Patronizing bike friends

Being a bikewife isn’t just about you and your biker. Oh no. Being a bikewife means you also sign up to a whole bunch of bikefriends, bikeparties, and even bikefood. But for this post, let’s start with bikefriends.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I really do love to talk about bikes, so I’m not going to say biketalk is a problem, or that biker shouldn’t take me along to bikeparties or try to keep me away from bikefriends. I was a biker myself once  -  I time-trialed for a few years. Not blazing fast, but certainly respectably mid-division, even in good company. I have a few club trophies, and a few nice bits of clothes and gear I won fair and square. I’ve raced – and finished - cross and mountain too. I finished a 100 mile randonee in under 8 hours. I’m not a bike idiot. 

So, bikefriends, don’t talk to me like I’m one. Even if they don’t race – or even ride – the bikewife will learn about bikes. They have to – it’s necessary for the fiscal stability of your household.  Bikers sneak in stuff, lie about what it cost, and claim that they will sell old stuff or swap it over. They don’t. Bikewives know the difference in price between 105 and Dura Ace, and they know those wheels are new and that you haven’t borrowed them just for this one race. And as for that old chestnut, ‘don’t worry Honey, I’ll sell the old groupset/wheels/frame on eBay’ – why do you even bother? I know the old stuff will be cluttering up the garage for many seasons waiting to become that mystical ‘rain bike’, ‘pit bike’, or ‘just-in-case spares’. It certainly isn’t going to become cash any time soon.

So back to my point. Recently, I was invited to a party hosted by biker’s bikebuddy. That’s really okay; like I said, I like bikers, biketalk, and certainly enjoy the company of other bikewives. Bikers usually have nice homes and throw great parties with great food; and this party was no exception. The trouble only came when standing with my wine glass among my biker and some bikebuddies, the conversation inevitably turned to bikes, or bike parts, or something like that. I offered a few contributions to the conversation, and one of them looked at me and said:

‘Look at you, talking about bikes!’

Let’s get something straight. We bikewives know more than you think. When we nod reassuringly when you tell us about the ‘mechanical’ that meant you got dropped from the pack in the cat 4 newbie-fest, it’s not because we are sharing your ‘agony of defeat’ or the injustice of a mechanical akin to what spoiled David Millar’s Tour chances not that long ago. You hear us say, ‘Yes dear, of course your rear derailleur let you down, yes of course you should call the LBS and complain, of course, yes, look into buying a new one’. What we’re really saying, is ‘Yeah, what a shame, all the other boys were faster than you. Suck it up.’

If you are a bikewife who bikes, then the patronizing bikefriends really sting. I recall a mountain bike trip with a bunch of bikewives, all of whom were quite competent bikers with a more than rudimentary knowledge of bikes and biking, when one came out of a very tricky section of trail with a bent derailleur and a broken chain. We could straighten out the derailleur, but weren’t sure what to do about the chain, and we didn’t want to do any major damage to the drivetrain with a misguided trail repair. I called the local bike shop from my cell phone, and asked for the mechanic. I explained what had happened, that we had a chain tool, and asked, can we fix this enough so she can ride out?’

He said: ‘No, you can’t.’

Me: ‘But surely we can just take out the broken links and reconnect it; at least enough so she can single gear it out of here?’

'So what was thing called again?'

He: ‘That is possible.’

Me: ‘So what you’re saying is ‘one could fix this, but I can’t’?’

He: ‘Yeah, pretty much.’

Me: ‘Humor me, why don’t you, and let’s just see?’ (or rather, I said something like that – the important thing is he wisely decided to give me a little help).

We removed the bent and broken links. We reconnected the chain snugly enough over a ratio that she could manage to ride out. 

So there, Mr. Mechanic (or something along those lines)…

The Excuse Book

Ahh, race season is underway. The long Sunday ride has been swapped for the Saturday all-day drive and race. Don’t worry biker, bikewife will take care of it. I’ll take the kids to T-ball, do the grocery shopping, and get everything done so when you get back from your race you can relax. And Sunday? Of course, that’s your ‘recovery’ day. I understand.

What I don’t understand is why you do it. You spend all winter preparing for this; for your ‘big year’. We eat what you want, we buy what you ‘need’, and we wave you off for your Sunday ‘base miles’ then come pick you up when you bonk. We love you, so we support you. But somehow, that ‘big year’ just doesn’t seem to arrive. You race, and race, and it looks good to me. So you were ‘in the pack’, ‘top twenty’, or whatever. Good job, and I mean that. You raced, you played with your friends, you got some exercise, why can’t you be happy about it? This is supposed to be fun after all, right? So why, why, do you always have to come home with an excuse?

