A Little Color on Our Legs

Sky over Peter Muschal School, Bordentown

30 January 2018

There's definitely something very wrong with my left calf. I don't have full range of motion. I can tell that I'm limping, even if nobody else can. I think it's starting to look bruised. I'm going on Tom's bike ride anyway. If my leg hurts I'll turn around.

Chris is in the parking lot, of course. The school is only a mile and a half from his house. Pete and Bob are there, and Jack H, who we rarely see in the winter. 

Jack is wrapping duct tape around his tire and rim. He heard the rear tire blow on his drive over, and when he got to Bordentown he found a slice in the sidewall. Not having a spare with him, he has layered on a couple of patches and shored up the outside with tape.

Now it's a question of which will quit first: my leg or his patch.

We start off cold, moving south, the wind sometimes in our faces. The temperature is climbing quickly. When we get to the closed bridge in Smithville I switch from balaclava to hat and peel off my glove liners. 

32 miles in we stop at a Wawa in Southampton. My leg feels fine. Jack's tape is holding. 

I ask Tom to take a picture of me and Chris. We're sporting very loud tights today. Mine, pink and purple stars, are from Running Funky. Chris grapples for the name of the company that made his blue lightning stripes and tries to convince me to check them out.

"I don't really need any more leggings right now," I tell him. 

"That's not the point!"  He's right, of course.

In all the years I've been with the Free Wheelers, I can't think of anyone besides me and Chris who regularly ventures too far away from basic black. Tom has one pair of multi-color leggings that he hardly wears; that counts for something. My collection of four pales, so to speak, in comparison to what Chris has. Somebody has to lead the charge. I suppose he could talk me into another pair or two if the price is right.

We get a little help from the tailwind on our way home. Chris mocks me for having suggested my injury might hold me back. "I said I was injured," I correct him. "I didn't say I was in pain. Besides, I haven't been on a bike since Tuesday. My legs are super fresh!"

Truth be told, I'm sure I'm not up to full strength, but neither is anyone else. It's friggin' January, people.

When we get back to the school, Bob changes into shorts to go for a run. "I'm jealous," I tell him, first because he can run, second because he's got the energy to do it after 52 miles of biking.

My leg feels fine, even if my stride is stilted. Jack's duct tape has worn off the center of his tire but the rest has held. He peels off the tape to reveal the patched bulge underneath.

This is what a month of shitty weather and an exercise addiction will do to people.

I look up at the sky over the school again. Clouds are creeping in. Tomorrow will be rainy.

It's when I step out of the shower that I really notice the bruise coming up. It looks worse than it feels.

I sleep in on Sunday and spend the day with Moose on a trek to local wine shops and running errands. Late in the afternoon I hop on Gonzo, outfitted for the fluid trainer, for a mellow recovery ride. Again my calf feels fine on the bike. The bruise has spread to my inner ankle.

Monday is a rest day but I'm on my feet all day at work. My slightly stilted gait has made both of my legs tired. Through the evening and in bed at night my calf cramps strangely, as if the muscle is being squeezed. The bruise at my ankle deepens.

I have a little fun with it on Facebook, where people who have done the same or worse to themselves come out of the woodwork. One of my colleagues ripped his calf last year. He was laid up for weeks. We compare bruise and cramp experiences. I'm clearly better off than he was. We agree that it's going to be a long time before it'll be safe for me to run or hike. I'm okay with that. As long as I can pedal, I can wait.

Revenge of the Leg Work

Stony Brook Crossing Stony Brook Road Near Route 418

24 January 2018

As we cross Route 206 on our way to Twin Pines I tell Ricky that I'm worried about how my legs will hold up. I nod towards the little hill in front of us. "That's the canary." I went heavy on the leg work at the gym on Friday. I held up okay yesterday but that ride was flat and leisurely.

There is a small crowd getting ready in the parking lot. 

Jeff asks, "Are you surprised this many people showed up?"

