 | Of Dogs and Cyclists: The Difference Between Riders
By Jill Homer
I’ve always thought of my self as a cycle “tourist”-someone who uses a bicycle as a means of travel,escape and relaxation. As such, I often find myselfsweating up a challenging stretch of road near my homeknown as Middle Canyon. The reward is a sublimelytear-jerking descent.
From time to time I see Greg pounding up the canyon.Greg is a self-proclaimed roadie who enters races andrides Middle Canyon — not so much for the alpinescenery, and not so much for the screaming descent —
but to time himself on the punishing four-mile, 1,900foot climb. Riding with Greg in Middle Canyon usuallyinvolves him approaching me from behind, nodding aquick hello, followed by several miles of me trying,rather futilely, to catch up. Despite my slugishness,Greg told me he still enjoys my company as a fellow“roadie.” In an effort to recapture my self dignity, Ialways silently maintained my independence as a“tourist.”
Then one evening Greg passed me as we rode by a
dilapidated RV parked next to roadside picnictables.The campsite seemed only to be inhabited by ascrawny yellow dog, who immediately bolted for ourankles. Greg took off in a flash, leaving the slowcyclist behind to deal with the dog in shouts of fearmasked by indignation. The dog, predictably, got boredand walked away.
“See, that’s what separates you roadies from the restof us,” I panted at Greg, when I raced to catch up withhim several hundred feet up the road. “You guys outrun
the mean dogs. We usually just continue along, and ifthe dogs get too close for comfort, we kick the livingdaylight out of their ugly faces.”
“Don't you think you'll get bitten?” Greg asked. I thought about it for a second. “Probably.”
“Your messing with me,” he grinned, and his teethseemed to reflect the shimmering white on his jersey.“There’s no real difference between you and me.” Greggestured at my bicycle, a 2004 IBEX Corrida that wasdecidedly “road” in appearance. “You’re just slower.”
I smiled. True, Greg and I were both on skinny tires.Greg and I both had the tell-tale farmer tansgrease-stained hands that come of regular riding. Butstanding next to Greg with his sleek, stream-linedhelmet and skin-tight lycra, and myself a picture ofcycle frumpiness in running shorts and a “I Climbed Mt.Whitney” T-shirt, I struggled to see much similarity atall.
As he shot ahead I continued to labor up the mountain.“Greg and I might not be so different,” I thought, “but
we’re not so much the same.” I pictured that snarlingyellow dog.
See, cyclists are a lot like dogs. No, not because theyeat protein snacks and bark at cars. They’re like dogsin that they come in different breeds, but in the end,they’re all cyclists.
First there are commuters. Commuters are the Labradorretrievers of the pack. Throw them a good bicycleroute, and they’ll keep coming back. They love a goodgame of “catch” — that is, they race to catch greenlights. They’re highly sociable, largely domesticated
and don’t mind being leashed to the same roads dayafter day.
Then there are the recreational riders, who resembletoy poodles in that they’re mostly out there for show.They often have the best bikes on the block, but thosebikes only see the light of day once or twice a year.They coast gingerly along smooth payment, chromesparkling in the sunlight, all while smiling dreamilyto grab the attention of passers by.
In contrast, there are the extreme mountain bikers, the
huskies, pulling their powerful bodies over terrainevolution never intended them to cross. Their bikesshow the marks of a life fully lived, coated in mud andmarred by deep scars. They live on the cusp of tame andwild, fully prepared for the roughest conditions. Theywork well in groups but their minds stay fiercelyindependent, and they’re never fully content when theycome down from the mountain.
Recreational mountain bikers are golden retrievers.Like their husky brothers, they love going on long
rides in the mountains, jumping in the mud, andsummoning their maximum energy level whenever they goout. However, they’re also just as happy to curl up onthe couch when the weather gets bad.
There are club riders, the Shetland sheepdogs, who arehappiest in large groups. They’re always nipping at theheels of other riders to keep a good drafting speed asthey move in formation along the road.
Road racers, on the other hand, break out of the packwhen it really matters. Like greyhounds, they move in
graceful unity until the time comes to rush forward ina stunning burst of speed. Their sleek, lycra-cladbodies were built for speed, and speed alone. They canbe a delicate breed, prone to freezing in the winterand unable to carry the weight of life’s necessities ontheir ultra-light bikes.
That’s where cycle tourists are different, and,thinking of Greg, we’re vastly different. Tourists aremore similar to St. Bernards than any other breed -big, bulky, slow, but built to last, built to withstand
the rain and snow and ice and wind that gets in the wayduring the long haul. Tourists are well adept tocarrying large loads on their bikes, pulling them whennecessary, moving at a steady speed until they reachtheir final destination, whether it’s 5 or 5,000 milesaway.
I laughed at the thought of a St. Bernard running up adog racing track, lumbering along side and trippingover the other greyhounds. Greg was much too far up thecanyon now for me to share my scenario, and the
sunlight set low on the horizon. I opted to turn mybike around, adjusted my helmet and began cranking upthe gears. Soon I was moving so fast I scarcely noticedthe stifled barking of the yellow dog. “We’re not sodifferent, you and me,” I thought, and continued downthe canyon. | | | | |
