Thanks to the government shutdown, I did much less bike commuting than usual in October. I rode to work only 11 times for a total of 338 miles. I rode The Mule on one commute and Little and Big Nellie on five commutes each. I did 581 miles of non-commute riding, mostly meanders that involved a stop for coffee. In the process, I finished the Coffeeneuring Challenge. (I am looking forward to this winter’s Eggnoggneuring event.) My longest ride was a 64 mile ride on Big Nellie. So for those of you who are additively challenged, I rode 919 miles during the month.
The biggest difference this month was that I rode Little Nellie, my Bike Friday New World Tourist, 266 miles, more than I have in several months. She came out of the bullpen when The Mule came down with an acute case of broken seat post binder bolt blues. Big Nellie carried me 443 miles. Before its seat post bolt snapped under the weight of its engine, The Mule took me 210 miles. And I finally replaced the saddle on The Mule. It had a broken adjuster bolt and was sagging like an ass hammock. I am sending it out for repair, which means that sometime in December I should have four Brooks leather saddles (three Flyers and a B67) for two bikes. One can never have too many leather saddles.
I have ridden 6,296 miles so far this year, including 148 bike commutes.
Just a few more days until daylight savings time so I am appreciating these sunrises on my bike commutes. I’ll get a few more around late December and early January. Every one is like a piece of the best chocolate you ever ate. Yum!
Brew: House roast with an orange cranberry walnut muffin
Miles: 3
Observation: Coffee was good. Muffin was sooo moist and sweet and flavorful that I am seriously considering moving to Warrenton or becoming a B&E Red Truck muffin man
It was cold and I was tired. I didn’t much feel like riding my bike to work. I did anyway, of course. After a couple of miles I warmed up and was pedaling easily along the river. When the sun came up, I looked across the Potomac River and saw this. I had to stop to take it in. The picture doesn’t do it justice.
Riding in the cold makes you tired. So tired, in fact, that I fell asleep during the World Series game. The score was nothing to nothing when all of a sudden some pretty intense stuff started happen. It was in my subconscious, not on the field in St, Louis, I heard a roar from the crowd. It was late in the game and the score was tied. I watched the rest of the game. (The Sawx lost. Boo.)
After the game, I went to bed and came to at 7 am. It was about ten degrees warmer outside than yesterday, perfect running weather for the Marine Corps Marathon. Not so much for riding the 10 miles to the race and standing on the sidelines. My friends Heather and Mary, both randonnistas, were running so freeze we must.
I took Little Nellie because it is the most maneuverable bike I own. I meant to ride slowly but a tailwind pushed me to Crystal City with little effort. The runners were already coming through the streets in the 23rd mile of the race. I stopped at Cosi for a coffee and a cookie. I sipped my joe and snarfed my cookie while hundreds of runners streamed past. Music was blaring. People were cheering. I checked my twitter feed. Mary had just past the 15 mile mark. I hopped on my bike and headed upstream.
Coffeethonning in Crystal City
I rode the Mount Vernon Trail two miles north. On the way I was passed by five BMWs, engines screaming, going perhaps twice the speed limit on the parkway next to me. I realize that not all BMW drivers are complete assholes but these five certainly were. What a great idea. Let’s drive 80 miles per hour into an area filled with distracted people milling about trying to spot their loved ones running a marathon with 30,000 other people. Brilliant.
After my ten seconds of LeMans, I ended up at the southern end of the 14th Street Bridge at about the 20.5 mile mark. The runners were thickly spread across all four lanes. Occasionally, handicapped participants would come through the pack. One man in a wheel chair of sorts was helping a blind man in a similar chair ride “run” beside him. It was astonishing to see the sighted runner holding the front of the unsighted runner’s chair. Scores of runners wore Boston Strong blue t-shirts. Go team. Some people shirts with identifying words on the front. “Go Mexico!” “Go Mariella!”
Somehow I spotted Heather in the throng. She was moving along at a respectable clip with a smooth gait but she looked a little stressed. She said she wasn’t having a good day as she went by. Hang tough, Heather. Watching for somebody in a moving mass of people for a half an hour is really not easy. Fortunately, Mary’s husband Ed had tweeted a picture of her from mile 15. I knew what she was wearing so I could key on that. After ten or 15 minutes there she was. She had an ear to ear smile on her face. Marathon? What marathon? She stopped to chat and admired the Acorn handlebar bag on Little Nellie. And then she was gone in the flow of humanity.