"No. Yeah." This is the first decent weekend we've had since well before Christmas.

On the fast end there are Ken and Ed again. Slug regulars, Bob, Pete, and Andrew, are here. I think this is the second Hill Slugs ride that Prem has been on. And The Jerry Foster is here, on an old Trek. I don't know how many bikes he has but there's a part of me that's sure I've never seen the same one twice. He's doing the ride with flat pedals and sneakers too. This blows my mind.

During my usual pre-ride spiel I add that we need to look out for the new crop of potholes coming up. As bad as they were in the flatlands yesterday I can only imagine in the hills it will be worse.

I haven't planned a route. We'll go to Lambertville my usual brain-dead way.

I'm trying not to take too many pictures, but I have to stop at the bridge at the bottom of the curve where the Stony Brook crosses Stony Brook just south of 518. The stream is iced over.

"Wait at the cows," I tell the group before we descend from Rocktown Road on Harbourton-Mount Airy.

Ken knows the farmer there, because of course he does. While they chat I take a picture of the German shepherd we often see lounging around the outside of the house.

One more photo stop on Alexauken Creek Road:

In the winter we can catch a glimpse of the old railroad bridge in the woods:

In Lambertville, Rojo's is surprisingly empty. We pack twice as many people around the table as it is meant to hold.

The group gets spread out when we climb out of town. That gives me a chance to stop for hay bales.

Pete thinks the leg work I've been doing is helping me out here. I'm not so sure. I always appear to be in better shape in the winter because a lot of the guys don't train indoors as much as I do. Come spring they'll leave me in the dust again, mark my words.

While we hang out in the Twin Pines parking lot after the ride I take a picture of the bare trees against the sky because I like the way the clouds behind them look.

If any of this leg stuff is helping me outside I might as well keep it up. At some point, when I start in with metrics again, it'll become counterproductive. For now, though, I'll have at it.

After a rest day Monday I put in a hefty effort during Tuesday morning's spin class. I still have some energy left so I figure I'll take on one of the more difficult leg routines my trainer has given me: stepping onto an 18-inch high foam mat with weights in each hand. It's not as if the stepping up and down is all that difficult. What's tough is doing a dozen or so steps with each leg. I get through one set, still dripping sweat from spin class, and move on to the rest of the circuit with various tedious lumps of kettle bell steel. Then it's back to the steps again. I'm on my sixth one, alternating sides, when I step down with my left leg and simultaneously hear and feel the pop in my calf.

I lean forward and try to stretch it out. Ow. Nope. So much for the rest of that set. I grab the weights and slowly hobble over to the rack to put them away.

"Why are you limping?" It's my trainer.

Busted.

He sets me to massaging my calf by rolling it out on a cylinder of foam. I don't know if it's doing any good but stopping sure feels better.

I spend the rest of the day popping NSAIDs and limping around the lab. It's marginally better by bedtime.

It's slightly better than that when I wake up and improves as I move around.

In an uncharacteristic feat of restraint I go to the gym to lift but I stay out of spin class for the rest of the week. If I have any chance of healing by Saturday I'm going to take it. Tom is leading a 55-miler in the Pinelands and I want to be there.

Why We Ride in January

Whatchoo lookin' at?

20 January 2017

I was 55 minutes into an hour-long session with a trainer at the gym, doing lunges after dead-lifts, when I asked, "I'm gonna regret this tomorrow, aren't I?" I hadn't seen a trainer for seven years. I'd figured this winter would be a good time to shake up my routine and fix my form, so I spent a frightening amount of money for ten sessions, spread out over ten weeks, to learn that I was doing squats all wrong.

"Probably," he said. This was entirely my fault. Life got in the way of exercise the day before and I'd felt the urge to be what my trainer calls a "meathead," going heavy on the weights for no good reason other than to wear myself out.

My legs were sore for the rest of the day. I took that as a good sign that I'd be over the worst of it by Saturday, which would be the first of two days where the weather would let us ride outside without us having to layer on every warm piece of clothing we own.

