When I moved to Durango last October, I needed a particularly Durango-esque way to integrate myself. So despite being a dedicated indoorsman, I resolved to ride in the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic. As activities go, a weekly Uno night would have been more my cup of tea. Hell, cups of tea are my cup of tea.

 

But how hard could the event be? The mountains to the north looked gentle enough in the Indian summer; I figured I could ride through them with the power of my own legs. All the pre-ski season cyclists seemed to take the rolling hills around town far too strenuously. And my own dad races the train every year as a warm-up to cycling events with cuddly names like the “Death Ride.”

If the old man could do it, so could I. I called him up and shared my resolution. He said, “You’re still young, dude. I think if you really put your mind to it, you can manage it. Definitely. Absolutely. Really.”

I don’t know which of us he was trying to convince.

He tried to warn me about the little things, like sitting in the saddle for hours. I snorted. I was a veteran sitter. Sitting is the best way to read books and drink tea. And all the exertion meant I needed fuel. I could eat anything I wanted, whenever I wanted! I was good at eating, too. Besides, how high energy could the sport be? Creaky-jointed elderly folks choose bicycling as a low-stress, low-impact exercise option. Piece o’ fluffy chocolate cake.

 

With delusion admittedly deeper than the San Juan snowpack, I set out to train on my mountain bike. Which, by the way, is old enough to get second glances from Smithsonian curators.

Pretty soon, I proved that you can forget to ride a bicycle.

But I had an entry fee and paternal pride on the line. So several days a week, I wobbled out on the county roads. Sleek riders glided past me with enough oxygen to chat. The elderly Durangoans were less rickety than I presumed – I never once heard a creaky joint when they passed me.

How could I ever match these trim cyclists with their sponsored clothing? My blood was not made of GU, and I didn’t deposit Clif bars where I squatted.

I had to elevate my game. I shelved my self-respect and took the plunge, literally, into Spandex.

Manufacturers try to soften the blow by using fabric terms like “Select Transfer.” Whatever my shorts selectively transferred away from me, they replaced with bulging glimpses of every biscuit I’d ever eaten. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the baboon-blue butt pads made my ass look lumpier than gravy. If clothing makes the man, then what’s it saying when my clothing requires lubricant? There’s quite simply nothing like smearing cold cream around your crotch before heading out for a sub-freezing January ride.

With Chamois Butt’r spread on my biscuits, I faced the masochistic moment known as the “graduated stress test,” or that sadistic moment of isolating your maximum heart rate. I warmed up, then found a steep hill. Raced toward this hill as fast as I could. Pedaled up the hill with everything I had. When I had nothing left, I sprinted until I disintegrated to my base elements, like a pile of bear scat on the side of the road. My heart was replaced with a steroidal hummingbird. No sane human does this test. What was I becoming?

I think the heart rate test showed my old man I was serious. Because I couldn’t possibly do the Iron Horse on my Pleistocene bike, he passed on his old carbon-frame road bike, which was great and all. Except for the pedal clips.

I believe in not fastening my feet to big, unforgiving objects. Call it survival instincts – I like not falling. That’s why I don’t ski or snowboard, and it’s why I generally don’t stick my feet in anything more extreme than house slippers.

My first time clipped to the road bike, I tottered, as per usual. My leg lashed out to steady myself. Only, it couldn’t go anywhere. My silly instincts forgot about the process of turning my foot to release the pedal’s death grip on my shoe.

The bike and I played Pick Up Sticks for a moment. At least no one saw. That’s one benefit of trying out bike shoes while propped up in the foyer.
I’m a slow learner. Days later, I forgot to unlatch my cleats and sampled the asphalt at a stoplight. I realized I didn’t care that people saw. I clipped myself back in and kept on riding.

I think that moment started my conversion to the two-wheeled lifestyle. I started debating the merits of Peanut Toffee Buzz versus Chocolate Brownie energy bars, and how much caffeine my GU should have. Then I started passing riders with ads on their pants. Once, I even carried on an actual nongasping conversation atop Shalona Hill with a complete stranger – and when he turned around, I kept going.

Through riding, my new home became so familiar that I could name places like Shalona Hill. More than that, though, I earned a fresh perspective on Durango from the seat of my thickening bum calluses. For some, like me, excessive enthusiasm isn’t about the bicycling itself. It’s not about the space-age food and chainring teeth either, but about communing with our wider environment. Bicycling is a way to fly with the red-tailed hawks, chat with whole neighborhoods of magpies, share air with the ponderosas. Bicycling brings me closer to this sphere of the Earth.

I still appreciate plopping on the couch with a good book. (That’s precisely how I intend to spend the day after the Iron Horse.) But if this veteran indoorsman can make it over Molas Pass, I’ll be living proof that crazy goals can be attained. You just need irrational resolve.
– Zach Hively

Zach Hively is a full convert to the bicycle lifestyle and an independent writer with recent stories in the New Mexico Mercury. To read more, go to: znhively.blogspot.com