I jumped on the bike and headed for the 25 mile mark at a curving ramp coming downhill from Washington Boulevard. I cheered on the same people as on the bridge. Mexico and Mariella came running by. “GO!!” They smiled at me in recognition of my cheering on the bridge. The downhill was causing some runners distress in their thighs. They ran stiff legged and wobbly. Heather came by in a fast moving group. She looked much better than before. “Go Heather GO!”
After Heather went by I focused on finding Mary again. I started to worry after about 45 minutes. I decided to check my Twitter feed. She had finished 25 minutes earlier. Somehow I missed her. She must have blasted the end of the race. Mary, you da man. (Or something like that.)
With temperatures climbing near 60 degrees I thought about doing some sun tanning. Instead I peeled off my boots, long-fingered gloves, and neck gaiter, hopped on the bike, and headed for home.
It was cold. It was Friday. Warming up would require a bike ride and hot coffee. Fortunately, Friday Coffee Club was on the agenda. I rode Big Nellie to Swings and found that the cold had not stopped the fearless bike commuters of DC from attending. They, however, did move the proceedings inside for the first time since late winter. It was good to see Adam (a.k.a. Froggie) back on dry land after spending months at sea in his job as Tweeter First Class aboard the USS iPad. Kate, who had just completed the graveyard shift as an underpaid public servant, was also in attendance. She had ridden Kermit, the bike I would be most likely to steal but for its pink handlebar tape. Welcome back, you two.
Friday’s workday came and went. During the ride home I was going over a checklist of things to do in preparation for Saturday’s Great Pumpkin Ride in Warrenton VA. Thing number one was raise the seat on The Mule. This went really well until I tried to tightened the seat post bolt that would keep the seat where I done raised it to. The bolt wouldn’t tighten. I jumped in the car and drove to Spokes Etc. to get a replacement. It turns out the bicycle industry no longer uses this seat post retention system. Spokes didn’t have a bolt. I drove home and decided to ride Little Nellie, my Bike Friday New World Tourist instead.
Saturday morning was so cold that I didn’t bother to look at the thermometer. The drive to Warrenton involved a 15 mile detour caused by VDOT’s brilliant decision to close one of the exits on I-66. I lucked out and found a parking space only a couple of blocks from the start.
As I was getting ready to leave the car, the guy in the car next to me says, “Are you Rootchopper?” It turns out he is known online as Consularrider and he works in the building next to me in Rosslyn. Small world. After a brief chat, I took off to pick up my t-shirt and cue sheet. I decided to ride the 43 mile ride instead of the 71 miler. After doing the check in, I headed out for a brief tour of Warrenton. Old Town Warrenton is quaint and small, but I managed to get lost anyway. After about 3 miles or riding I pulled into Red Truck Bakery. I had a coffee and an orange cranberry walnut muffin. The coffee was okay but the muffin was mouthwatering. Readers of the blog may find this familiar since I had the very same thing last year. It is still the best damned muffin in the universe.
Little Nellie at Red Truck Bakery
After muffinpaloosa, I headed back to the start of the ride where I was hoping to find John Roche, creator of the Hoppy 100 bike rides. I learned from the check-in desk that John was long gone. Bob Cannon and his son Jeremy soon appeared and in short order the three of us were underway. Bob and Jeremy set a very brisk pace. After about five miles I slowed to my normal slog and took in the scenery. Last year the foliage was post peak; this year most of the trees were green. It didn’t much matter because this is the Virginia Piedmont, the kind of countryside you see in coffee table books: split rail fences, rolls of hay drying in the fields, Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance.
I reached the first rest stop. It was Cannon-less. It was also foodless so I topped off my water bottle. Before leaving, I raised my seat a couple of millimeters to get more extension out of my legs. The bolt didn’t break. Yay. Back on the road I was alone with swirling winds and rolling hills. The hills are just the right size to hill hop, zoom down one hill then use the momentum to ride all the way up the next.
The next stop was at the Elk Run Anglican Church. Oh. My. God. Cookies, brownies, hot pretzel sticks, nuts, M&Ms, and more. To wash it down they were serving hot apple cider. I hate cold apple cider, but this sweet, hot drink totally hit the spot. The Cannons were here. So was Consularrider. And John Roche. Chat ensued. I split off to talk to a guy with a faired Gold Rush, a lighter weight aluminum version of Big Nellie. I did my best not to drool on it.
