Christie’s Gran Fon-SLOW: Part I

This entry is about pedal bikes. You know, a bike that makes roughly .2 horsepower instead of the usual 100+. For a girl who loves speed, it kind of doesn’t really make sense that I’ve gotten bit by the cycling bug. What does make sense is that I love the downhills a lot more than the climbs.

For Christmas in 2009, Randolph’s dad, Jim, bought me and James entries into the October 9, 2010 Levi Leipheimer’s King Ridge GranFondo, a 103 mile bicycle ride up and down the dramatic peaks of the Sonoma County coast.

All I had was an old, heavy Trek 1000 I bought from fellow racer Everett Dittman in late 2007, and I pedaled maybe three times a month on average. James, Jim and I had a great 55 mile ride one day out to Jimtown (isn’t that funny? James, Jim, Jimtown), and I thought it was amazing that I’d actually ridden my bicycle that far. James and I would occasionally pedal around together, but it was hard for me to stay in his draft, especially since he upgraded to a sweet new carbon Giant. Here’s a photo from one of our rides up Chalk Hill Road. Ah, springtime in Sonoma County.

Pretty vineyards!

So sitting under the Christmas tree and looking at the entry receipt, I was, like, “wow, that’s a cool gift,” and then didn’t really think about it again for about eight months. I had vague notions of getting more into cycling but was really more into a tennis, a sport I was good at, and a sport that has cuter outfits.

In August, James and I broke up and I moved to Saratoga, California, to be closer to my family and my work. I immediately lost my tennis network and was loathe to set foot in a 24 Hour Fitness ever again. So I started pedaling. At first I didn’t think there was any chance I’d do the impending GranFondo, because I was distraught over our breakup and thought it would be too emotionally difficult. But then the tides turned, inexplicably, and I went from feeling sad and overwhelmed to feeling determined and capable.

I started pedaling that old bike several days a week. The weather was lovely, and my new home is situated close to some amazing cycling routes.

In late August, early September, I finished a work meeting at Bucks of Woodside, a famous Silicon Valley wheeling and dealing spot, walked outside to my truck and my bicycle, spotted two very serious looking bicycle dudes, and struck up a conversation. “Hey, can I ask you…is Kings Mountain Road a safe road to ride on alone? Or is it safer in groups?” Kind of a dumb question to ask John Novitsky, a guy who podiumed last year at the USA Cycling Masters Road Nationals. But he didn’t mind, and he didn’t mind giving me all sorts of other bicycling information either.

We had a conversation. He was impressed that I race motorcycles, I was impressed by his cycling knowledge and enthusiasm. He has since started helping me as sort of a casual cycling mentor or coach, and I have since helped him by providing occasional downhill lessons and entertainment (as if my girl dramas could be possibly anything other than entertaining).

I pedaled on and on, and all this while Johnny Watts (a nickname given to him by Levi himself, apparently) was also encouraging me to pick up a new steed:

It was a steal. This is one of those bikes that was probably five or six grand new, and I was paying much, much less than that. Wednesday or Thursday, the week before my 103 mile ride with 8,800 feet of climbing, Johhny Watts was helping me put in an 11/28 cassette, fitting me on the thing and I was giving him a check to give to his racing friend. I went out on a test ride Thursday, a pre-race warmup Friday, and drove up to Santa Rosa Friday evening to have what I thought would be a pleasant dinner with James and to get ready for the big ride.

On our way to dinner, he’s asking me stuff about the bike. I get anxious when he starts asking me questions about bikes, motorcycles or cars. I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what bicycle gearing is, I don’t know shit. I’m just a girl. And he’s asking me all these questions with a worried look on his face. Eventually he gets quiet, looks at me, and says, “hey, I don’t really know how to tell you this…but I don’t think you’re going to be able to do this ride.”

The bicycle had a standard crankset on it, a 54/39. Big, strong, serious bicycle dudes sometimes prefer a compact (50/34) crankset for lots of climbs, and here I am with my long, lacking in leverage, chicken little legs and minimal cycling training. No way could these gams and those gears get over King Ridge.

Some arguing and crying ensued. I was really stressed out but determined to complete this ride, even if I had to walk my bike up the hills.

We stopped at the Trek bicycle store on our way to Franco’s Ristorante so I could pick up a pair of good bib shorts and maybe a fun new jersey. I was in the dressing room when James peeked his 6’3″ head over the door and said, “hey, I think I have a real good option for you for tomorrow. It might cost some money…” I rolled my eyes at this point. “…but hear me out.” He then explained the crankset situation to me, and said that the mechanics there at the shop could put a compact Ultegra crankset on there while we enjoy wine and pizza across the street.

“Fine. Do it.” I figured the bike needed a compact on it going forward anyway, so might as well get it handled.

Two glasses of wine later, on our way back with my new bike in the van, I felt much, much better. I had no idea what to expect of the ride, no way to conceptualize, visualize, proselytize or agonize about it or over it. I just laid out my clothes, set my alarm and went to sleep.