Biking in the Pacific Northwest

I will say this, the problem with being a competitive dick head is that when someone passes you on a bicycle, some sort of weird instinct kicks in and you just have to catch them.

Here's the thing, I am spending the summer in the Pacific Northwest and Southern California. This week I have been on beautiful Bainbridge Island and I am riding a friends bike. The bike weighs about as much as I do, which is fine because for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is a Traumatic Brain Injury, I am just a slow poke bike rider now, no longer a lycra clad racer, if ever I was one of those.

I am riding this heavy bike and today I am wearing baggy shorts, running shoes, a t-shirt and an old helmet that has seen better days. I stopped to read a text and I was slowly making my way back onto the road and this speedy rider passed right by me, all clad in tight fitting lycra, thin little tired and clipped in with his super nice bike cleats. His bike probably weighed as much as my sweaty t-shirt.

Since I am all zen about these sorts of things now, and really, just enjoying the road on a fat tired bike and not really a competitive dick head or anything, I let it go, for a good five seconds. Then I started to shift gears until I ran out of them. I was peddling and not winded, taking in deep breaths and enjoying the chase. He was dressed for the ride, and he had a nice bike, but he was a commuter, not a competitor. Well, he was not competing with me anyway, although he was riding as fast as he usually does because he followed what I could see was his daily pattern, swerving to miss potholes and dangerous road slag. I was soon on his tail and could have passed him with ease, which was weird, he had legs of steal, that's how close I was. I could see the veins in the his legs.

I did not pass him. He ended our little game when he finally turned up Baker Hill. A little history, I once lived on the other side of Baker Hill and almost every day for about 10 years I would ride my bike up at least one side of that incredibly steep mountain. The side this guy started to climb is a mile long climb and it's a very serious mountain, most people get about half way up and walk their bikes the rest of the way. Serious cyclists use their girly gears to make it up, honestly.

I did not follow the commuter on his way up Baker Hill. I am recovering from a back injury and can not risk any sort of new injury, but I thought about it. My legs are strong, I am in good health, I figured it would be fun to take him on the mountain. Then again, he rides it every day, he would probably beat me to a pulp. It would hurt my sensitive feelings. Instead I just rode home in the light rain, because I am no longer a competitive dick head who must pass every cyclist I see on the road.

Plus I am on a very heavy bike with bullshit gearing and no cleats and cotton clothes. I have put out a notice to friends asking to borrow a bike for a few weeks of fast riding in the Pacific Northwest. Yes, I am an addict. Yes I am a competitive dick head. Yes, I will be that guy who see's you up ahead and sets my goal to just slowly overtake you as quickly as possible, not a word will be said. It's a game I play in my head. It's a game I call "catch and release" and once my back heals in the next couple of days and a friend comes through with a speedy light bike, I will again be playing.