Starting line

It was about this time last year that I sat straddling a red Cannondale hybrid bike that I had borrowed from my friend Rick to try out riding for the first time. The frame was a bit too small for me- I didn't know anything about bike fitment at the time- and must have weighed just shy of 30 pounds with the commuter rack installed on it. For my first ride out I attempted to ride from CSU Sacramento to Folsom lake and back on the American River bike trail-around 50 miles. On the climb up to Beals point I almost collapsed  due to lack of fitness in spite of having (and liberally using) the "granny gear" but finally made it to Folsom lake albeit after stopping to rest twice along the way. The view from the lake was spectacular and the water was glistening high from fresh snow melt rushing down the American river from Tahoe.

On the way back down from Folsom lake I stole a glance down at the cycling computer and to my astonishment saw the readout on the computer creeping up, 21,...22,...23mph! The cocktail mixture of fear and adrenaline pumping through my veins was quickly sobered when I heard a whoosh and saw a blur pass by me on my left. The source of the "blur" was a cyclist descending at speeds that I didn't know were possible without a motor attached!

I was not a cyclist, just a guy with a bike; two seperate objects the bike controlling me more than I could control it. My inputs were jerky, cadence akward, and fitness inept. As my maiden voyage was crawling to an end, I peeked down at the computer again, only to be discouraged to see the readout flickering between 5 and 6 mph. The stinging in my legs was only drowned out by the fiery pain and protest that my rear-end spat up at me, but I had finally made it back to my car. I was hooked. I gave the hybrid back to Rick at the end of that week and went and bought my own bike; a race red Cannondale CAAD9. It looked fast just sitting there and begged to be ridden. I rode everyday that summer and couldn't get enough.

I climbed Beals point again today, almost a year after my virgin trek up that hellacious grade. I looked down at my computer as I neared the top of the climb and smiled: 23mph; the exact same speed that I had reached descending this climb one year ago. Here I am 60 pounds lighter, with tan lines cut crisp from my jersey and bibshorts and legs clean-shaven showing the definition in my calves with each pedal stroke. I command my bike with a telepathic connection, I simply think and I am there. When on my bike we are connected as one; one cannot exist without the other. My current weekly commute is 200 miles a week with a metric century on the weekend or race training ride. I sit at the top of Folsom lake with my trusty Cannondale steed and reflect on who I was and who I became in this last year of riding: I am a cyclist.