The American Dream (Made in Mexico)

October 22, 2011

I woke up at 5:00am like I do on most mornings. After hitting the snooze button, I placed two fingers on my neck to find my pulse and I waited for the clock to say 5:01, at which point I would start counting the beats. I would later record this statistic along with several others in my training log. My neck had the softening prickliness of a week of not shaving. This haphazard beard would soon be upgraded to a Magnum P.I. mustache from which I would draw virility and strength for the Richmond Marathon. A man cannot fully understand what kind of man he is until he grows a mustache. It is the benchmark for everything that came before it, and all that shall come after it.

After performing my other various morning rituals, and dropping my daughter off at my parents’ house in the southside, I threw my leg over my bike around 7:00am and headed for the Spin Mafia ride. It was not cold enough for tights, but it was cold enough to cause my Power Bar to harden in my jersey pocket after only a few miles. I love riding in this weather, especially as the sun is just beginning to reflect off the sky above me before it has even surfaced over the horizon. I relish this moment of solitude that I get from being outside riding while most of the city is still asleep as I chase some sort of American Dream. There are many ways to define the American Dream. In this case, it is the illusion of total freedom; just me, my bike, and an infinite combination of roads, turns, climbs, and descents. It is, as I stated, merely an illusion though; a fleeting glimpse of a world without responsibilities, where consequences are limited to “what goes up, must come down,” and the like. It is a world that will be both a memory and a future destination simultaneously in a matter of hours.

I climbed up Robious Road to Salisbury and swung by Paul’s house, but with only one vehicle in the driveway and no lights on, it seemed as if he was off chasing his own American Dream for the day, so I continued on alone. Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the Spin Mafia parking lot to find Chris Harvie and Chris Hong gearing up. Eventually Fritz, Joe, Tony, and Pete would arrive and we would roll out. We collected Steve Benjamin and John Payne along the route. My legs felt tired from previous days’ workouts, but I felt that I had enough to hang on for the ride and even offer a little help. Steve had schooled me earlier in the week in the finer points of excuse making though, so I was prepared:

Ryan: “I’m going to be slow today. I’m still kind of sore from running 11 miles a couple days ago.”

Steve: “Yeah, me too. I broke my hip a week ago.”

Then towards the end of our ride…

Me: “That was a tough ride. That century I did this morning didn’t help either.”

Steve: “I wish I had stopped at a century.”

Back to the Spin Mafia ride… Our paceline buzzed down the streets at a respectable pace, or at least, that is what I am told. I did not have any of your spaceman technology on my bike in the form of a computer because, to paraphrase Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer as portrayed by Phil Hartman, “I’m a caveman, and I’m frightened by your strange flying machines.” At times, it seemed as if there was a head wind coming from every direction, but this might have just FELT that way to me because I buried myself deep in another American dream the night before. While many cultures have made instant masterpieces by wrapping various forms of red meat or seafood in bacon, they have fallen just short by only including just two of the major proteins. There is but one culture who has accomplished the triple threat without degrading a single ingredient. Only the Mexicans have figured out how to combine red meat, poultry, and seafood into one magical embodiment of Americana known as “The Texas Fajita.” As cyclists, we should all be able to relate to the concept of gluttony, and this night was no exception for me. If you give me free chips and salsa in endless supply, I will, inevitably, eat free chips and salsa in endless supply. Like any red-blooded American, when the waiter brought my fajitas and asked if we wanted more chips, I replied, “Why yes, good sir. Gracious thanks.” After finishing our meal, I asked my wife’s opinion, but I had already made up my mind, “Do you think it’s cool for people to take the chips and salsa home in their doggy bag?” As we departed Plaza Azteca, bellies full, Styrofoam-boxed chips in hand, we were not only leaving a great restaurant, we were leaving the embodiment of The American Dream, nestled away in a Mexican restaurant.

So with the three components of the fabled “Air, Land, and Sea Diet” fueling my ride, I powered on. As we crossed the railroad tracks heading into the sprint zone, I was sitting fifth wheel behind Chris Harvie, with Steve in front of him, and Joe and John leading everyone out. I watched with amusement as Chris and Steve checked over their shoulders for the impending attack over and over again. Finally, Chris rose from the saddle and took off. I stuck to his wheel and when we were clear, I jumped for the sprint right as Steve was coming around my left. Steve took the sprint, even after staying out partying all night and doing a total of 200 one-legged squats that morning as a warm up! I could not help but wonder how I would have sprinted if I had done 200 total instead of 200 per leg.

As the ride went on, I had an astounding revelation. After having done this ride about five or six times, I had finally learned where to turn. The problem came as we made the final climb up to the left turn onto Otterdale where the climb continues for another handful of meters. I found myself getting gapped after that turn and turned myself inside out to get back to the group. Chris Harvie told me he had purchased an “altitude chamber” that he sleeps with to help him climb hills easier. I had no idea what he was talking about, but imagined something that resembled the transporter room from Star Trek. He explained that it was more like a humidifier, but I like the way I pictured it much better, so I’m sticking with that. Either way, after nearly dropping off the back on a climb that I usually have no problem with, I either need to get an altitude chamber, or consider cutting back on the Texas fajitas prior to doing this ride.

We finished the ride ahead of schedule according to Joe and as we reached the parking lot, some went to their cars, and some continued on their bikes toward their families and homes. I was part of the latter group, so I headed to my parents’, alone once again. I felt abused by the road, but I kept going. Like Cool Hand Luke boxing Dragline, I kept throwing punches that seemed to have little to no effect, one pedal stroke at a time. I descended Winterfield Road and a mile or two later I reached my destination- hungry, tired, and ready to start searching for my next glimpse of the dream.

It is the silver lining in the gray cloud, the rainbow after the storm, the reward for suffering and hard work, the American Dream. It might be made in a family trip to the pumpkin patch. It might be made growing a mustache just because you can. It might be made putting in overtime at work. It might be made muscling through another Spin Mafia ride. And the American Dream, might… just might be made in… well… Mexico.