Lessons from a season of biking

The thoughts that run through my head all through the long season of road biking, in no particular order:

• I want a jersey that says “Hang Up and Drive!” on the back, big and bold. Spouse counsels against this idea.
• Cars will do just about anything to help you out on the road, including moving dangerously far over into the other lane without being able to see what’s ahead, except for one thing: they will NEVER slow down. Please, folks, give me a little room, and think about whether slowing down will help the situation.
• This season, I had people yell “Lance!” at me many more times than I had people yell “fag!” at me. I’m not sure what response they expect to either one, but I’m able to fool myself that they don’t mean “Lance!” ironically.
• Most common stuff on the shoulders of the road: not so many bottles, and not as much fast food litter as I used to see, either. But lots of bungie cords. Occasional toys, the lone sneaker, socks and shirts, that sort of thing. For some reason this year, LOTS of washcloths. Lots of them. And more glass than you could possibly imagine.
• I don’t need you to ride alongside me and yell at me how fast I’m going. For one thing, my computer is a lot more accurate than your car speedometer. For another, I measure in kilometers, dude. Like a man.
• I lie to myself a lot. I get myself out when it’s windy or I’m tired or a little sick by saying I’ll just take a nice easy ride. And then I go at the same pace I always go at, pushing just as hard on the hills and squeezing as much speed out as possible. (Which is not to say I’m a fast rider; I’m just not.)
• Driving to a bike route starting point still feels slightly sinful, but it gets me to some places I just can’t reach from home, like the Helderberg escarpment and the lands beyond Altamont. But it still feels wrong to burn gas to get in a bike ride.
• The bike path is generally the slowest way to get anywhere, although I still enjoy the stretch in Niskayuna. I avoid the Cohoes section, however, because of an interrelated combination of errant teenagers and broken glass. Besides, the hill out of Cohoes up to Route 9 is quite pleasant.
• My hometown, the sweet little village of Scotia, where we used to spend entire summer days riding our bikes without hardly leaving the village limits? Well, we must have moved at about half a mile an hour, because I tear up the entire village in about 10 minutes at my current pace, and the tight little streets and endless stop signs take a lot of the fun out of it (being one of those law-abiding bike rider types). But outside of town, the Glenville hills are still a fun ride.
• Cemeteries are a cyclist’s best friend, nature-break-wise.
• I lurve my new bike.