Changing Gears

What is the Brita Climate Ride?

By Climate Ride Staff
www.climateride.org

The Brita Climate Ride is a five day bike tour from New York City to Washington D.C. to promote solutions to global warming. But it is also much more.

The ride is a fundraiser for the non-profits Clean Air – Cool Planet and Focus the Nation. Clean Air – Cool Planet works with cities, campuses, and businesses to reduce greenhouse gas pollution. Focus the Nation partners with legislators and colleges across the country, and recently staged the largest national teach-in in history. Both organizations understand the urgency of the problem, and our need for immediate action. Our riders will support these non-profits by asking their friends, family, neighbors, and themselves to donate. Each rider will raise $2,250.

The ride is also a scenic five-day bike tour that will challenge and reward our riders. From September 20th to 24th, our riders will cover 320 miles, pushing themselves to show what is possible on bicycles.

We at the Brita Climate Ride are thrilled how scenic our route is. There are excellent low-traffic roads linking our nation’s largest city and our nation’s capital. The route passes through rural New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Maryland, passing through wooded rolling hills, equine estates, and the pastoral scenes of Amish country.

In the evening, after our cyclists have enjoyed a shower and and a catered meal, they will gather for a presentation by an expert speaker. The subject matter will range from the expected impacts of global warming to the exciting possibilities of renewable energy. Members of local communities will be invited to join.

The climate conference, though, will likely continue through the day, as many of our riders are themselves experts on the subject. We expect to learn from each other as we ride, and be inspired at lunch breaks and water stops.

Our destination is our nation’s capitol, where we ride for obvious reasons: we want our government to take leadership and chart a course for a clean energy future. We want renewable energy that will end our economy’s dependence on fossil fuels and foreign oil. We want better public transit and we want bike lanes so that we can safely bike to work. We want a safe climate and a better future.

This ride is an opportunity to make a difference, make a statement, and be inspired. Join us for a ride to the nation’s capitol.

Unexpected Visitor

This reader was spinning along when suddenly his ride became a little squirrelly

By Mike Maddi
Bradenton, Florida

I'm 56 years old and have been riding ever since I could walk. That's a lot of years of riding. In all that time, I don't recall anything ever happening to me while riding, funnier than what happened to me today. I was riding along at a nice easy pace of about 15 or 16 mph in a quiet suburban neighborhood. As I was riding along, I could see a couple of squirrels ahead sitting together by the side of the road. I didn't think anything of it because I always see squirrels running around the streets in this neighborhood. I thought to myself that they probably would wait for the last minute and then either dash across in front of me or take off in the other direction like squirrels usually do. They seemed to be whispering to each other. What could these crazy squirrels be up to?

Well, just as I got within feet of them, one of them made a quick dash away and then, to my dismay, did an about-face and ran head-first right into my back wheel! I really couldn't tell if he hit my spokes or the rim but I heard a little chirp when he hit and it was over - so I thought. The wheel picked him up and flung him into the air forward enough so that he came down, a few seconds later, right in the middle of my back. It was quite a jolt and another little chirp and I thought, "This can't be possible". But it was! The little bugger just sat on my back for a few seconds - he was in shock I guess, or maybe loving the ride. I don't know. After my hitchhiker road for 2 or 3 seconds, he scrambled down my back and jumped off my butt. When I turned around, he was running toward his partner. I think the other squirrel gave him a high-five.

Thawed Out

On the first warm day of the year in a Vermont town, this reader goes for a ride and lets winter melt away

By JG Bentley

It's the middle of April and the first true spring day in southern Vermont. We're free at last of the cold. I swing by my local bike shop to pick up my bike. The buggered chain has been replaced. All parts are now moving freely and smoothly as I will be soon.

This is a day for a whimsical cruise deciding on which road, which route, as fancy strikes me. Take a few side streets cause there are fewer cars and more people. People on porch steps, in flowerbeds, raking. People who turn to wave and smile. It's just that kind of day, warm, friendly, joyful. It is a day for my red kit, red gloves, red highlighted shoes and red pedals.

Today is a day when 22 mph on the flats is no strain with the heart rate hovering at 100.  It's a day when all those bitterly cold training rides into a winter headwind pay off, those rides when my body poured sweat but my fingers froze, when I arrived home hungry and spent and leaped into the shower before fingers turned to icicles.