By the time I rejoined the posse, Consularrider (who was doing the 71 mile ride) and the Cannons were gone. John Roche and I headed out as a duo. Before leaving the rest stop, I nearly flipped my bike over backwards when I caught the rear wheel in a roadside drainage ditch. A cop sitting in his nearby car had a good laugh. He said I wasn’t the only one.
John and I gave the ride an honest effort. We had a steady tailwind for what seemed like two or three miles (yay!) then it was in our face again (boo!). John’s better at hills so he would speed ahead on the rises and I would catch up a mile or two later. On one of the downhills, the Gold Rush went by us in a blur. Dang, that bike can fly.
Our next stop came at Poplar Springs, a vineyard up a windy hill from the main road. On the climb up, we caught and passed Gold Rush. Recumbents can’t climb for beans. As the famous cyclists Milton Friedman once said, “There ain’t no such thing as a free downhill.”
This rest stop had tables of food, hot cider, and pumpkin soup. It looked like many of the riders were preparing for an overnight stay. Nom. Nom.
As we were preparing to leave, my grad school roommate Paul and Amy, his significant other, appeared. They were doing the 23 mile ride. Given the food at this rest stop, I think they might have gained a pound for their efforts. They were last seen falling into a food coma near the pumpkin soup.
The Cannons blasted down the road and John and I made rather pathetic chase. We found out that Jeremy, a high school hockey player dressed in street clothes, was chasing down lycra-clad triathletes on their fancy carbon fiber bikes. I’d have loved to have seen the look on their faces when this kid in jeans got on their back wheels.
The Cannons were out of sight in no time. No worries. This stretch of the route had some honest to god foliage. Pedal, pedal. Pretty, pretty.
After passing a couple of women wearing capes, we rolled into the finish. There was more food! And massages. And antique bikes. We hung out in the hopes that the sun would warm us. No dice. We went our separate ways. Back at the car, Consullarrider was preparing to go out for another ride – to get his 100 miles in for the day. I would have joined him but I am sane and there was heat in the car!
On the way home, I visited several bike shops to find a new seat bolt. No luck. The Mule now sits at home looking sad, off in the corner of the shed, its seat pushed all the way down to the top of the frame. No worries. One of the shops is getting some bolts in this week. The Mule will ride again.
For pix of the ride (beware: Food porn ahead) check out my set on Flickr.
The Washington Area Bicycling Association (WABA) is a membership funded bicycle advocacy organization. They’ve been hard at work for over 40 years helping the DC area become a better place to ride a bike. This week they are holding a membership drive so I volunteered to help out at a sign up location on the Mount Vernon Trail near the 14th Street Bridge.
I arrived early and waited for the WABA staff person to show up with the sign up materials. It was warm and the sun was still shining. At around 5 o’clock I saw something that I have not noticed before. There was a torrent of bicycles streanming down the ramp from the bridge. This was especially surprising to me since I hadn’t seen many bike commuters in the morning. They were coming fast and all I could think of was how do you get them to stop?
After a few minutes, Lolly showed up. She is WABA’s membership coordinator. She had all the paperwork, clipboards, pens, and a gizmo on her smartphone for taking payments. And she had sidewalk chalk. After getting our bikes secured, she went up the ramp to write WABA and draw arrows on the trail. She is brave. And crazy. Meanwhile I decided that this membership gig called for some serious extroversion. Being a total introvert, I decided to put on an accent and bark like a hot dog vendor at a ballpark (Get your WABA memberships heah!) Cyclists just kept zooming past probably wondering what that lunatic on the side of the trail was yelling about. Many of them had ear buds in. I HATE earbuds. I thought, “This is going to be a long evening.”
I bike therefore I am Lolly
Then, as if by a miracle, a rider stopped. Lolly did her smartphone thing and I ran off with the chalk to write on the trail to the north and south. More ballpark vending ensued. This is TOTALLY not like me. I was really uncomfortable, but no guts, no glory. Another person stopped and another. One was a guy who had let his WABA membership lapse. He originally joined in 1973! He re-upped. Go team!
Mr. WABA 1973
Dana, a jovial and somewhat insane bike commuter and frequent attendee at cycling get-togethers like Friday Coffee Club and the Third Thursday happy hour, stopped and pitched in. His voice and enthusiasm project better than mine and he worked the trail like a man possessed. More and more people stopped to sign up. I kept barking out my pleas for members. “Sign up for WABA or I’ll kill my cat!” (Note: I don’t own a cat.) Dana handed out some chewing gum to us which helped immensely as I was starting to lose my voice.
