New Years Day 2016

Day One, Ride One
The Gates of the New Year

Welcome to Shad Rides, the 2016 Edition, home of Team Shad and the words of team leader, head glutton, and lapsed Russian novelist, Dubstoevsky. Allez!

Team Shad has high ambitions for the coming year, namely the Trifecta, the Big Three gravel grinders: the Rasputitsa, the Tour de Heifer, and the D2R2. Starting in mid-April and paced two months apart, the Big Three events are the exclamation points punctuating the nine month season (April to December).

Team Shad successfully completed the Trifecta in 2014 but only managed to participate in the D2R2 in 2015. The goal is all three again in 2016, and that goal shapes the team's schedule and training approach. Basically, the training approach is to maintain a modest riding schedule in January, February and March, as the weather allows. Last year, of course, the Snowy Winter From Hell set in in late January and shut the team down until late April; we had to withdraw from the Rasputitsa 2015 because we were unable to train in the two months prior (and you do not want to enter that race out of shape).

We can't control the weather, of course, and this is New England where anything can happen. Last year in the Woo, it was the snowiest and coldest winter on record. But some years there's been literally no more than a few inches of snow every month or so, mild winters with temps in the mid 60s on New Years Day. All we can do as cycling shad is keep our bikes ready, our spirits up, and our goals in mind. The rest is up to Jah.

Today, Jah abided.

Setting out past the Greek Orthodox Church, Russell St, Woo City
January 1, 2016

A steely, gray day, low 40s, slight breeze, a holiday, roads mostly clear of traffic. The inch and a half of slushy snow from three days ago is mostly gone from the roadways, though there's already plenty of loose sand strewn about. No lax riding! Must pay strict attention at all times.

Which is fine, actually. Paying attention is one of the great aspects of cycling, the need for constant vigilance, the necessity of staying in the moment. Sure, your mind can wander but your senses must stay focused, you must be constantly aware in 360 degrees, you must know what's behind you, what's ahead of you, what the surrounding area is in either side of the road, you must never take the road surface for granted but instead treat it as though every turn of the wheel presents the chance for catastrophe. And yet even with obsessive compulsive attention, a distance cyclist remains at the mercy of circumstance and must trust that a drunken driver, a texting driver, a fooling-around-at-the-wheel teenager will not interject their death karma into the day's journey.

Today, 23+ miles of road, keen attention paid all the way, and the result is a safe return and the first ride of 2016. A road ride to boot. Whizzing along empty pavement, the New England countryside bare, rocky, hilly, thick with stands of hardwood forest, punctuated with gray, icy-looking reservoirs, black crows cawing from the tree tops and lopping along on the wing, dark silhouettes of prophecy against a somber sky.

The spillway for the Kettle Brook reservoirs
Cherry Valley, MA (a part of Leicester)

All of life is a chance, really. We can take every precaution, educate ourselves, watch our health, be vigilant when traveling, wear seat belts, avoid war zones, but there's no guarantee that we'll wake up tomorrow morning. We just trust we will. And so I trust that I will ride again. I don my helmet in a gesture of Wise Precaution, but I also bow low in humble recognition of Fate's fickle intentions.

The old Cold War maxim regarding arms control was "Trust, but verify." A cycling maxim might be "Take nothing for granted, be fucking careful, and hope for the best."

Holden Reservoir from the northern end
January 1, 2016

New England style

Dubstoevksy sends a big HUZZA and a Happy New Year bellow to the Mighty Virginian, dependable Shadmate and decades-long cycling companion; to Master Scrod in Frankfurt, and his Ventoux Calls compadre Meister M recovering from Fate's angry bitch slap; to I Ward, recovering from shoulder surgery; and to all cyclists the world over.

And last but not least, an OM AH HUM to the memory of the Mighty General, long time Director Sportif of Team Shad, tireless supporter and raconteur extraordinaire whom we lost in 2015. Allez, great friend!

The trusty mount
January 1, 2016

Adieu, Mighty General: An Homage

It is with great sadness that I announce the passing of Team Shad's long time Directeur Sportif, Henri, also known affectionately as The Little General, Le Petit General, The Mighty General, or simply, The General.

The General on the porch in Lemonstar

2012

A feline of immeasurable dignity, loyalty, savvy, unapologetic laziness, and limited mousing skills, The Little General lived an improbably long life of eighteen and a half years. During that time he transitioned from sassy kitten to rambunctious youth to moderately playful middle age and finally to venerable elder, wise and noble and confident in his fur.

Henri was a consistently encouraging presence (when he wasn't sleeping), often took a keen interest in the day's ride, and was, interestingly, a connoisseur of tires. While I would busy myself gearing up, Henri would carefully inspect my tires, paying particular attention to the front tire and rubbing it enthusiastically with his fluffy cheeks to check for flaws and tread wear. When he deemed the tires fit for riding, he would nonchalantly saunter away with the air of satisfaction in a job well done.

Checking the tires
and blessing the ride

Of course, Le Petit General could frustrate as well. All day, while I worked at home impatiently waiting for the time to sign out and hit the road, Henri would sleep. All day he demonstrated no interest in the great outdoors. But as soon as I started getting my gear together he would rise, stretch languidly and mosey over to the sliding door to the back deck and casually paw the glass to say "Uhm, Monsieur Dubstoevsky, I would like to take some sun on the back deck now, if you don't mind."

Of course I DID mind because he could not be left outside alone while I rode. So I either ignored his command (wracked with guilt), or I succumbed and let him out and waited around for him to get his fill of the sun or the fresh air or until his thoughts turned to food. Or perhaps some indoor yoga.

Henri in nautilus pose

Sometimes he would disappear when I was filling my water bottles or fine tuning my bike. Then I would mutter curses and stalk around the yard calling for him, looking in the bushes, under the deck, across the street. I would imagine the worst - he'd run away, he'd been hit by a car a block away, he'd fallen asleep in the neighbor's basement and been shut in. Most of the time he was probably just laying low in the bushes chuckling to himself while I stumped around making that silly puckered-lips sound that people make to call cats.

He was steeped in independence and full of himself and surely aware that no matter how annoyed or angry I got, all it would take for forgiveness was for him to come racing across the lawn like a miniature tiger, bound up the deck stairs and in the back door and stand by his food dish looking up at me expectantly and twitching his tail.

As a kitten he pulled over a Christmas tree in playful frenzy. He sassed back.

The early years

There were years of rambunctious energy, wild abandon. He was a great tiger, a stalking king. He learned the ways of the peloton. He chased small balled-up pieces of paper as if they were alive. He ruled the yard in Lemonstar and eventually developed such cycling acumen that he attracted a small cadre of devout cyclists who paid heed his every twitch and stare.



The Wise One

Eventually he became an elder, one who did strange things and practiced odd rituals. We wondered what he knew, how much he sensed.

As a cyclist, I listened to his gaze, his expression, his vibe, and I took his counsel before each ride. Vaingloriously, I pictured us as Ali and Dundee. He was the wizened sage, the veteran, the been-there-done-that wisdom cat, the visionary. And I was his enthusiastic acolyte. I wanted to make every ride a century.

The Acolyte and the Master

Who knows what depths of sloth he plumbed? What rapturously vague places of warm inertia? He was a singular being, a repository of ancient knowing and soulful affection. He will forever be The Little General on my left shoulder whispering confidences and encouragement in my ear as I ride. Captain, oh my captain.

Zen mode 2010