Why the hell are you doing this?
I looked at my wife and struggled to find an answer to her question. After all, she didn't know the track or bicycle track racing. She had only seen one set of races, one Saturday, years ago when the girls were tiny. Otherwise, she had only seen what they show on TV of track racing -- people crashing -- spectacularly. Nothing else of the sport is very interesting to a sports department, TV or print, despite the fact that track racing was once bigger than baseball in this country. (Go ahead, look it up. I speak the truth.)
Anyway, my wife was convinced that I was either going to die or be maimed horribly or come home with fewer brain cells than a ripe zucchini.
Why the hell are you doing this?
I had signed up for a four week course of race training, a chance to ride the track, get used to it once again, after a 13 year hiatus, and develop the skills I would need to race on a regular basis at the Tuesday and Thursday night Colorado Velodrome Association events in the Springs. That's part of why I was doing this. After all, the track demands skills. You can't just roll out on the apron and expect to be fast or safe or successful in the pack. You have GOT to know what you're doing out there.
The Olympic Velodrome in Colorado Springs' Memorial Park is a 333.3 meter bowl with 33-degree banking on either end. People ride, inches apart, at speeds ranging from 20-35 miles per hour, on bikes with thin tires, no brakes and one gear that is in constant motion. Hairy? Twitchy? Squirrely? I've heard every description and agree with every one of them.
But there's also something incredibly exciting about it all. The speed. The pack. The intensity of your focus. It's a breath of freezing air right to your brain, your spine, your very soul.
Why the hell ...?
I arrived on Sunday, signed up and rolled out to the track, ready to go on my 25 year old, newly rebuilt Tomasso track bike, which Ron Hargrave, one of the teachers, told me, "might not be a track bike, it's got road geometry," leading me to once again believe that I had spent time and $$ on a bike that was all wrong for what I was about to do, just as I did last year with the very famous bicycle that did not fit.
We stood in the infield for a time, listening to Steve Truesdale give us some background on the track, safety issues and objectives of the class. Then, he split the 13 of us into two groups. One, the A group, had ridden the track before. The B group was completely new to the concept. Even though I had ridden the track before, I was so out of practice after 13 years that I opted for Group B.
A few more words. A bit of advice and off we went.
I threw my leg over my bike, pushed off, desperately tried to lock into my pedals on a crank that wouldn't stop moving, came to a halt and fell over, bashing my right knee into the concrete, then watching it expand to the size of a grapefruit on growth hormones.
Oh, man, it hurt, but the embarrassment pushed the pain aside. I climbed up, and with the help of Ron, got myself rolling, shakily, forward. I got on the track and slowly felt my way along. Riding in traffic took some getting used to. Riding the wall took some getting used to. Riding a paceline took some getting used to. But, that, in fact, was what the day was about. Getting used to the track. Getting to know the feelings. The feel of the bike. The feel of the wall. The feel of the pack.
We rode pacelines. We rode 200 meter flying time trials. (Believe me, I was not flying.) And we just generally rode.
Steve, Ron and Rich Voss, the three instructors, all insisted on as much riding time as possible on the track. Learn how your bike responds. Learn how you respond. Learn how the track responds. Be safe. Don't kill yourself or anybody else out there.
In fact, despite the lack of brakes and the notion that a bunch of us out there on Sunday were rank amateurs, it seemed safer on the track than it often does on the road, when one driver with a chip on his shoulder or the sun in his eyes can turn your entire day horrible in the blink of an eye.
As the velodrome closed for the day, I packed up and drove home, both happy and satisfied.
Why the hell are you doing this?
I thought about it on the way home and realized something. I'm not sure it would satisfy anyone, but it was as close as I could come to my own reasoning for riding the track.
There come times in most lives, maybe once, maybe often, where a person feels the need to let their butt hang out over the edge, to take a real chance, then, see if they can pull it back to safety just one more time. It may be a small risk, it may be death defying, but it is necessary. We all do it. We take the chance. Some people tell me it's a guy thing, but I see too many women who find a way to push the envelope every day to say it's strictly male.
It has just got to be done.
We measure the risk versus the benefits, and then, we jump.
It's all part of being alive.
I just happen to do it on a bike.
That's why the hell I do it.
It occasionally scares me to the point my that innards are frozen, but in the end, it makes me feel alive.