Our numbers grew again when Larry showed up. He had walked over for the Columbia Island parking area on the opposite side of the George Washington Memorial Parkway. Unlike the rest of us, he looked like a grown up in normal office clothing. He started right in soliciting memberships. Somehow he managed to speak entire sentences to passing cyclists. Meanwhile, I was falling to my knees shamelessly begging for people to sign up. An old school DC lawyer once was overheard telling his protégé. “Never be afraid to make a fool of yourself for your client.” I took his advice to heart.
After a while Dana rode off. Thanks, for helping. We really couldn’t have done it with out you, sir. WABA owes you a tall latte and a fritter.
Occasionally, people would stop by to chat. An “old” (hey, he looked about my age but he self identified as old) man came by with a big yellow bucket sitting on the top tube of his bike. He had a fishing rod, broken into two parts like a pool cue, strapped to the top tube a well. The bottom of the inside of the bucket was covered with bait fish. He didn’t sign up but he talked a blue streak about fishing and his 1955 gas guzzling Chevy. I tried to be polite but the cyclists were still passing by and the sun was setting. What made it doubly stressful is that (a) I don’t know diddly about fishing and (b) I am an introvert (see above). After about five minutes, he rode off to land the big one.
In the process of the event, Darren Buck stopped by. We hadn’t met in the flesh before, but knew each other from various Internet dicussions. He will be working the same site on Thursday night with WABA’s Alex. Also Lane, one of the DC randos and a Friday Coffee Club regular, blew on by with a wave. And Bike House Chris, who was in the 2013 Hoppy 100 posse and an excellent two-bikes at once rider, came by to shoot the breeze.
Larry and Lolly at the End of the Day
We called it a night as the sun set. Lolly was a happy camper with a great big pile o’ memberships. Larry walked off into the sunset. Big Nellie and I rode off into the dark with my introversion restored.
It was the first cold bike commute of the year. 40 degrees is plenty cold enough for me. I was warmed up in a mile and the tailwind made the transition to true autumn weather a breeze (sorry). I stopped along the river to admire the sunrise. Reason number one to bike commute.
The ride home was warmer but the headwind was not a lot of fun. As I was climbing out from under the Woodrow Wilson Bridge I heard a SMASH. When I reached South Washington Street I saw the car with its front left side all smashed in. Reason number two to bike commute.
Tomorrow I will be helping the Washington Area Bicycling Association sign up new members on the Mount Vernon Trail at the 14th Street Bridge. Stop by, say hello, set a spell. And become a member. It’s like a cult only more better.
I’m tired. Just run down. I don’t feel good. This may be because I’ve been riding constantly thanks to Furloughmas and bike commuting and other adventures. So the irony of all my riding is that today is a perfect day to ride and I don’t much feel up to it. The Washington Post ran an article today about a guy who lives near my house and rides his bike to Rockville Maryland everyday for work. His commute is 70 miles round trip. As Groucho Marx once said to the husband of a woman who was averaging giving birth to more than one child a year: “I like my cigar but I take it out once in a while.”
For the record my commute is about 30 miles round trip. I am nowhere near as fit as the guy in the article. Then again, I actually have time to sleep.
So you’d think I’d take the day off the bicycle. Think again. I decided to go for a short ride to get some coffee and add to my coffeeneuring madness. So I hopped on Big Nellie and made my way ever so slowly to Old Town Alexandria. My left quadricep felt like lead. The was no elasticity to it for most of the trip. Twas a struggle (Twas?), nut I made it to Firehook Bakery on Union Street in the heart of OldTownLand. I didn’t have high expectations for the coffee but I was pleasantly surprised by the French roast that I had. I also consumed an Italiano sammich. Not half bad. I’ll have to remember this place for future refuelings.
Firehook Bakery
My quad came back to life for the ride home, but I wasn’t setting any speed records. I called it a day after 14 miles.
Coffeeneuring No. 9 (number 9, number 9, number 9):
Location: Firehook Bakery on Union Street in Old Town Alexandria (part of the Mount Vernon Trail)
Drink: French Roast
Miles: 14
Observation: For a town on the Mount Vernon Trail, the East Coast Greenway, the Adventure Cycling Association Atlantic Coast and Tidewater Potomac routes, Old Town Alexandria has crappy bike parking. Which is to say, it has next to no bike parking.
A Few Spokes Shy of a Wheel 