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Baker on Judging a Bike ...

Living in New England gives one an appreciation for the change of seasons.  As much as we may enjoy a particular season, often there is that feeling of good riddance to the one on the way out.  Such is usually the case for me when winter wraps up for the year and spring brings green warm days.  As a cyclist, I’m pretty comfortable riding in any conditions, but there is a very special feeling when the roads are cleaned, the leaves start to pop, and the warm air means less layers to protect against the elements.  I love any training that doesn’t involve a ton of planning for clothing.

It’s the spring of 2006, and this particular day would best be described as the “first real day of spring”, since everyone was out on the roads, enjoying the parks, washing their cars and just in an all around good mood.  Everywhere I went, people were smiling, motorists were giving the friendly “atta-boy!” nods as the passed giving a safe and wide berth to us riders,…seriously this stuff never happens, so I was also caught up in the contagious positive mood.

I decided that this day called for a little exploring of new roads, which is one of my favorite things to do, never knowing if I’m going to find a scenic course or a series of grueling hills. To my pleasant surprise I traveled on a road not far from my house, although one I had never been on.  It was Route 222 in Hawington and rolls for a while before a nice bit of descending into Thomaston, CT.  As I rode along, I knew that the beautiful road was soon to end as I approached Thomaston center, which is far from pretty.  About a mile from the bottom I saw signs for the Thomaston Dam, which is not only a functioning Dam, but also a park and picnic area.  I decided a detour was needed on this day and a bit of sightseeing was in order, so over the Dam I rode.  What I really planned was to get to the other side of the damn and find a new road to take me up the hills into Litchfield so that I could avoid dropping further into the valley of Thomaston and having to contend with the busy downtown traffic.

baker



I approached the far end of the Dam, only to notice that there was no thru road, but there were some paths leading into the trees, to what I thought should be a road eventually.  Not wanting to risk the narrow tires on the unknown, I looked for the assistance of my happy fellow man, which there just happened to be one at the circular end of the Dam resting on his Harley-Davidson.
This was going to go well for me.  I rode the circular pattern once and on my pass by, I sized up my new friend with a flat yet manly, “Hey, what’s up man?”, using the appropriate amount of masculine head nod (keeping it straight, flicking it quickly up and to the right, and letting it return to it’s starting point).  Now, the tricky part comes during this dominance mating ritual, reading the reaction.  While trying not to stare, I sized up my new bff with the care and ease of an expert profiler.  Weighing in at a light 260 lbs, this svelte keg shaped individual was decked out in snug fitting jeans partially covered by the necessary leather-riding chaps.  Draped over the all too revealing skintight t-shirt was a denim vest with sheep’s wool on the underside and various patches sewn about, which I could only assume were merit badges for good deeds.  Where the safety helmet was clearly missing was a medium crop of salt and pepper hair that extended south to complete the matching moustache/neck-beard combo.  I’d place my friend at 45-50 years of age, but there was one crucial reading that I couldn’t get off of him.  Yeah the important truth-teller, the windows to his soul if you will, his eyes were impressively blocked by the Terminator style black wrap around sunglasses.  “Damn you Schwarzenegger!”, my mind screamed as I sought out my last possible chance of a tell, his posture.  And there it was like an open book.  When I say that his arms were folded across his chest, we’re literally talking about his chest, way up high, four fingers tucked deep in the armpits with his elbows straight out (go ahead, give it a shot I’ll wait,…..got it?......yeah, see what I mean?). The reply to my salutation was nonexistent.  He gave me nothing.  Not even an acknowledgement that I was there. Oh, this guy was good.  There’d be no free rides today.  It was clear that I was going to have to melt that tough exterior with my charm and polish before he’d give up any directional information, but hey, I’m the kind of guy that would expect to buy some dinners before my date would,….oh, let me get back to the story.

Still on my road bike, I made a second pass around the circular area, keeping myself positive on this pleasant spring morning.  Upon my approach, I softened my tone and gave a not quite sheepish, but certainly a modicum of resignation as I threw out a “Man, we finally got some good weather, huh?”   It was brilliant.  The perfect and subtle in I was looking for, not too pushy, hopefully not too desperate.   I mean, who could resist a good conversation starter about the weather.  I could already envision myself getting flooded with calls from his friends to hang out for the holidays and what not; oh I was just that good.  And then came the reply….nothing.  This guy was a rock and I began to question my own ability to interact, but I’m not going down that easy.  One more pass, but mix it up this time.  Throw all caution to the wind and really put yourself out there by stopping in front of him to ask my question about directions.
So I set up my pattern, felt steady on my pedals and got my breathing under control.  I positioned myself for the loop and executed a graceful brake and one leg dismount about 3 feet in front of Clyde.  Choosing to ignore and forget my two previous attempts at bonding, I came right out with my question while pointing to the trails behind him I asked; “Hey man, I’m trying to shorten up my ride a bit, do you know if I take those trails over there, can I get out on a main road near Thomaston?”  Very direct and non-threatening.  Now we all know the score and we can have a short conversation and be on our respective ways, and forget this ever took place.
I waited.  One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one thousa…What the fuck?!  Nothing.  Not an iota of movement or acknowledgement.  I was done and I snapped with the hidden Irish temper.  I went something like this; “Ya know, not for fucking nothing man, but all I asked is one fucking question.  That’s not too much to handle is it? I mean hey, look I get it, you’re out on you Harley having a nice day when some guy comes riding in here on a bicycle and your probably thinking “Hey, look at the queer in the tight spandex clothes”,…yeah I get it.  You’d probably love to kick my ass, but I gotta tell ya man, training on these bikes and climbing the hills is tough fucking work, so if you’re thinking I’m some kind a sissy, then you can just go fuck yourself, because all I want to know is if there is a road over there.”

This got a response.  Biker Clyde removed his hands from his armpits and began to move them rapidly together.  Trying to understand his warm-up technique to my pummeling, I watched him quickly flex his fingers and bump his hands together.  His war cries, which I thought might call his mates from their hidden positions, were unintelligible and reminded me of the monster on Young Frankenstein, singing “On the Ritz” with Gene Wilder.  It was then and only then that it occurred to me,….Harley Clyde is a deaf-mute…and I’m a dick.
I did what I had to do at that point.  I shook my head in agreement at everything he said, which was give or take, 30 very long seconds.  I’ll always remember the conversation, but I’ll never know what we discussed, just that Clyde probably found some of my character defects and that I agreed to many things in that ½ minute.

When it was over, we went our separate ways, me soft pedaling back the direction I had come, Clyde resuming his role as guardian of the circular parking area.

To this day, when things get a little tough, I often reflect back on that day at the dam and think “I wonder if that path does lead to a road?”

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