Bike wives have heard all your excuses for a mediocre race performance - some of them several times. We don't let on that we know that really, once again, you just weren't fast enough, because we really are proud of you - anyway.  For our sake, though, this year see if you can come up with new ones, because frankly we're bored with the old chestnuts of the Cyclist's Guide to Race Day Excuses. This trusted volume has many, many chapters, but let’s take a look at a few of the most dog-eared pages…

The Mechanical Chapter

These are the easiest and best excuses. ‘How’d it go?’ your bikebuddy will ask back at the parking lot. You’ll shrug, look nonchalant, and say, ‘Great, until I got a mechanical’. If you’re really smooth, you can even get that to replace your DNF or your mid-peloton position on the results sheet. No one ever says what their mechanical was, lest anyone look into it too closely. No one ever says, 'my rear derailleur packed up, would you mind taking a look at is and see if you can see what’s wrong?’ And your bikebuddy won’t ask. It’s an unwritten rule of the weekend warriors. He’ll nod knowingly, and say, ‘man, that sucks, better luck next time.’ And you both will pack up your (not broken at all) toys and go home.

Yep, it was definitely a mechanical...

 

If you’re lucky, you might actually get close to a real mechanical, and therefore close to a real excuse. One of my favorites occurred at a big race in France. A bikebuddy of mine (whose own bikewife opted to enjoy the warm sunshine at the beach with the kids instead or waiting for another mid-division finish), was clearly upset about his fair-to-middling performance that day. So, 'What happened?', I asked, expecting to see him take the excuse book out of his jersey pocket and flip through for an answer. No, this guy was ready. 

Him: Mechanical.

Me: What exactly?

Him: Well, I had a flat.

Fair enough I thought, that is a mechanical. But at this race we had race cars. He should have had a wheel right there.

As if reading my mind he said: So, I got my spare wheel, and got it swapped round real quick. But, I didn’t realize the rim was wider that my aero wheels. I didn’t adjust the brakes and was dragging on the rim the whole way.

Okay, I thought. That’s sort of a mechanical. It’s also sort of stupid. 

The Fitness Chapter

I know you have trained hard. I know you are at the peak of fitness. And I know you were ready to win. You would have too, if you hadn’t gone skiing yesterday, overtrained with that heavy-duty power interval session on the trainer last Wednesday, or…bikewives, you fill in the rest.  The best ones are when it’s bikewife's fault, although biker won’t say it directly. Yeah, mowing the lawn yesterday must’ve really taken it out of your quads. Really? Is that so? 

Or, maybe you messed up your training plan, the one that needs eight spreadsheets on the computer and all kinds of complicated equipment to measure. Maybe you didn’t do the right base/intervals/sprints or whatever. Maybe you got your ‘periodization’ wrong and weren’t really at your peak. Maybe you need to do a VO2max test and find out what’s wrong. Or maybe - you need to just ride your bike a little more? No, you’re right, it’s all in the science. After all, your motto is ‘don’t train harder, train smarter’. That’s why we pay that coach, right?

The Other Guy Chapter

No, I don’t mean you acknowledged the other guy was faster, stronger, better prepared. No I mean the other guys that messed up your race. The newbie that couldn’t corner so slowed you down every time (and probably prevented your own demise). The team mate who was supposed to lead you out but was nowhere to be seen at the sprint finish. The other team’s guy that cut you off as he turned up to lead out their eventual winner and messed up your rhythm. That other guy.

The Crash Call....

The pick up call is an annoyance – but when your biker is out an a ride and the phone rings, driving out to pick up a cold, lonely biker standing next to a limping, flat tired bike or bonked into a quivering, child-like wreck, is not the first thing that runs through a bikewife’s mind. The first thing is ‘don’t let this be a crash call…’

I’ve made a few crash calls myself. Not because I crashed – I’ve always managed to hitch up my skirt and make my own way home. No, but I have had to call bike wives when their bikers have crashed. It doesn’t feel good, and I know what they are thinking. It’s even worse when you receive the crash call.

The first crash call I got was not too bad, but being a ‘crash call virgin’, I of course overreacted. My biker called, sounding very stressed, and said he’d crashed his bike going off the road into a fence. The front wheel was trashed (my race wheels by the way, but that’s for another post), and the bike was unrideable. Please could I come get him right away. He sounded upset, but if he’s talking he’s breathing, and it wasn’t too cold or wet outside. Nowadays, I’d take my time over a call like that (especially if I find out he’s crashed while using my gear), but being new to the crash call, I was out the door in a flash.

