My true drop-bar days were far, far behind me, having embraced the comfort and safety of fatter tires and various suspension tricks.
You see, I have this strong desire to be able to dive into a ditch to avoid disaster on tires thicker than my thumb. That’s just me.
Back when I worked as marketing director for Bike Friday, one year I headed to Colorado for the North American Handmade Bicycle Show in Denver.
The true benefit of Bike Friday’s folding bikes paid off as I flew Southwest Airlines with the Super Pro and a Carbon Infinity tikit packed into two suitcases. Yep, two bikes flying at no charge.
For all the creative innovations Bike Friday brought to folding bikes, the Super Pro struck my fancy because I had spent so many years chasing elite racers around the USA, and here was a bike that fit into a suitcase that could match anything in a pro team’s garage.
Oh, It had been 12 years since I had been back in Colorado, a place I lived as I enjoyed the sweet life as editor of VeloNews magazine back in the ’90s.
Heading up to Boulder, I had the chance to check out my old stomping grounds. We owned a nice spread out in Loveland, near Carter Lake.
The memories flooded my mind. Colorado is where my daughters were born. Wow. Time flies.
I drove around in a bit of a haze, remembering a past life. I drove some of my old cycling routes, amazed at the fitness I must have had at one time to ply those roads on my 35-pound dual-suspension Jamis.
I couldn’t help but drive up to Pinewood Reservoir, and just check it out. My daughter Sierra spent her first night camping up there. Well, almost the first night. She lasted a couple of hours before we headed home about 3 a.m. Heck, she was just 2 years old. It was the start of a love affair with camping for our family.
As I drove up the twisting, turning road I marveled at my long forgotten climbing ability. I did get out for an occasional mountain bike ride back in those days in Oregon. Mostly, though, I was a Bike Friday commuter. With commuter fitness. You know, my biggest climb was the bridge over the highway. That sorta thing.
When I got to the top of Pinewood and looked out over a herd of Elk grazing on the incline, it stirred something primal inside of me.
The Super Pro sitting in the backseat, all 16 pounds of it with Dura-Ace, taunted me. Oh, no. I figured it would be ugly. Still, I had to know. How far up the climb could I get now?
Knowing that the only witnesses were focused on chewing grass, I drove back down the hill to give it a whirl.
Again, remember, my lycra-clad roadie days went the way of the down-tube shifter. I packed light for this sight-seeing drive, which meant no cycling cleats nor shorts.
If I was going to crank the Super Pro up the climb, it would be in my heavy hiking boots and long pants. Nothing fancy. No full pedal strokes. Halveses.
I’m a realist, and set my sights about a mile up the road where I saw a smaller herd of deer. Fitness aside, what dominated my thoughts were the t-shirts I saw back at the airport in Denver.
Emblazoned across the chest they read: “Got Oxygen?”
Starting around 5,500 feet elevation (that’s a mile higher than my hometown Eugene’s elevation), I churned out of the campground with a snowstorm charging toward Denver.
It didn’t take long to remember that a dozen or so years ago, even at my best, getting a full chest of oxygen was no easy task in this thin air.
I passed a new herd of deer about a half mile up. Witnesses who can confirm I made it that far. Super! Now it was just a matter of time before I would succumb to gravity. Or exhaustion.
Just past that group, I realized how sweet the Super Pro felt. It danced beneath me effortlessly with my hands atop the drop-bars that somehow felt so familiar and comfortable,. My old Jamis weighed twice as much. Light is nice. Real nice.
Climbing on small 20-inch wheels? Not an issue. It’s all about the engine, baby.
I felt the temperature dropping while my legs were burning. I swung out of a switchback to a straightaway, where the mountain disappeared on a steep slide just off the shoulder.
Down a hundred yards another lone deer watched me closely. I warned him of the approaching storm and laughed.
Time, it seemed, if not stood still, reversed.
If it didn’t transport me back 12 years, it zipped back decades further. Young again. On a road bike. Slaying a hill. Playing Andy Hampsten in my mind.
I nearly lost all my momentum and my chance at redemption when I began to giggle a bit, overwhelmed that there’s a lot more left in my tank than I had ever imagined as I glanced down at my hiking boots and blue jeans.
I swept around curve after curve, surprised my legs were kinda of enjoying this and absolutely flabbergasted my breathing slipped into a comfortable, measured rhythm.
In no time I hit the summit. I climbed about 1,000 feet in elevation over 3 miles. OK, not exactly the Tour de France. Still, I felt mighty proud.
As I coasted back down, flying like a jet with my hands on the bottoms, I thought about my countless miles, how I assumed they had blessed me with every emotion possible, before two small wheels managed to create a new one.
Time to ride
