I Ward, Franz Joseph Haydn, and a Return to the Saddle

After a solid week of the dreadful Congested Wretched, I emerged from the phlegm swamp and, weekend nigh, decided to test my weakened, lost weight form with a ride. Feeling oddly forgiving despite imagining myself the snarling Team Leader, I reached out to the missing I Ward and, to my surprise, got a hold of him. To my further surprise, he announced that far from being missing-in-action, he's been training on his own, as many as 13 rides since the beginning of the year. Zoot alors!

Would he be interested in getting together for a ride? Indeed he would. But, he reminded me, given the six months of virtual inactivity he'd just undergone in the wake of shoulder surgery, he was far, far from being in riding shape. I said no problem and reminded him that there was always a spot on Team Shad for the properly motivated rider willing to put in a shad's effort.

Dubstoevsky and the Cannibal*
no time for games

We decided to meet at the Leverett Coop at high noon and I'll be darned if he didn't arrive a few minutes early, ready to go. Alas, another surprise. He'd invited Franz Joseph Haydn (FJH). I was dismayed, but said nothing.

I've known FJH for years, he's a lean reed of a man, as thin as a string quartet, but we ride together rarely and only when I make the trek to the western Mass hills to ride with I Ward and sometimes The Virginian. Why dismayed? Because FJH manages to put a negative or cynical spin on virtually everything he talks about. It's bizarre but almost every topic of conversation he proffers involves complaining about something or criticizing some group or remonstrating over some benign injustice. I don't think he has any idea that he does it. Practiced over decades, prickly bantering becomes second nature.  I Ward described him as a "cranky Yankee."

We'd barely gotten underway when he started dissing the "NCC guys" (Northampton Cycling Club) who were out in spirited, colorful bunches and speeding along earnestly ("I'm just out for the fun of it, man" he declared. As if club riding is all work and no play). He continued, deriding riders who "take themselves so seriously," who chart their rides or record their data or wear sleek, high end cycling gear. "I haven't used a computer in years" he boasted, as if that were particularly virtuous. Later, he pointed out (as he does every ride) that his Serotta road bike was over 15 years old (subtext: having a new bike with the latest cycling technology was somehow worthy of derision). And on and on.

I said nothing, as I'm wont to do when I Ward (no stranger to the negative rant himself) and FJH pedal along venting spleen. But the blessing of having FJH along became apparent soon after setting out.

Both had warned me up front that they were way out of shape and not interested in hammering today, that they were all about the slow, ponderous grind. The route we chose presented steady climbing (albeit not that steep) for the first four or five miles. We set out, the two of them side by side, FJH verbally indulging his animus toward "serious riders," toward the "skippies" at the garage he takes his van to for servicing ("knuckleheads"), toward people who walk around looking at their cell phones ("stooges").

They settled into a pace slightly more aggressive than glacial. Feeling remarkably good myself and just a bit chilly, I decided to set my own pace and ride out ahead. And that's when I was grateful for FJH being the third man in - I had no compunction about heading up the road and leaving FJH & I Ward to keep each other company.

And so there I was, alone on the road, climbing toward Wendell, the sun bright, the sky blue jay blue, me feeling surprisingly fresh and loose.

The climb toward Wendell

And now that's enough of my own belabored kvetching! In fact, I'd be remiss not to point out the fact that FJH rode with legendary "Crusher" Mawgs and the indomitable Big Red decades ago, long before I had anything to do with cycling. He's an experienced wheelman who's been around the proverbial block; I'm a cycling Marco Rubio compared to his battle-tested Hillary Clinton. I Ward, too, for that matter, has quite a few more years under his tires than do I. They've been riding together since way back in the early 1980s when, as longhairs at Zoo Mass, they skipped classes and cranked out the miles. Back then I was tossing Frisbees on the quad between the dorms and wondering where I could get some Thai stick.

But today is today and I repeatedly launched off the front and climbed out of sight; no amount of cycling guile or experience can compensate for conditioning. Interestingly, it's rare that I'm off the front. When I'm out with the The Virginian, I am forever (it seems) gazing at his back side trying to keep him within reach. With Barney's Crew, I'm consistently at the rear of the grupetto that gets out ahead of the the main bunch. So on a day like today, powering away with relative ease proves vaingloriously satisfying.

Ridge top farm style

I'd wait for them at the top of the climb and would hear them approaching before I saw them. I Ward's voice projects. He took to shouting "Generalissimo!" as they came back alongside, and "Mein Trumpf!" He jokingly chastised me for being a taskmaster and dubbed me "Warner von Trumpf." At first I bristled, then lightened up and after a while, I'd shout over my shoulder "Mach schnell, dumbkopfs!" and berate them for their sloth. "Laggards!" I shouted, "Tourists!"

I Ward and Franz Joseph Haydn in Wendell center

Back at the Coop's gravel parking lot at ride's end, all was well with the world and with the three of us. I'd had a strong return after having not ridden since February 28 and having been sick for the entire previous week. I Ward and FJH both expressed satisfaction on the day and we all agreed we'd do it again one of these weekends. As for I Ward's roster spot on Team Shad, it's too early to say. The road back to peak form is surely a long and arduous one, though not insurmountable. I Ward is like a pugnacious badger, ebullient with grit and attitude; you cannot count him out.

Ride Notes

The Strava entry for this ride lacks map and pretty much all data. That's because I had to enter it manually. The thing is, I forgot to "end" the ride on the Garmin tracker when we got back to the Coop. Instead, mounted on the top of the car zooming home, the tracker motioned back on and kept tracking the ride. Back at HQ, it had logged 89+ miles; the avg speed was off the charts. So I discarded the whole thing.

29.35 miles, 12.4 mph, 2 hours 22 minutes (from the legacy handle bar computer I never took off)

We spent most of the ride in Wendell. From the Coop, rode up North Everett Rd to West St, left on Montague Rd to Mormon Hollow Rd - CLIMB - then Farley Rd and Wendell Depot Rd into Wendell then back down West St up Lockes Village Rd to Wendell Center again and looped down West St once more and back to the Coop.

There's a downhill on Montague Rd that is very long, maybe a mile, and very fast. FJH launched off the front, I trailed by maybe 30 yards and I Ward sailed along maybe 10 yards behind me. Tucking into aerodynamic mode, I immediately began to make up ground. I could see FJH cranking away but I gained on him nonetheless. The entire way down toward Mormon Hollow I never pedaled once and by the time the sharp switch back right turn arrived, I had essentially hitched up with FJH without having exerted any energy at all.

I Ward had apparently seen what was happening. As he came alongside, he said to me "Generalissimo, you are blessed with the power of superior mass!"

I like that thought very much.

* photo assemblage by Crusher