Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Of Bells, Balloons and the Cyclocomputer from Hell

Ah, the great outdoors: where one goes to decompress, contemplate life’s grandest mysteries and commune with nature. How baroque of a notion. This is the 21st century, and we haven’t the time for such banal and unquantifiable endeavors. Long gone are the days of hiking for hiking’s sake, venturing out of wireless range without feeling hopelessly isolated or taking a single step or peddle stroke without having the latest Bluetooth-enabled device track it and – using the most advanced algorithms – seamlessly compare our achievements with those of a thousand or so of our closest cyber-friends, a concept which is tragic in its own rite.

How did it come to this? Is the jettisoning of any semblance of individuality and introspection yet another sign of a degenerate culture, or am I just acutely aware of it by residing in Colorado, a state which collectively seems to have its head jammed farther up its ass than most….and definitely more than its shit-kicking neighbor to the north, which has managed to cling to vestiges of the real west, while Denverites, Boulderites and other Front-Range Gomorrahites have long ago traded in their horses and pick-ups for electric-powered tax write-offs, I mean vehicles.

I should have seen it coming. Actually, in retrospect, I did. Nearly two decades ago, as a doe-eyed 30-something (I matured slowly) I began to recognize that many peers had an entirely different approach toward recreation and time spent in the wilderness than did I. Certainly, I too, had a competitive streak and liked to test my endurance, but seldom did that take precedent over absorbing the wonderment of the high country or snapping a few shots with the cinder-blocked sized camera that was constantly draped across my torso.

One event – or nonevent as it turned out – proved especially telling. Upon learning that it was possible to rent a sailboat on a lake buttressing the Continental Divide, I attempted to rally friends to spend a relaxing afternoon chasing the wind. Rather than being met with the overwhelming enthusiasm that I had expected, I was greeted with hemming, hawing and gripes that being stuck on a boat all day would preclude them from getting in their requisite cardio workout.

What assholes. These were the same fools who on hikes through pristine valleys would sneer any time I began to unsheathe my camera to capture a slice of God’s creation for posterity’s sake. “Come on, dude, not now. I’m in my zone. I need to keep my heart rate above 80% of max (whatever the fuck that means) for the next 20 minutes.” I’m pretty sure these self-absorbed twits would look upon rescuing a troop of girl scouts who had fallen into a snake-filled ravine as an inconvenience to be avoided if at all possible. Baby elk? Who has time? Soaring golden eagle? Whatever. Double rainbow? I’ll download one later off Instagram. Hippy girls bathing buck-naked in a mountain stream? Focus, man. Cannot get distracted. I, for one, proudly get distracted – especially in the latter scenario.

Fast forward 20 years and it pains to me report that I can be counted among the legions of assholes. This realization came to me while sitting atop a featherweight carbon-fiber bike frame that I had to auction a kidney online to afford. Anything in the name of meeting the hallowed objective of shaving weight. Not only – thanks to this transaction – do I possess a bike that weighs slightly more than a first-generation Walkman, but I am also spared the annoying extra ounces of having to cart around that superfluous organ. Yet another benefit, along with avoiding leaving bars at closing time with roadkill, of being a teetotaler.

Measuring every aspect of the machine’s (the bike’s) and the organism’s (my) performance is enough telemetry to have sent an earlier version of the space shuttle into orbit. That was, of course, when the U.S. was still in the business of propelling vehicles beyond the surly bonds of Earth, and well before we stooped to outsourcing the task to those thieving Russian bastards. At least they are skilled at ballistics. After all, it takes tremendous precision to bring down a passenger jet with a truck-mounted rocket, and last year, the Kremlin’s Neanderthal lackies in eastern Ukraine did just that with barely a whimper, much less recriminations, from the eunuch international community. But I digress.

In my defense, I did not set out to become a rigid, sullen and obsessive cyclist. But what are the alternatives in this state? Trail running equals rattlesnakes. The rivers are jammed with Audi-driving doctors amateurishly slinging fly line, and the most popular contemporary activity – sitting on one’s porch getting baked with a legalized strain of weed so potent that it could tranquilize a moose – has never been my thing. So cycling it is. But the allure is understandable, especially for anyone who as a child was overcome with the sense of freedom and adventure when his father first let loose of the bike’s seat, sending him, every so wobbly, down the driveway and toward independence, until the curb or mailbox aborted that maiden voyage. As with many endeavors, however, there is a slippery slope between enthusiast and militant. Safe to say that planning one’s holiday based on proximity to famed hill climbs, steering every conversation toward favored components, watching Tour de France stages from the 1980s on YouTube and cancelling dates when they interfere with interval training all place one in the militant camp.  Not a good place to be.

