The Notebook of an Unreasonable Man
The Children of a Lesser Bobka
Words of Wisdom By Kent Peterson
Bob Bryant sends email notices to the local group reminding us of upcoming recumbent rides. He always includes a line about how we ride rain or shine. Of course, hes kidding about this. From November through May in the Puget Sound area, you stand as much chance of seeing Bill Clinton and Ken Starr enjoying a ride on a Double Vision as you do of seeing the sun. Its not a question of rain or shine, its only a question of how much rain.
On an early December Saturday when the sky was only a light shade of gray, my son Weasel and I set out to meet up with Bob and the rest of the recumbent gang. Well, actually, its a subset of the gang. For some reason I cant quite fathom, we seem to get a greater turn-out for the summer rides. Those who choose to ride only when the weather is nice we refer to by our own little term of endearment. We call them weather weenies. They, in turn, affectionately label the rest of us as crazies. Were a wonderfully close-knit group.
Weasel seems to have inherited the crazy gene from his old manthat and a love of baked goods. Weasels latest obsession is babka, a sweet egg bread flavored with either cinnamon or chocolate. Inspired by an episode of Seinfeld, Weasel has embarked on a semi-scientific survey of the pastry, intent on proving once and for all which of the babkas, cinnamon or chocolate, is the lesser babka.
In this modern, multi-tasking age, weve managed to combine our interests in bicycles and babka into a single ride. The ride officially starts at Coulon Park in Renton and then follows one of two routes to the bagel shop on Mercer Island where we gorge ourselves on bagels and babka. We then waddle out to the bikes and ride back.
Its 16 miles from our back door to Coulon Park and Weasel and I ride off on our bikes. Weasel is on his BikeE and Im on the Reynolds Weld Lab Wishbone. As were riding along, Weasel comments about the wind. Its not a complimentary comment. On the Wishbone, Im both more laid back and lower than he is on the BikeE. I say something like What wind? which inspires Weasel to make another disparaging comment. Im impressed with his economy of phrasing, but suggest that we are gaining nothing by complaining about the conditions. Look on the bright side, I say. At least it isnt raining.
It begins to rain moments later. We stop and pull our raingear out of the tailboxes and put it on over our Polarfleece. In light rain, fleece alone will keep you somewhat comfortable, but we have a feeling this rain is going to be particularly wet and persistent. Still, it takes more than a little wind and rain to keep us from babka. We get back on the bikes and ride to Coulon Park.
As part of the weathers treachery, it decides to stop raining by the time we get to Coulon Park. This later proves to be part of an insidious scheme to get as many riders as possible out onto their bikes for the eventual drenching. But Im getting ahead of my story.
Bob is at the park with his Gold Rush, and a few minutes later Mike and Matt drive up with their bikes in the back of their pickup. Mike and Matt are another father and son team of recumbent riders. Mike rides a Vision R-40 and his son Matt rides a Rans Rocket. They both cast somewhat apprehensive gazes at the cloudy skies, but Bob, Weasel and I convince them it is a fine day for a ride.
The surprise guest of the day is Tim. Tim shows up with his BikeE Airtech and all his fancy new foul weather gear. Tim has a new Polarfleece jacket, warm Speedo tights and a bring-on-the-winter attitude. Since Tim had previously been a charter member of the weather weenies, his defection to the wet side is quite a coup for us.
We discuss which of the two routes to the bagel shop we should take. The shorter route goes up the east side of Lake Washington, doesnt have any major traffic or hills, and crosses over to Mercer Island via a relatively short bridge from Bellevue. The longer route goes down through Renton, up the west side of the lake, climbs a big hill and crosses over to the island on the mile-long I-90 floating bridge. Weasel and Tim convince the group that the western route is the obvious choice: the harder ride will give us more of an appetite for the babka.
As we set out, we are joined by Neal and Pam on their Rans Screamer tandem. Theyve ridden down from Bothell and mumble something about being slowed by the wind. They are dressed for the weather with multiple layers of Polarfleece. Pam has discovered a fabric store with a big supply of fleece in very bright colors and shes sewn this into jerseys, jackets, pants and gloves.
We ride through Renton and then up towards Seattle along Rainier Avenue. Our standard pattern is that we each ride along at our own pace, but we pause frequently to regroup. Right before one of our standard regroup points, I manage to hammer the rear wheel of the Wishbone into a steel plate on the road and I flat. Of course it is raining by now, so while the rest of the group chats in the drizzle, I patch the snakebite flat. By the time we get rolling again, the rain is really starting to pick up.
By the time we turn onto Lake Washington Boulevard at Seward Park, it is raining pretty heavily. A rider on a titanium Merlin swings around the pack of us and takes off. Now some of us are cursed with a little circuit in our brains which just snaps when another bike goes by us. I happen to be one of those afflicted fellows, and the next thing I know, Im hurling along Lake Washington Boulevard, hot on the Merlins trail. He is doing about 25 MPH, so I kick the Wishbone up to 27. I catch and pass the Merlin rider just as the road is curving to the left. Right about this time, I realize that a) this is stupid, b) its really raining, c) this road is really slick, d) I dont know if Ill be able to hold my line in this turn, and e) even if I do, Im squeezing the Merlin into the curb. I hear the Merlin rider swear as he goes for his brakes. I hang on and do the only thing I can do, which is to try to torque a bit more power into the pedals and blast through the turn. Remarkably, we both survive and keep our bikes upright. I back off a few notches and say Sorry! and You take the lead! As the Merlin cautiously passes me. The rider is shaking his head and is obviously convinced I am a moron. Given the circumstances, I think he is right. At our next stop Pam comments to me that weve passed from friendly competition with the wedgie riders to open warfare.
