday. Some might be able to make a case for my being a weenie at other times, but I’m not talking about those times. I’m talking about a very specific moment Friday evening.

Friday is supposed to be a party day, or so I hear from partiers. Sure, I’ve had a frothy pint or two after work on some Fridays... I’ll even admit to using them to wash down a Reuben sandwich. But not this day (that is, Yesterday). To celebrate the survival of this particular work week, I hopped on ye ol’ bicycle for a ‘quick’ 15-ish mile road ride.

So you know, this is me NOT being a weenie. Can you do 15 miles? At once? No water break? In the snow? On one wheel? Of course, the answer for half of you (total readership up to 6!) is ‘durrrr.’ The point is, this wasn’t a lazy Sunday afternoon bicycle ride on the boardwalk. I biked up Dewey to Mt. Baker Hwy, continued on up Britton Road, and then back towards home.

If you know the area, you’re now saying, “dude... those are lame hills. Why, back when I did the Death Ride...” blah, blah, blah, “... 10,000 vertical feet ...” blah, blah, blah...

If it isn’t obvious, let me make it so: I’m still not “the best weight for my height.” No hill is still “too easy” even though I’ve been riding now for a few summers. It’s a successful climb if I make it to the top without gasping for air like a concrete-shoe-wearing mob informant.

Anyhow... back to me not being a weenie. Right, I remember:

And then I became a weenie.

As I approached the corner of Lakeway Drive and Yew Street, I thought about Yew St hill and the countless times (ok, 6) I’ve climbed it on my bicycle. To me, the hill is massive (500-ish ft from Lakeway), and I’m just not used to it. Each time before, it was painful. Each time took forever. Each time involved me wondering aloud about what I had gotten myself into (my grammar suffers when I climb, too). But each time after it was over I was glad that I did it; each time I had enough gas to get to the top and cruise down the other side; each time I knew that I’m tougher than the hill.

I thought about the serious, brutal, personal, uncomfortable, panting, light-headed, sweat-inducing 10-to-15 minutes of pain and decided that, since I’ve done this before, I could easily do it again. Some other day.

That’s when I became the weenie. At about 6:30 Friday night.

Two words: 1. We. 2. Knee.

When faced with a challenge, I’d like to think that I always confront it straight on and accomplish it. Vanquish all foes. Eliminate intruders. Eat the whole pizza. Other times I shy away like, if you pardon the Seinfeld reference (used here in a completely wholesome and G-rated context), a frightened turtle. These shy-away times usually leave me with a bad taste in my mouth. I regret ‘em, and I tend to hold a grudge against myself because of it. (You’d think I might be mature enough to get beyond this, but that’s fodder for another post.)

It’s the problem of seeing something you know you can do, something maybe you should do, something you either haven’t done or are afraid to fail at, but you are just too scared, too timid, or too (dare I say) weenie to go through with it. There are too many other things in my life that require me to put my head down and follow through that I can’t be letting this weenie-ness control me during my leisure time, too. It’s a hard habit to unlearn, but I’m working at it. And with all the bad tastes, my toothpaste bill has been astronomical.
 
Next time, I won’t let myself off so easy. That hill is mine. I ownzor that hill. Yew Street, you are now MY STREET.

So if you see me out there, climbing that stupid hill, just know that I’m not being a weenie anymore. I’m not letting fear or pain or whatever so-called demon it is that’s keeping me from ascending that (stupid) hill and triumphing like the hill-climbing, triumphing, non-weenie bicycling stud that I am.

And toss me some water, for goodness sake. It’s a long way up.