I dropped down the hill to meet Geriatric Jedi-in-training. The sunshine from Sunday had turned to overcast and chill. The wind beat helplessly against my insulated long-sleeve jersey but stung my legs and bare fingers.
G-Jit was doing circles in the Golden Cove parking lot to stay warm. We dropped onto PV Drive and headed towards the Switchbacks. The last time I’d ridden with him two years ago he’d been 55 years old and a solid 250 pounds. Today he was a touch under 200 and couldn’t wait to tell me about his new diet.
“Wanky, I know you’re really into diets have you ever heard of the Rocket Coffee Butterbomb Diet?”
I shook my head and stared straight ahead as he wobbled, weaved, dashed ahead, dropped behind, and drew even again.
“Yeah,” he said, “My son in-law has this new Rocket Coffee Butterbomb Diet that provides eight essential vitamins and oil and butter and flaxseed and kale baked into a lump with brown sugar and a pre-brewed intense coffee that you add hot water to, drop in the lump and that’s all you need until your next meal!” He rocketed about five feet ahead and veered out into the lane where he was almost picked off by a passing gardener’s truck.
I saw the headline in the Daily Breeze: “Peninsula Cyclists Hoisted on Lawnboy’s Petard.”
I still hadn’t moved an inch to the right or left and was doing my best to watch the pavement, where I’ve generally found all the action is in cycling, even more so than new diet-acne-male enhancement additives that go in your coffee.
“I think you’re gonna really like this stuff,” G-Jit said, “Even though most people don’t put butter in their coffee, it’s fine.”
As G-Jit dropped back and began to jerk ahead again I reached out and grabbed his jersey pocket. “Dude,” I growled in my best Fields. “Quit fuckin’ half-wheeling me.”
Back in the day
A long time ago, when I started riding with Fields, cycling wasn’t nearly as good as it is now. The equipment sucked, especially the tires. The only thing we had were sew-ups. No one called them tubulars. They were sew-ups, because when you flatted you would stuff them in your jersey pocket and the next day take them over to Cap’n Jack’s.
You’d knock on the door and let yourself in. It was always dark and smelled like rubber, more precisely, like old bicycle tire rubber mixed with freshly smoked herbal remedies. That’s because there were tires everywhere amidst the resiny haze. Hanging on the chairs. Laying on the kitchen counter. Draped on the bed. Coiled next to the toilet. Piled in huge mounds around the ancient Singer sewing machine with the foot pedal.
You’d stagger through the smoke trying not to inhale too deeply and give Cap’n Jack your tire, or tires if you had a few that needed fixing. Then you’d leave. Long after you’d forgotten about the tires you’d go into the bike shop where he worked and Cap’n Jack would say. “Hey! Tires!” and he’d hand you three or four or ten tires. In each one he’d found the leak, cut the thread on the casing, patched the tube, and SEWED THE CASING BACK UP. It was a sew-up.
It was also feast or famine, because his repair schedule went in phases of the moon, or the growing season, or something inscrutable like that. You’d be out of tires and doing some long-ass ride on bad roads with nothing more than a bad spare and a prayer that you wouldn’t flat, and then the next day you’d have so many repaired sew-ups that it would take a year to flat them all. If you were lucky they would even occasionally be some of the same tires you’d left with him.
Cycling back in the day sucked for other reasons. The bikes sucked. They were flexy and heavy and only had a few gears. You had to nail your cleats on the shoes and bind them onto the pedals with leather straps that blackened your toenails and caused them to rot and fall off. The pads in shorts were so thin that they’d scrunch up like toilet paper and chafe the hell out of the whole damned undercarriage.
But there was one thing we had back in the day that we don’t have anymore: We had rules about half-wheeling. Rather, we had a rule: Don’t you ever fucking half-wheel. Ever.
The torched lung teaches best
It was my first ride with Fields. He’d said we were going to “go easy.” I was all jumpy and excited and pumped to be riding with The Legend. As we rolled out past the airport in East Austin, I later realized, my front tire was an inch or so ahead of Fields’s. He pulled even. Unconsciously, I pulled ahead, ever so slightly. Half-wheeling. Fields pulled even, never saying a word, and waited to see if I did it again.
