I don’t even know how to fix a flat.
That initial thought upon gazing at the entry form on the deflated much of my zeal. Fanciful notions of savoring majestic mountain views from a cycle’s saddle had long enchanted me. Yet the doubt lingered. How in tarnation could I expect to survive 400-plus miles on one week along steep grades in The Highest State if I did not even know how to conquer ?
I tend to rid of most temptations by yielding to them. Just sign up, you twit, I muttered to myself. This case seemed somehow different – even grave. Perhaps blood. Ample sweat. Certainly tears.
I sought some answers.
By way of informal polls and inexplicit hearsay, I determined one thing: While the annual Ride the Rockies event, which charts in June, is indeed legendary, accounts of that legend indeed vary. I heard it all, from leisurely seven-day party to a veteran’s worst nightmare. Even if the former proved true, I knew there would be a series of personal hurdles to clear.
* Fear and I. Neither speed nor heights has ever appealed to me. Behind the steering wheel, I treat every zone like a school’s. I have been told that I don’t even think fast. And behind closed doors, I’d confess to a fickle acrophobia that is easily traced to the 87 icy steps it took to reach the inevitably hollow chocolate bunny at Grandma’s third-story apartment on Easter Sunday. Due to a few death-defying experiences in my callow years on those perilous ascents that would make George Mallory demur, anything beyond a ladder’s third rung gives me pause.
Ride the Rockies seems to involve a lot of speed and heights.
* Gear and I. If handymen were divided into political parties, I would carry a Know-Nothing card. I noted earlier that I do not know how to fix a flat tire. Truth is, I don’t know how to fix much of anything — except a run-on sentence or plate of macaroni and cheese. My toolbox is knuckle-deep, and I generally reach for it only when something unbroken needs fixing.
Ride the Rockies seems to involve a lot of tuning, truing and tooling.
* Mirror and I. An acute sense of self-awareness plagues me. The guy who wants to check out his reflection in the big windows of the bank to make sure his fly is zipped? That’s me, except I don’t take that peek in fear that you might peripherally mistake the episode for misguided egomania. Somehow, some way, I have to take the plunge into cycling shorts? I am not even comfortable in my own skin, much less Lycra.
Ride the Rockies seems to involve a lot of Lycra.
* Beer and I. I am a middling drummer for a rock-and-roll band in Denver by the name of . While not every musician in Haymaker is an expert at playing his instrument, the quintet has playing “rock star” down cold. Ice cold. In fact, we’re a “Behind the Music” episode in the making (” … but behind the scenes, there was turmoil …”) minus, of course, the skyrocket-to-stardom segment.
Ride the Rockies seems altogether inconsistent with proper rocking.
It was the epic struggle between the head and the heart. Thomas Jefferson in Paris. Elinor and Marianne Dashwood in “Sense And Sensibility.” Then me, in spades. This go-round, the heart prevailed, in hopes that it’ll pump enough adrenaline to see me through any aches, pains or flats along 405 Rocky Mountain miles in Colorado from Grand Junction to Breckenridge, June 19-25.
So, if you happen to catch sight of a fella biking the streets or parks in Denver who is looking to avoid sharp objects, precarious curbs or misleading reflections, that’s just me, a Ride the Rockies rookie in training. Whoops-a-daisy, is that last sentence a run-on? Maybe my editor can fix it.
DenverPost.com sports producer Bryan Boyle is training for the — his first bike ride of any kind beyond the occasional wee-hour visit to a convenience market. His series runs each Tuesday on DenverPost.com until the late-June event, where he will file daily reports along the route from Grand Junction to Breckenridge.
To share any RTR-related experiences, fears, advice or yarns, send an e-mail to Bryan at bboyle@denverpost.com.
