The Tighty-Whitey Factor

The Tighty-Whitey Factor.

I’ve lived on this planet long enough to learn to not take myself too seriously.  I find I have certain derision for people who do take themselves too seriously.  This is especially true in recreational endurance sports.  Having been a hard working mid-packer for many years I have come across far too many people who are just too wrapped up in themselves.

One of the reasons I gravitate to long distance running is that the community is inherently unimposing and friendly.  Sure, some of the track folks and the road runners are a wee bit too serious, but for the most part the rigors of the sport keep everyone from thinking too highly of themselves.

Running is at its base a guileless sport that requires nothing more than a patch of earth to act upon.  Sure, you can buy expensive stuff to wear and throw some money at training and racing, but you don’t have to.  The rigors of the sport force democratization.  I know there are people who would kick my ass wearing flip flops and a bathrobe in the marathon – there is no mechanical equalizer.

As you move towards trail running and ultra distances the community gets even more friendly, more unassuming and more welcoming.  Some of those ultra trail races are more like 60’s era Woodstock festivals than races.

That’s a big part of what I love about running.

Biking, well, things start to get a little clubby and weird.  The mountain bikers seem to retain that sense of ‘just a bunch of knuckleheads hanging out in the woods’ but the cult of the machine begins to creep in.

Road bikers are just too tightly wrapped for my taste.  There is an inherent class system in the roadie community of the haves and the have-nots.  If you don’t wear the right clothes or ride the right bike you are looked down upon.  They’ll let you into the club, but only if you buy a new bike and some bib shorts with Italian and French logos on them.

I am a second class bike citizen.  I ride a nearly 20-year-old steel Fuji that has been Frankenstein-ed with in compatible replacement parts (because they no longer make parts for it – adhering to the industry intrigue to sell you a new bike every 2 years).  I don’t own a single pair of bib shorts or bike shirts.  I just like to go out and ride.

I enjoy heading out onto the roads and hammering away for 2 or 3 or 8 hours.  I like to ride.  I may be wrong, but I like to think my lack of pricey gewgaws does not lessen the joy of riding.

Last weekend I headed out onto the Cape Cod Rail trail for a couple hours.  I like the rail trail because I can settle into my tri-bars and pedal away without have to worry about cars.

It’s busy in the summer.  There are families and all abilities riding and running on the trail.  I smile and nod and say encouraging things to the runners I pass, like “Nice work!” or “Nice Form!”.

I was about an hour into my ride and getting ready to turn around when I passed a runner and said “Nice Form!”.  At the same time I was passing a young guy in logo-wear bib shorts on an Italian bike and he seemed startled.  I said to him “She had really good form” in way of explanation.  I don’t think he understood me.

A little while later he goes blowing past me.  Usually I don’t get passed on the rail trail because I’m moving along at 17-18 miles per hour.  Not in top gear but just spinning away consistently.  75% effort.  I am not a fast rider among fast riders, but I’m usually faster than the recreational riders on the trail.

I think I made this guy mad.  Let me paint the picture. I’m on the old Fuji with its luggage rack and rust spots.  I’m riding in plain black bike chamois shorts.  I was shirtless because it was a hot day (pushing 50 years and 190 pounds I’ve reached the point where I should keep my shirt on but I don’t give a rat’s ass).  I had on my hydration backpack that I use for mountain biking and ultra distances.  I’m listening to my iPod (a lecture on brain plasticity).

Basically I looked like a homeless old guy riding a bike he found somewhere.  And I’m happy as hell to be out working up a sweat on a beautiful day in a beautiful place.

This is not the end of this story.

Not knowing any better I take off in pursuit, catch the kid and pass him again.  Affably, thinking maybe I have made a new friend or found a kindred spirit to ride with I say as I’m passing; “So are you a cyclist or a triathlete?”  He says nothing.  I drop into the aero position and work to put some trail between us.

This trail crosses a lot of roads.  I like to stop, or at least slow down, at these road crossings so as not to die.  A couple minutes later, as I’m slowing for a crossing, Italian bike boy blows through the stop sign and past me at 15-16 mph.  That’s not fair.

I smile to myself that apparently the game is afoot.  Out of the stop sign I’m up out of the saddle grinding up some velo velocity to catch him.  I finally get on his wheel.   He’s sitting straight, not even trying, like he’s waiting for me.

I’ve been out over an hour and I’m starting to get a little tired now. But I’ m game!  I marshal my resources and put another big push on, but I’ve got nothing left and at the next stop sign he blows through and by and I’m unable to contend.

After that I lose sight of him and frankly I slow down because I’m suffering a bit. I thought he might have turned off.

I get to the end of the trail in Wellfleet and dismount to have a banana and some water before turning around to head back.  There are a few bikers sitting around at the trail head including Italian Bike Boy who is working really hard not to make eye contact with me.

I’m a bit befuddled.  I hadn’t realized we were fighting.  I thought we were playing.  I wonder if somehow I have offended him.

I take up a genial conversation with another gentleman and since Italian Bike Boy is sitting right there I laugh and say “Me and him were racing!”

IBB looks at me now like he’s bitten into something sour and says “You never stood a chance.”

I laugh.

And he continues, “You know how I knew?; he pauses for effect before delivering his judgment, “Your underwear.  A real cyclist would never wear tighty-whiteys.”