It was the last time I ever half-wheeled anybody.
Fields then moved his wheel a couple of inches ahead of mine. I pulled even, and he moved an inch ahead. Soon we were battering down the road, into the wind, as fast and as hard as we could. I was down on the drops gasping as I tried to keep even, but each time I pulled level he’d move ahead. Never going down on the drops, never letting his face show the agony, he finally rode away from me as I blew, spectacularly.
A minute or so later he eased up, a tiny speck. I caught up to him.
“You call that going easy?” I gasped.
“Don’t ever fucking half-wheel me again,” he said.
“Half-wheel? I never half-wheeled you!” I was pissed. In my tiny mind, “half-wheeling” meant what most idiots nowadays think it means: Putting your wheel halfway in front of the person you’re riding next to.
Fields looked at me. “You put your front wheel one millimeter in front of mine, it’s half-wheeling. Don’t fucking half-wheel.”
After a little reflection, I got it. And it was the best and most thorough lesson anyone ever gave me on a bike. That, and the corollary: When you teach “The Half-Wheeling Lesson” you have to crack the offender riding on the tops, poker-faced.
Reason to the rule
Half-wheeling is bad because it says “I’m faster than you,” which is always an invitation to throw down and wrecks any semblance of moderation, tempo, or steady pace. If you’re riding in a group, it also throws off the formation by causing the bikes behind to also be uneven.
G-Jit quickly got the message and tried to implement. What he learned is what everyone learns. Riding steadily and even-wheeled at the other guy’s pace takes a lot of concentration and skill. Undeterred, he focused.
As we entered Portuguese Bend the traffic got bad. “Let’s skinny up,” I said.
“Yeah,” said G-Jit, dropping behind.
I nudged the pace up slightly as we rolled through the Portuguese Bend Beach Club. “Hey!” yelled G-Jit. “Want me to get in front of you and pull?”
This is like someone saying “Hey, weakling, want to let a real man take over?”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s get through this narrow section and once we hit the Switchbacks you can take the reins.” I was steaming.
“Okay!” he said happily.
By the time we came up the bump by Trump National Golf Course I was out of the saddle, gradually upping the pace. We hit the bottom of the Switchbacks and I upped it some more. “Come on up when you feel like it!” I said cheerily. G-Jit just huffed and puffed and wheezed.
This was the best part of the ride. He was on the rivet and I was going to keep notching up the pace until he popped, no later than the first switchback. Unfortunately, things went downhill rather quickly.
Having gassed it too hard, a few pedal strokes later it was now I who was on the rivet. Pride wouldn’t let me slow down or pull over, and G-Jit was tucked neatly into my draft. There was a headwind. Oh, and I forgot to mention this detail: G-Jit had gotten faster than hell and stronger than three oxen in the last two years.
Behind me he sounded like Moby with a harpoon through his dick, but he wasn’t fading. I went from on the rivet to redline to deep purple. Now it was a contest of wills, and each pedalstroke he survived undermined me further and weakened my resolve. If it’s hell sitting on the wheel of someone faster than you, it’s an even worse hell towing someone who gives no sign of cracking.
We rounded the last turn and incredibly G-Jit was still there and fighting like Jack Dempsey. Dude had more guts and game at 57 than I had at 25, and he was still there.
I reached down into hell and kicked once again, downshifting to try and break him mentally. Sometimes, even when you go a touch slower, the vision of the chain clanking down onto the smaller cog is enough to crack the guy on your wheel. I was hoping it worked today, because my bag of tricks had been turned inside out and emptied of everything, including the lint and fingernail clippings.
Two hundred yards from the mailbox he popped and slid off the back. I crested the climb, shuddering in pain, my field of vision invaded by the alien giant black flying saucers that fill your eyes just prior to passing out. A big, slick, gooey spit bridge connected my chin and top tube.
G-Jit caught up to me, fully recovered just in time for me to get the goop wiped away. “Geez,” he said. “I’ve got a lot to learn.” He was riding bar-to-bar with me like a seasoned pro now, without so much as a wobble.
“Yeah,” I said.
And unuttered, I added to myself, “Me, too.”
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