There's no breeze. No resistance.  The sun has banished all but a very few pockets of chilly air.  For the first time since September, it's really and truly warm everywhere except for the shadiest stretches. 

I cruise out to Weatherhead Pond, which is smooth and clear. In the shallows behind the old breached dam I see some geese. The gander, nobly alert, watches me pass by. 

I pass by a trio of large, elegant horses being led by two people. I give them a wide berth. Nonetheless the horses are startled, and they rear and roll their eyes. Do I remind their evolutionary memory of a swift, silent killer? Perhaps a wolf?

On one section of the ride along a small, fully shaded brook it's actually slightly chilly. The gravel road is loose and rocky with some sandy patches. I slow my pace.

I turn for home with the sun full in my face, the pavement flowing beneath my wheels. The pavement is pitted and rough in patches from the ravages of winter and the pounding of log trucks. The roads are seldom completely smooth here, but today they are glorious.

My route home intersects with my bike buddy on his way out. He is a nine-to-fiver. He heads out as I head in. We circle back for brief contact, a few words and exclamations on the glory of it all.

I ride one last hill, a steep one but as easy as the rest today. As I pass the health club I see a man with a gym bag headed in the wrong direction - inside!

Have a riding story you want to share? E-mail 500 words or less to readerblog@rodale.com.

A Roadie's Ode To Mom

To all the moms of aspiring racers, who help their children suffer the masochistic, self-indulgent road to the finish line: Happy Mother’s Day.

By Ian Dille

I'm not a good son. I typically don't spend Mothers Day weekend with my mom. Instead, I’m in a car with a bunch of smelly bike racers. I no longer bring her breakfast in bed with fresh squeezed orange juice, as my family did when I was a kid. Instead, I'm far away in obscure parts of the country-except, of course, to bike racers-such as Silver City, New Mexico, Seven Springs, Pennsylvania, or Colorado Springs. Waiting till the last minute to think of a gift (and firmly believing procrastination breeds creativity) I'll often start jotting down lines on the back of a race number or entry form.

I always figured a poem or essay was a fitting gift. My mom always approved of my construction paper and glitter masterpieces. Plus, the traits she gave me that I cherish the most are an ability to speak from the heart and the education to put those thoughts accurately (occasionally, eloquently) on paper.

The tear factor is how I judge the effectiveness of my work as I read it to her. The more choked up she gets, the more meaningful my words. If I think I've written a stinker, I'll usually augment it with a pack of Good 'N Plenty's, her favorite, or a bouquet of flowers.

Continuing in this vein, sitting here in Fayetteville, Arkansas, sight of the Joe Martin Stage Race on Mother's Day 2008, I present this gift: An ode to bike racer moms, all around the world. (Albeit, a biased one, because, well, my mom is the best.)

Admittedly, it takes a special mom to love a bike racer. We eat all the food. Family gatherings are manipulated to accommodate our training or race schedules. Some of us (you know who you are) have been known to remain in the nest years after we were supposed to sprout our wings, waiting for that elusive domestic pro contract to arrive. But hardest of all, surely, for any mom to endure, is bearing the pain we inflict upon ourselves racing bikes-and continue supporting the activity we hold so dear.

A friend of mine once went down in an especially gruesome crash that required stitches to her face. In a heartfelt moment a few weeks later, her mother told me she could no longer fully encourage her daughter's bike racing. She couldn't bear to see her come home bloody and bruised any more. She didn't think racing was safe, and there were undue risks involved. She told me this while driving to a race, so she could watch her daughter compete.

My own mom once told me that when I hurt, physically and emotionally, it's as if she hurts too. And when I think back on all the broken collarbones and wrists, the head to toe road rash, the disappointing race results and requisite sulking, the occasional dietary neurosis, and tendinitis, and over training and fatigue-what can I say but sorry?

I'm sorry that you had to bear that with me, but I'm glad you did. I'm glad you drove me to the doctor's office and hugged me even when I dropped out. I'm glad you fed me pork and cream based sauces and vegetables drenched in butter. I'm glad that when I call you after a weekend of racing you still ask how my knee feels, and warn me against overdoing it. (Even though I act annoyed.)

