Beautiful, sunny, crisp, windy day. It was in the 50s and a I pedaled out in sleeves. Wheeling the bikes into the street, we did a few turns in the back of the neighborhood, going up and down the smallest hill we can find around us, dodging gravel on the right side down by the cul-de-sac.

I’m still trying to relax my feet in the new shoes and pedals. Today is just my third ride with them, and I’m having a hard time convincing myself I can make it to the prescribed six rides before assessing the problem, especially when the problem starts creeping in at mile four. The idea of foot pain for the next several dozen miles thereafter is no fun.

I did the first two of four laps into the cul-de-sac, generally mashing the pedals and trying to warm up. The Yankee breezed up and down the road, from a distance a picture of relaxed composure. She really just wants to go ride and this is just her tolerating my cold legs. After two turns she cranked her head to the side and heads out through the shorter exit from the neighborhood.

My last two laps into the bottom of that road gives me my first three miles or so, after which I cruise through the slightly more fun exit out of the neighborhood, stretching things out into a whirling, assuredly ugly and almost respectably speedy form before the creek bed, and the slow incline that follows it. From there it is up one of the more popular stretches of cycling road in town, the red light and the second half of the five mile climb. Oh, sure, that sounds impressive, but I won’t tell you the elevation, because it isn’t.

I’m maybe seven miles in and getting more out of the stroke, just like the expert said I would, but my feet hurt. I have this deal with myself though: I will not stop riding for any reason that can be in any way tolerated or ignored if the odometer is under 15 miles. The feet, though, and the simultaneous crunching and pulling apart that seems to be happening in my arches, is making a powerful argument otherwise.

I started tinkering with my stroke, more lifting than pressing. This helped a bit. Too self-aware of my foot pain I began to notice other things. My entire bike feels out of fit, somehow. I am too big for it all of a sudden. The geometry, not that it is ever good, is noticeably awkward. I noticed every little thing. The arms aren’t right, I’m too far back. I need a custom-built bike. Everything.

I stopped at almost the midpoint of today’s mini-route to take off my jacket, have a banana and rest my feet. I hadn’t seen The Yankee yet. She must be having a good ride, and if so there’s no crossing that gap. There’s even a switchback on this route and I didn’t see her going down the second overpass as I went up the first one.

Settling back in I notice my feet stopped hurting. I’ve adjusted! Or damaged the nerves! Something has changed, and maybe not just my stroke. Having zoned out for the past few moments I glanced down and realized I’m cruising over slow rolling hills, gaining speed as I go. This is unlike me. It must be the banana. (I will carry one tomorrow to test this theory.)

I made the hard right for home at 20 miles. There’s a car dealership there, and an out of the way transmitter across the street. We’ll soon pass the fishing pond. And then three stop signs, one little hill I hate and another I’m trying to convince myself I don’t mind too much …

Oh, there are fireman at one of those stop signs. They have the boot out. Great: a fund raiser and me with no bills.
Only this is a rural, volunteer fire department in the kind of place where everyone knows everyone. This crew might have answered a call for someone in that SUV, and that chitchat may be what is making their conversation going on so long. I can’t trackstand for-

That’s about how long I can trackstand, about as long as it takes to think that paragraph. Suddenly I’m over. Crash, scrape, pow.

They say earning your first fall in clips is something like a badge of honor, a rite of ascension. You aren’t stepping off of pedals or pulling your shoe out of a vinyl toe cage. You have to pivot the ball of your foot and turn your ankle. It comes out quickly, if you’re ready to do it. If you feel your bike turn and instinct takes over — well, my ancestors didn’t have clips, so that instinct isn’t there.

Somehow I stayed up, but my bike fell. And there was a terrible scratching noise on the asphalt, though I can’t find anything damaged. I stood there stretching for a bit, muttering for a bit, trying to convince myself I hadn’t strained anything. This all went on a little too long, apparently. The firemen started walking over to offer help. Self-conscious, I thanked them, told a joke and tried to clip back in to pedal on. Because I was self-conscious I almost fell off the bike and into the laps of the two people holding the fund raising boot.

I stood up in the pedals and sprinted off as quickly as I could, hoping the swaying of the bike frame from right to left at least suggested some competence.

A few minutes later I saw The Yankee a half mile ahead. I slowly reeled her in, ducked inside to pass her and gave a glance. And in a way you get maybe just from knowing someone a good long while I could tell in that peripheral half second that something was wrong. We stopped. She shared. Turns out she’d actually crashed right by that car dealership and transmitter. A truck got to close, she thinks the wind sucked her in, and it turns out her ancestors didn’t have clips either.

She was on the ground and bounced once. Someone coming the other direction stopped to help.

She said “Could you help me get out of my bike?”

Her feet stayed clipped through the fall. She’s an artist.

Because we are in a part of the world where everyone knows almost everyone and you can get a ride anywhere, the guy offered to take her home. She declined, “My husband should be just a few miles behind me.”

“Next time tell him to keep up!” he said.

It takes all I have, stranger.

So we both sort of limped home. She had the slight owie. I’d hurt my pride.

I attacked the longest, largest hill in town at the end of my ride for the first time ever. It isn’t especially long or high, but it’s more than enough for the likes of me. It ascends in two stages and in that first part I was a fury. In the second I looked as if I was pedaling in soup.

This was the longest ride I’ve had in some time and it wasn’t even long, just 30 miles. I have to build back up once again.

The birds are back. We’ve improved the anti-squirrel theft technology — taller pole, and yes squirrels can climb, but they can’t leap high enough over this conical baffle thing — and now only the feathered set are getting the goodies.

I hadn’t realized cardinals were especially territorial, until we met this guy. He’s also very aware of you from a distance:

And then some of the smaller snackers:

I’m sure we will see more birds tomorrow.