The various components of my new cycling wardrobe were spread on the bed in the same tidy fashion as was my First Communion ensemble. And much like the trappings that surrounded my initial celebration of the Eucharist — liturgical vestments, Stations of the Cross, Latin echoes and the like — this new line of apparel struck in me the fear of God.
Endurance Tee in winter blue: $20.
Mojave bike gloves in dark stone: $25.
Echelon shorts in black: $65.
Morphis bike jacket in yellow: $90.
Ditching the cotton, donning the Lycra and darting to the garage for your bike without the neighbors taking a gander?
Poise-less.
I had not adorned this much polyester since a certain mid-’90s ’70s party. And as I emerged from the garage, I was consumed by the same thought Batman must’ve considered when first leaving his cave: Is anybody gonna take me seriously in this get-up?
Only after I furtively pedaled past a high-school recess without an audible snicker or cry of “Imposter!” did I dare consider that I might actually be pulling off the look — the that-guy-must-be-a-doggone-serious-cyclist-cuz-just-check-out-all-that-gear look.
Roughly halfway along my longest and hilliest ride yet of 65 miles, I realized there’s more to all these stretch fabrics than meets the eye for fashion. This stuff really works.
How I marveled as the chamois pad of my shorts delivered breathable, seamless and multi-density cushioning. How I relished my jersey’s patented, moisture-wicking, bi-component construction as it drew moisture from my torso. How I delighted in wiping the perspiration from the bridge of my nose with the terrycloth-reinforced thumbs of my gloves. And how I entreated the sun to bronze my forearms by deftly converting a jacket to a vest while a pair of curious onlookers, albeit squirrels, gazed in awe.
A mile or two later, I wished that I’d converted to Clarino® and Polartec® much sooner. Another mile or two, I wished that I’d bothered to eat.
Bonk!!!
I had heard the term bandied about neighborhood bike shops, yet I paid “bonking” little credence. That is, until I found myself after too many hills and wrong turns at a branch of Farm Crest Milk Stores, wanting noting more than to curl around the base of the payphone and meet my maker.
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HACK’S BACK OUT OF WHACK
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Despite all the slick duds, despite a bike expertly tuned and newly outfitted with bar-ends and a rear-rack pack by the affable service manager at bike shop, and despite the indomitable will to one day see my wife again, I bonked on the corner of Belleview Avenue and Simms Street in Littleton, Colo. It was a pathetic sight. I think somebody actually tossed a quarter in the rear zip pocket of my jersey’s drop-tail hem, although I’ve since been told that short-term memory loss might be a bonking symptom.
For the faction of my half-dozen readers that isn’t entirely familiar with the concept of bonking, I liken the cyclist who has bonked — and try to stay with me here; this is a real stretch — to the lawn mower that runs out of gas. You can tug the chain. You can fiddle with the tires. It might even spit and cough. It ain’t going anywhere, however, without fuel — which, for the cyclist, is blood sugar.
I’m no doc, but allow me to refer one for a much better explanation. Check out and how it relates to cyclists. Seems to me, the best preventative measures are: eat, drink and be wary.
* Eat: I was even packing eats when I bonked. A and two were on my person, and I treated their call like the Sirens’. You don’t necessarily need concentrated carbohydrates either, according to Mirkin, who says, “It doesn’t matter what you eat: salted peanuts, a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, chicken, an apple, a banana or anything else. Almost all fit people can take small amounts of food frequently during exercise without developing stomach cramps.”
* Drink: Ride The Rockies tour director Paul Balaguer wrote a wonderful piece with levity and laymen’s terms about nutrition, which appears on the RTR website. Balaguer wraps up his advice on by lifting any water restrictions: “Remember, you have to eat long before you’re famished to keep from bonking. Also, always carry a water bottle and be sure to drink enough water that you never let yourself get thirsty.”
* Be wary: I’m learning to be on guard for receiving the body’s subtle messages. I should have seen my first bonk coming. Actually, I did see it. Mouth-watering visions of French fries, fettuccine Alfredo and the Garden of Eden’s sugarplum patch danced in my ASTM-certified helmet for miles before I bonked. Yet I dismissed the thoughts as the product of too much late-night TV with the Food Network’s , not as a precursor to bonking.
Let my cycling duds and bonking thuds be a lesson to any of you fellow Ride The Rockies rookies out yonder. It’s like Momma always said: “Appearances can be deceiving. … It’s what’s inside that counts.”
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.
