Bikes

I have been in and out of the house a number of times this morning. That's what having a new puppy will do. Actually, that's what the fear of having your new puppy piss or crap on the floor will do. Either way, I've made the acquaintance of the front yard once an hour, and each time outside, have managed to look up at the blue sky and west toward the snow covered hill behind the house, and wonder at what a beautiful day it is.

The birds have been singing the praises since sun-up. The air temperature is warm enough to allow me to slide the window open for fresh air. In pours the oxygen, and the chirping of the jays, robins, and magpies. There are even bees swirling around the fresh, budding flowers of one of the trees in the corner of the yard. It looks like Spring is in the air.

It was hard to think about the coming season without reminiscing about my bike. I checked Velonews.com and caught up on some of the races going on this week, the Spring Classics, they're called. The Tour of Flanders, Ghent-Weveglem, and the famed Paris-Roubaix are all going on about now, and stand proud as Continental Europe's three pronged version of The Masters. These races always fall on this week of the calendar, and hopefully signal to an awaiting Flemish public that the leaves will soon bloom green.

These three races inspired one local bike promoter to come up with some races that Boulder could rightly call its own "Spring Classics." Chris Grealish owns and runs Denver-Boulder Couriers, a package delivery service that floods the streets of the two towns with an army of fixie riders, all carrying the unmistakable orange Chrome delivery bag over one shoulder. They dart into offices and shops with their packages, and when Chris isn't on the walkie talkie directing traffic, he's planning bike races.

When I was still racing bikes, I looked forward to Chris' races because they were something entirely different from the average office park criterium. Instead of doing 15 laps around a parking lot, sprinting to the next corner and then hitting the brakes, the Boulder Spring Classics were road races that would last for hours on open roads. The number of entrants would always be greater, the courses much more interesting and diverse, and the 50 plus miles in the saddle suited my preferrences better than a 45 minute race. My favorites were the Boulder-Roubaix, named after its French counterpart, and the Boulder Beer Race, sponsored by a local brewery (and much easier to say than, say, Weveglem.)

A few years ago, I would have been doing something entirely different on a day such as this. Instead of staying at home, working (thinking about climbing) and tending to the mutt, I'd have been on the bike for at least a couple of hours. I'd have ridden around the roads north of town, perhaps chattering along the washboard of the dirt farm roads that the Boulder-Roubaix race would feature. I'd have come home, exhausted and covered in dust, and have been excited at the prospect that this extra training would mean I wouldn't get shelled. Not that it ever mattered much. It seems like I was always far from winning.

So far from winning, in fact, that racing lost its appeal. Knowing that if I didn't train a bunch more, I'd never cross the line at the front, and this left me with a decision to make. I could either sacrifice an enormous amount of time, energy and trade-off for a few silly wins around town, or I could give up on racing and pick something else. I never loved the racing, more the training and the spring air, so the decision wasn't too tough.

The one remaining race bike I still own is in the shop. Instead of having it tuned and readied for a spring of racing, I'm converting it into a city commuter bike. The handle bars are being changed to straight, comfortable grips, and the tires are going to be housed in fenders. I'm putting on a chain guard to save my pants from the ravages of grease and store runs, and adding a rack that will carry those very groceries back from Ideal Market. I've given up on the idea of speeding around in a group of 50 men with shaved legs, all clad in professional looking lycra emblazened with logos and shop names across the chests and asses. Now, I just want to speed around town.

Today would be a great day to hit the road on that newly tuned machine, but alas, it's still in the shop. When it's back, I'll be glad at the trade. Dacks is learning how to fetch, and a bottle of wine and a fresh baguette are going to fit perfectly in the basket.