We continue to ride along the lakeshore and then wind our way up the switchbacked road that takes us up the hill. Its a steady, character-building climb and we regroup at the top. Then its down to connect up with the trail that hugs the north edge of the I-90 floating bridge.
The I-90 bridge is a wonder of modern engineering. Now anyone with half a brain will tell you that if take a chunk of concrete and place it on some water the concrete will sink like well, concrete. But if youre the kind of person who stayed awake in math class and likes thinking big, youll figure out that if you have enough concrete and enough displacement, you can make a bridge out of concrete that will actually float on the water. Since Seattle has more than its fair share of engineers, we naturally have several of these floating bridges around here and most of the time they work pretty well. Sure, there was that time back in 1990 when one of them sank during a big storm, but that was just a freak occurrence.
So its with confidence that we roll down the ramp and onto the bridge. Logic tells us that a bridge floating on the water should be level. But should be does not always equal is and today seems to be a day in which the laws of physics are not on the job. The ride across the lake sure seems to be uphill. And into the wind. And really cold. And the rain is coming at us horizontally.
In keeping with the vacation from physical laws, the temperature must be below freezing even though the raindrops are persistently liquid. But they arent really individual drops, they are more like a current we are fighting against. We barely have the energy to pedal and swear at the same time. But, like salmon being drawn by the scent of their birth stream, we fight our way toward Mercer Island. The babka is calling.
Remarkably the bridge doesnt sink. We drag ourselves up the true climb to Mercer Island and gasp like freshly evolved amphibians in the shelter of an underpass. Matt, Mike and I were up at the front and we wait for the rest of the crew. Its a cold wait.
I comfort myself with the knowledge that Ive actually been colder in the past and somehow managed to live through the experience. It was quite a few years ago. I was on a solo bike tour heading from Minnesota to Northern California. It was late May and the weather in the South Dakota Black Hills turned nasty. The day started with a relentless rain in Spearfish. As I climbed into the mountains, I said to myself Well, it cant get any worse. When I crashed my loaded bike crossing wet railroad tracks, I said, Well, it cant get any worse. When the climb got steeper and the rain got heavier and I could barely see through my rain-streaked glasses, I said, Well, it cant get any worse. When I crested the pass and the rain turned to snow well, then I knew for certain that it couldnt get any worse. And when my brakes froze open and my cheap rain gear actually froze solid and shattered and fell away from me in large, useless shards of plastic well, then I was a bit too busy to be thinking about whether or not things could get any worse.
A fully-loaded, soaking wet, brakeless bicycle drops like a Cadillac going over a cliff. Like many trauma victims, I dont clearly recall the descent. A combination of sheer terror and reflexes chilled to the point of super-conductivity allowed me to somehow keep the bike upright. The road leveled slightly as I crossed into Wyoming and at the town of Buckhorn I was able to ease the bike to a stop by wedging my heel into the edge of the rear tire.
Buckhorn, Wyoming consists of one bar & grill. Thats it, but thats enough. I pried myself off the bike, shaking uncontrollably from cold and adrenaline. I limped into the bar wet, cold and closer to death than I care to consider. I couldnt talk, but I pointed to what I wanted a shot of whiskey, a ham sandwich, and hot chocolate. This combination poured into some small part of me that was still burning with life and gradually warmed into the rest of my body.
Eventually, I noticed a cowboy at the bar. Hed been staring at me since Id staggered in. I guess they dont get too many guys wearing cleated shoes, soaking wet tights, tattered plastic scraps, and a racers jersey in Buckhorn. He saw me looking at him looking at me and said, What the hell are you doing here? Im bicycling to California, I replied. He thought about this for a minute, took a swig of his drink and squinted at me. And how much do they pay you to do this?
I thought of that old cowboy now, nearly two decades later. How much do they pay me to do this? Not nearly enough. I may be getting older, but I dont seem to be getting any wiser. At least now Ive got companions in this lunacy. Weasels the last one in, explaining that at the height of the storm his visibility dropped to zero and he wound up walking his BikeE through the worst of it. Tim turns to me and asks Why are we doing this? Because were stupid, I explain. No, Weasel counters, its for the babka!
Of course! The babka! We press on and in a few minutes we are someplace that is warm and dry and it has babka. But something is lacking. We load up our loaves of babka and head next door.
Next door is coffee. Warm, wonderful, life giving coffee. We spend a long time with the coffee and the babka. The verdict is in cinnamon takes a backseat to no babka. Truly, cinnamon is superior, and chocolate is the lesser babka.
Our experiment done, our hungers satisfied, our faith in science restored, we look out at the sky. Maybe the sky is a slightly lighter shade of gray, maybe the raindrops are a little smaller. We ride for home and live to ride another day.
Its raining as I write this, one week later. Bob has just sent me an
email asking why I didnt show up for todays ride and calling me a weenie. But were on deadline and he really needs this article. We cant all spend all our time riding. Someone has to make sure the magazine gets out the door. And did I mention that its really, really raining?
But Ill be on the next ride. Guaranteed. And so will Weasel. Well be there, we have to be. Because, you see, Ive just eaten the last of the babka.
Editors Note: Babka 101Babka is a kosher leavened cake swirled with cinnamon or chocolate. Our Babka comes from Noahs Deli in Mercer Island, Washington. It is Greens Homestyle Babka flown in from Brooklyn, New York. They also serve a mean lox bagel to hungry and wet recumbent riders.