And if you hurt when I hurt, then you must smile, and laugh, and get the same rush of excitement from bike racing that I do too. You've given me awkward, albeit meaningful, mom high fives after I score an important race result. You sit at the dinner table with my teammates and I and rehash the day's events-the villains and heroes (i.e. who pulled and who didn't), the quirky happenings, and the funny sayings-as if you were right there in the pack with us. You'll even sit in the feed zone.

In fact, the first time my mom worked the feed zone, I had to defend her honor. After a few practice runs in the parking lot before the start, I handed her a satchel of bottles and said, "only feed the people in green jerseys." Sixty-years-old and all of five-foot three, she had a look of anxious determination as we crested the hill on lap three and darted to the right side of the road. We made eye contact and it looked like the hand off was a go, when suddenly a rider from the rival blue jersey team stuck his arm and knocked the bottle out her hand. The look of determination changed to one of shock, fear, and disappointment. Luckily, I had my mom card in hand.

"Dude!" I said to the racer as I chased him down. "You can't do that! That was my mom!"

"Oh, sorry man," he replied.

"Well, give me your bottle," I commanded, pointing to his cage. And by the power of mom, he did.

My mom continues to come to the feed zone, even after that incident, but long ago gave up handing out bottles. Instead, she practices for her future grandmother duties (a time she'd like to occur sooner, rather than later, I'm often reminded). While the other mothers feed their bike racers, she happily takes care of the kids.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I've cheated on my mom with these other mothers, at times. I've crashed on their couches, eaten the heaping vats of pasta they've cooked for hordes of hungry teammates, and graciously accepted their offers of, "good luck!" This international network of moms, who've wholeheartedly raised a generation of bike racers, have received little in return from me. Except for this once a year: To all the bike racer moms around the world (and especially mine), Happy Mothers Day 2008!

Fat Cyclist Blog: Apologies

Saying sorry is a human instinct that comes out even when the person apologizing has nothing to be sorry for.

This blog originally appeared on FatCyclist.com.

Susan's been apologizing to me a lot lately.

She apologizes that I have to take care of all her physical needs -- I need to help her stand up, keep her steady, make sure she eats, takes her meds, keep her clean, get her comfortable in bed, dress her, and other things.

Elden and Susan

I've told her dozens of times that she shouldn't apologize for this, and I'm indescribably relieved that I really mean it. You see, one of my secret fears when I was younger was that when Susan and I got old, I'd have to take care of her physical needs-that I'd be a nurse. At the time, I pictured it as frustrating, inconvenient, and undignified.

The reality is a lot different.

Being able to take care of my wife right now means that I am doing something, and as long as I'm doing something I'm generally OK. More importantly, it means that I'm doing something for her and with her, and there's nothing I like better.

Plus, even though we have family and friends staying with and helping Susan full-time now, I like to think that nobody else is as good at taking care of her as I am. Susan tells me that's true, and I'm not asking her if she says that just to make me feel good.

Still, she says she's sorry I have to take care of her. I've asked her if the situation were reversed, would I need to apologize to her for taking care of me? No, she says, meaning it.

Well, OK then, I say. You would take care of me if you could, and I'm taking care of you because I can. Fair's fair.

But still, she apologizes. She says she's sorry that I'm not getting out on rides right now. I haven't told her (and she won't find out from this blog, because she doesn't read it anymore, although I often read the comments to her) that a couple times this week, I've left work to go on a ride and then have skipped it so I could get home a little sooner.

I'll ride more later.

She apologizes for having to leave me. This is a much harder apology to hear, because often I do feel like I ought to be getting an apology for having my wife taken from me. I mean, how many really good marriages are out there in the world? Shouldn't someone apologize for splitting us up?

But it's cancer that owes me an apology, not Susan. I tell her this over and over. She didn't invite this cancer. It attacked her -us- without provocation, and she has nothing to apologize for.

Really, this is Susan in a nutshell. Even though she's been dealing with cancer for four years now, even though she's walking on an artificial hip, even though she's been robbed of her talents and pleasures, even though she can only sleep with the aid of a cocktail of powerful drugs, even though she has to be literally bolted to a table and radiated daily, even though she's dying, she worries about me and apologizes to me.

To help Susan fight cancer, readers can contribute to a fund in her honor at Livestrong.org. A Fat Cyclist reader is trying to raise $50, 000 for the Lance Armstrong Foundation to help Susan.

You can read more about Susan's battle with cancer at FatCyclist.com.