rookies
The last time that I saw Mike was six years ago on a cool summer night in Vermont. We had ridden together for 200 miles to this house on the border of New York before his legs gave out and I left him behind.
It was the first year that we had both started in randonneuring, and we had bonded in online forums as rookies, sharing tips and confessing to our anxieties as the rides got longer and more daunting. Prior to starting the 600k, I had confessed to worrying that I'd be too slow to finish, and as a way of encouragement he said to me, "well, the first one back gets the other some Ben & Jerry's"
We rode together for the first half of the course, chatting and joking with each other as we rode our bikes out of Massachusetts and into Vermont. He had developed problems after the first 100k, a knee issue that just kept getting worse and worse ... and worse. At first he just laughed it off, hardened up, treated it like another consequence of these long events -- just general wear and tear. But the pain just kept coming, deepening and sharpening, slowing him down and causing him to fall behind. As his friend, I stuck around, but eventually he told me to let him go. The last I saw of him was 3am in a house in Vermont. I had just gotten up from a three hour nap, and he had just staggered in, spent and drained, having long ago made the decision that he'd quit the ride here.
After Mike abandoned the 600k, we wound up going in separate directions. I kept doing the rides, completing another brevet series in the following year and qualifying for Paris. Mike wrestled with health issues and after an abortive attempt to put together our ill-fated, cursed fleche team, he just stopped riding for a while. He never came back to Hanscom, but he stayed in touch with us, kept on talking about coming back. Next year. Maybe the year after.
Then he married his girlfriend, moved to Burlington, Vermont and had a daughter. At first I thought that was it. The burdens of parenting are generally incompatible with the time needed for training. Yet, Mike still stayed involved and rather than actually riding, he started designing routes. You see, Mike had fallen in love with his adopted state, with the gorgeous scenery of the Green Mountains and the quiet dirt roads that laced their way between farms and pastures. He felt driven to share these local treasures with everyone else.
Over the last couple of years, Mike started designing brevets of his own, starting them from Burlington and running them under the new umbrella of New England Randonneurs, the new generation of the Boston Brevet Series. He's had riders from DC, Colorado, California, Iowa and Canada show up for his events. I had always wanted to try his rides, but the timing was inconvenient. 2010 was occupied with Patagonia plans and randonneuring had taken second priority to hiking and trekking. I had hoped to do his 400k last year, but then I got hit by a car.
So, this year rolled around, and I made his 400k my new goal, but lost training time to family and work travel. Still, I had hoped to do the ride, but then work imploded on me the night that I was to leave, and after a 12 hour workday, I wasn't in any mental state to attempt a 400k. But, all the same, I wanted to go to Vermont. It felt like unfinished business.
So, I emailed Mike and said that I'd be bailing on the 400k, but I'd still head up to Vermont and cobble together something of my own. Maybe a 'modest' 100 mile ride somewhere or a 60. We made plans for me to join him at the finish, and I'd keep him company while he waited for riders to roll in.
It was a warm midsummer evening when I showed up at the parking lot just outside of Stowe, and Mike was sitting on a cooler, watching fireworks explode before a cloudless night sky. He had grown a beard since I last saw him, streaked in silver and charcoal, glowing red and white in the light of pyrotechnics.
"Hey, Cris. Long time."
"Indeed. How's the ride going? How many starters?"
"Twelve riders showed up. Two DNF's so far. Rescued one and he's sleeping in his car."
"Bloody 400k's and their pound of flesh."
"You know it."
How do we make friendships that survive years with sporadic contact? How do we have conversations that fill in the blanks of years but feel like they just started yesterday? I don't know what separates these sort of deep connections from the folks that I might see everyday but have nothing to talk about, yet Mike and I spent four hours in that parking lot, talking about family and childhood and bike radar and the ways that our lives have plans of their own.
Riders came in, and we flipped into volunteer mode to sign their cards and talk to them about their day, but they'd drive off, leaving us to the solitude of a warm summer night with fireworks and no other plans save the company we'd keep for each other. I mused over how a bunch of us who started in 2006: Jake, Emily, TheFSB\Tom the Indestructible, he and I, have assumed these mantles in the club now; occupying board positions and running events. He just smiled and shook his head and said, "yeah, I didn't think I'd be here. If you told me six years ago, that I'd be juggling two kids with my own business and a brevet series, I'd say you were high."
For the last week, an image has been circulating through my Facebook friends feed of a quote that is alternately attributed to Joseph Campbell or Ralph Waldo Emerson of "We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us." I don't know what life is waiting for me, but it came to mind as Mike said what he did.
At some point after midnight, my allergies had started acting up, so I excused myself to go to a 24 hour gas station for a pack of tissues. When I came back, I also had a pint of Cherry Garcia and I set it down next to Mike on his cooler. He picked it up and chuckled.