It wasn't cold, at least not by standards set in December, when I drove to Tom's house (that's how I know it's still winter; I didn't feel the urge to add 30 miles to the day) and we set out for Etra Park to meet Tru's official ride. 

Winter rides attract a distinct group of hardy souls, which today consisted of Jud, Dave H, Tom, Chris, (all B ride leaders), Prem (who is probably at least B+ whether he knows it or not), Dov (whom I'd never met before and is the sort of character one doesn't forget), and a guy whose name I don't remember (more on him later). This was listed as a C+ ride, and while we kept the speed down, we did bump up against the top end.

Compared to hauling a mountain bike uphill in mushy grit with a headwind in 20 degrees, today's gusts didn't feel like all that much. Tru led us southeast towards Cassville. 

We were on Ely Harmony where it meats Siloam Road when the guy whose name I don't remember had a mechanical that delayed us for probably ten minutes. I was at the intersection with Dave and Prem, and we were talking about indoor training. Behind us the guys had the offending bike in their grips, sometimes in the air and once, I think, upside-down. They appeared to be messing with absolutely everything. With Tom and Chris back there I didn't figure I'd be of any help.

It turns out that the guy whose name I don't remember had a Miss Piggy problem: the chain had jumped the biggest rear cog and wedged itself in the spokes. Been there, done that. Geez. I might have been able to help after all. A misaligned derailleur and a chain improperly threaded through the jockey wheels weren't the only problem, though. In the front, the large chain ring was missing a good inch or so of teeth. When I finally saw it at the rest stop I was too gobsmacked to think of getting a picture. Imagine a large cookie, one that takes two hands to hold. Imagine being hungry enough to take a big bite. That's what this chain ring looked like. 

"I'd never allow you on one of my rides," I told the guy whose name I don't remember. He reassured us that the break happened six months ago and that he's gone hundreds of miles like this and that the chain runs just fine. Still, no. Just, no. 

Anyway, while they were fussing over the offending equipment, I had plenty of time to pull out my camera and take pictures of a farm that, on any other day, would have seemed unremarkable.

There was a brown and white lump resting in the field. I couldn't make out what it was so I used the 40x zoom and determined that it was a horse later.

The zoom also helped me play with the shadow of a fence.

There was another brief mechanical as we turned onto Diamond Road. I had time to take pictures of winter trees against a perfectly blue sky.

On our way back Chris left the group to go home. He said he didn't need 60 miles. Tom wanted to take a look at the lake in the Assunpink Wildlife Management Area, so we said our goodbyes in Roosevelt.

On our way up the hill into the park a car hung behind us. As we approached the top the car slowly passed us, windows open, bass line thumping. Two young men cheered us on. Given how drivers usually treat us, this was refreshing.

The lake was less frozen than we'd expected. I rested Kermit against a sign instructing patrons that paddleboards were to be used for fishing only (who fishes from a paddleboard?), turned on my camera, and walked to the edge of the lake.

The ice is where the geese are, and vice-versa.

Tom was standing around the bend, closer to the dock. I wandered over and took more pictures.

For once I got the shutter speed right and didn't have to make any adjustments later.

This is why we ride in January. We see things we wouldn't see any other time of year. The air is clear. The leaves are down and we can look through the trees. The sky is an intense blue we rarely see once the humidity settles in.

We stopped again where the Assunpink Creek runs under the road. This section used to spend a lot of time under water and probably did a week ago too.

I was so busy taking pictures of the ice that I didn't know a herd of deer had crossed the road behind me.

On Windsor Road we got distracted by a flock of noisy guinea fowl.

They waddle-ran towards us in noisy unison, then changed their minds and scuttled away, then decided we were okay after all and hurried back.

I didn't notice their goofy faces until I got home and looked at the pictures.

Tomorrow is going to be another warm, clear day. I'm leading a ride in the hills. If my legs hurt I'm going to blame it on my trainer, and he'll be proud.