Don’t get me wrong, Wellness is important. Discipline is admirable, as are goals. But as we should have learned as children – unless raised by wolves – moderation is key.  Intense exercise to the exclusion of all else is no better than spending one’s evenings nursing a crack pipe or cultivating an appreciation of the grace and subtlety of Internet pornography. And triathletes? They’re no better that Nazis. Talk about transforming what should be a majestic and cathartic experience into a cold, industrialized process. Compare that to cycling in isolation. Countering an attack on sun-bleached 11% grade high above the Austrian timberline? That’s passion. Icily counting ones time splits, caloric intake, watts generated and heart rate is nothing more than a Mengelesque experiment carried out at 25 mph.

My demise started with that damn computer. When still in my “enthusiast” stage, it seemed overkill to utilize a GPS-enabled multi-function cycling computer. The goal was to immerse oneself in nature, not stare at data streaming across a postage-stamp sized screen. What I didn’t need was to know my cadence, power, rate of ascent or maximum speed….well maybe the latter. What I did need, however, was to see the damn screen. And truth be told, when in the market for a new computer, only the NASA-designed, dual-processor unit had font large enough for a set of eyes well into its fifth decade to read. The unit also included other features that I surmised would be somewhat useful. One of which was a heart monitor, given that that organ, too, has seen the better part of a half century. Cannot be too careful at this age. I love cycling. Just not enough to have my ticker give out on a spirited climb. Should I meet my maker in such a manner, I’d highly prefer to pull a Nelson Rockefeller and go out in the fervent embrace of a deliciously attractive lass multiple decades my junior.

It did not take long to become obsessive about monitoring my heart rate and cadence. Other features of the computer were not as welcome. After settling in on a recent climb, one such feature revealed itself. Glancing at the computer, I was not greeted with the metrics I had programmed, but instead with the notification that I had just entered a virtual race course. Since fumbling with the touch screen is never a wise idea when zipping across the tarmac at 20-plus miles per hour, I let it be, assuming that eventually the original screen would appear. It didn’t. Worse, after beeping rather offensively to ensure it had my attention, the computer announced that my virtual opponent was pulling away from me. I ignored it. After another few minutes, the entire screen was filled with the unambiguous message: GO!! (with two exclamation points).

How do I turn this damn function off?
Is that all you got?
Don’t look at the computer, check out scenery.
Virtual opponent is kicking your ass.
I’m ignoring you.
Don’t get your skirt caught in the chain…..you pussy.
Fuck you, Mr. bike computer!
How much did you pay for this bike? That shop saw you coming, didn’t it?
Listen, you glorified speedometer, I’ll gladly hurl you into the river rushing alongside the road and you can spend the rest of eternity, or until you corrode into indiscernible bits, being a target for trout shit! How would you like that!!!

After having counted to ten – well, 50 – I calmed down and imagined that this high-volume and high-speed exchange was the exact outcome that an inert and leviathan computer programmer had hoped for when conjuring up something so malicious as a virtual opponent.
This was not the first time I had pondered throwing an inanimate object into a large body of water.  Many moons ago, when residing in Central Europe, I was on a training ride on a narrow path next to what was undoubtedly a frighteningly polluted river. The objective of the day was cadence and speed, and I would not be denied. Then I heard it: even from a hundred meters away, the unmistakable sound of a rusty drivetrain. This was the calling card of the nemesis of any speed merchant burning up the pavement.

How am I going to get around this bastard? Shit, I might slip out of my zone. Then I came around the bend and saw him – well them. It was worse – and slower – than I had thought. A block of a man, with a magnificently bulbous belly that had assuredly taken years of diligently consuming lager and hog fat to shape. On his communist-era steel frame he had engineered cages to hold not one, but two, bottles of such beverages. Next to him, on a pink bike with training wheels – which ensured there would be no easy passage – was his daughter. To complete the nightmare, she had a pink kitten-shaped bell, which she happily and incessantly rung. Tethered to her seat post was a celebratory balloon. Clearly they were out giving the new birthday present a test ride.

Damn them, I grimaced. What occurred next seared my soul and provided incontrovertible proof of how warped my perspective had become. Father and daughter exchanged a glance. As she look up at him, I could tell he was overcome with more elation than I thought humanly possible.


There, on that path, next to that toxic river, he was reaching emotional heights that I wouldn’t even have felt had I crossed under the flamme rouge on sweltering July afternoon in southern France with a five-minute lead over a pack of doped-up Spaniards. He won. I lost. Beer belly and all. I dismounted, exhaled, looked at the flowing brown water – which was likely delivering a few mob corpses to the depths of the Black Sea – and without thought, I lifted my feather-light bike above my head. Then I paused. Remembering that there was a fantastically steep climb out of the river valley not far away, I reset the computer, clicked in my pedals and rolled on.