"Man, that goes way back. I'm surprised that you remembered."
"Are you kidding me, Mike? I never forgot."
It was the first year that we had both started in randonneuring, and we had bonded in online forums as rookies, sharing tips and confessing to our anxieties as the rides got longer and more daunting. Prior to starting the 600k, I had confessed to worrying that I'd be too slow to finish, and as a way of encouragement he said to me, "well, the first one back gets the other some Ben & Jerry's"
We rode together for the first half of the course, chatting and joking with each other as we rode our bikes out of Massachusetts and into Vermont. He had developed problems after the first 100k, a knee issue that just kept getting worse and worse ... and worse. At first he just laughed it off, hardened up, treated it like another consequence of these long events -- just general wear and tear. But the pain just kept coming, deepening and sharpening, slowing him down and causing him to fall behind. As his friend, I stuck around, but eventually he told me to let him go. The last I saw of him was 3am in a house in Vermont. I had just gotten up from a three hour nap, and he had just staggered in, spent and drained, having long ago made the decision that he'd quit the ride here.
After Mike abandoned the 600k, we wound up going in separate directions. I kept doing the rides, completing another brevet series in the following year and qualifying for Paris. Mike wrestled with health issues and after an abortive attempt to put together our ill-fated, cursed fleche team, he just stopped riding for a while. He never came back to Hanscom, but he stayed in touch with us, kept on talking about coming back. Next year. Maybe the year after.
Then he married his girlfriend, moved to Burlington, Vermont and had a daughter. At first I thought that was it. The burdens of parenting are generally incompatible with the time needed for training. Yet, Mike still stayed involved and rather than actually riding, he started designing routes. You see, Mike had fallen in love with his adopted state, with the gorgeous scenery of the Green Mountains and the quiet dirt roads that laced their way between farms and pastures. He felt driven to share these local treasures with everyone else.
Over the last couple of years, Mike started designing brevets of his own, starting them from Burlington and running them under the new umbrella of New England Randonneurs, the new generation of the Boston Brevet Series. He's had riders from DC, Colorado, California, Iowa and Canada show up for his events. I had always wanted to try his rides, but the timing was inconvenient. 2010 was occupied with Patagonia plans and randonneuring had taken second priority to hiking and trekking. I had hoped to do his 400k last year, but then I got hit by a car.
So, this year rolled around, and I made his 400k my new goal, but lost training time to family and work travel. Still, I had hoped to do the ride, but then work imploded on me the night that I was to leave, and after a 12 hour workday, I wasn't in any mental state to attempt a 400k. But, all the same, I wanted to go to Vermont. It felt like unfinished business.
So, I emailed Mike and said that I'd be bailing on the 400k, but I'd still head up to Vermont and cobble together something of my own. Maybe a 'modest' 100 mile ride somewhere or a 60. We made plans for me to join him at the finish, and I'd keep him company while he waited for riders to roll in.
It was a warm midsummer evening when I showed up at the parking lot just outside of Stowe, and Mike was sitting on a cooler, watching fireworks explode before a cloudless night sky. He had grown a beard since I last saw him, streaked in silver and charcoal, glowing red and white in the light of pyrotechnics.
"Hey, Cris. Long time."
"Indeed. How's the ride going? How many starters?"
"Twelve riders showed up. Two DNF's so far. Rescued one and he's sleeping in his car."
"Bloody 400k's and their pound of flesh."
"You know it."
How do we make friendships that survive years with sporadic contact? How do we have conversations that fill in the blanks of years but feel like they just started yesterday? I don't know what separates these sort of deep connections from the folks that I might see everyday but have nothing to talk about, yet Mike and I spent four hours in that parking lot, talking about family and childhood and bike radar and the ways that our lives have plans of their own.
Riders came in, and we flipped into volunteer mode to sign their cards and talk to them about their day, but they'd drive off, leaving us to the solitude of a warm summer night with fireworks and no other plans save the company we'd keep for each other. I mused over how a bunch of us who started in 2006: Jake, Emily, TheFSB\Tom the Indestructible, he and I, have assumed these mantles in the club now; occupying board positions and running events. He just smiled and shook his head and said, "yeah, I didn't think I'd be here. If you told me six years ago, that I'd be juggling two kids with my own business and a brevet series, I'd say you were high."
For the last week, an image has been circulating through my Facebook friends feed of a quote that is alternately attributed to Joseph Campbell or Ralph Waldo Emerson of "We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us." I don't know what life is waiting for me, but it came to mind as Mike said what he did.
At some point after midnight, my allergies had started acting up, so I excused myself to go to a 24 hour gas station for a pack of tissues. When I came back, I also had a pint of Cherry Garcia and I set it down next to Mike on his cooler. He picked it up and chuckled.
"Man, that goes way back. I'm surprised that you remembered."
"Are you kidding me, Mike? I never forgot."