So off I set, this time at least along roads I knew well and not too far from home, following his description of his route and where he was. No sign of him. I drove up and down that stretch of road, and still no biker, no wheel, no mangled bike. I asked a jogger, a farmer, everyone I passed if they’d seen my biker. No one had any idea. By now I was frantic.

I called and called on my cell phone. I parked the car at the point that matched the description of his last known location. Now I on foot, climbed a fence, and was looking through underbrush and piles of cow poo for some sign that my biker had passed this way, dead or alive. All the time I’m yelling at my cell phone for poor reception and calling and calling again. Finally, he answers.

Him: ‘What’s up?’

Me: Where the Hell are you? Are you okay? Where the Hell are you? What happened? Where the Hell are you?

Him: Oh, I’m at home. The wheel wasn’t that bad after all so I rode back.

Me: silence.

Click.

He was not home when I arrived. Smart guy.

The next crash call shows how much I’ve evolved as a bike wife. One morning we’d had a spat about him riding too much, in ridiculous conditions, or inadequately prepared. I went to work in a huff. I called him at work, and was told ‘Oh he’s not here. He went out on a bike ride.’ I looked out the window. Pouring rain and wind. Jerk. I suggested that they pass a message on to him when he got back, but I don’t think they wrote it down.

I go into a meeting, and sensing something might happen – we bike wives have an intuition about these things – I took my cell phone with me. I apologized to my colleagues, but explained my husband was out on a bike ride in completely unsuitable weather and I had left a message for him to check in when he got back (that wasn’t quite the tone of the message, but you get the point). Sure enough, a half hour into the meeting it rings. It’s his phone. I scowl, glare at my phone, and hit ‘ignore’. 

I told you not to ride today...

When my meeting is over I pick up my phone and check my voicemail, expecting a sheepish, apologetic ‘So sorry honey’ message. Instead, it’s a message from him, but he’s at the local ER after a crash – and by local, I mean local to my office, not his (meaning he chose to ride at least a 30 mile round trip into a city). His message began with with ‘I’m okay…but…’ .  I was now experienced enough to not have that initial flash of panic  - he was, after all, able to speak, which meant there was still scope for me to kill him.

I packed up my things and set off for the hospital. When I arrived, I was assured he would be okay but he needed some stitches, and directed to his cubicle. I took a minute to shake off that last little bit of ‘what if…’ that all bike wives who get a crash call have, but we never let show.  As I came around the corner and found him, it was pretty clear what he’d been discussing with the nurse. They both looked at me like rabbits staring down the barrel of a carrot farmer’s shotgun. The nurse put down her implements, and simply said, ‘I’ll leave you two alone’. She couldn’t have got any closer to the wall as she squeezed past me.

Me: ‘Good thing we’re in the emergency room…’

The ‘pick up’ call...

Bikewives all know the loneliness of Sunday. Call it what you will – ‘long ride day’, ‘base miles day’, whatever. For us it’s just ‘lonely Sunday’. That is, until you need us. Then it becomes ‘long-drive-to-the-middle-of-nowhere day’.

Where is he????

Yes, we tell you it’s okay to take that long ride. But for Pete’s sake, be safe, and be prepared. Tell us roughly were you are going, or go with your little bike buddies. Take lights, money, your phone (charged, this time, if you don’t mind), and more inner tubes than you think you could possibly ever need. Yet sometimes, it’s still not enough. And so we get the ‘pick up call’.

My first real pick up call came when we lived in Scotland. My biker had started riding with a new group, and they liked their long, long, long Sunday rides. So, one Sunday, when he couldn’t ride with the group, my biker spouse decided to do a solo high mileage ride. He mapped out a scenic, hilly loop, about eighty miles or so. He left before I got up (he knew the routine) and was scheduled to be back about lunchtime. I got up late, the kids got up, we had breakfast, and planned our lonely Sunday, as we had so many Sundays before.

Then it came. The phone rang. Biker was stranded. He’d had three, maybe four, inner tubes with him, but he’d had one flat too many, and he needed me to come and get him. Now, that would have been fine, except…

It was cold, windy and raining. Not a nice day for a drive. Why anyone would ride their bike in that weather for eighty miles was beyond me, but that’s a subject for another post. I had to bring the kids with me. Two kids, both under five. 

But the best part was that he was at the furthest point of his ride, which looped around a mountain with no crossroads. Yep, it would be a forty mile drive each way. I woke up the kids, bundled them up, and we set off for Middle of Nowhere, somewhere in the Scottish mountains.

I was a little surprised when I arrived at Middle of Nowhere, over an hour later. He wasn’t shivering by the side of the road, looking repentant and miserable (as he should have been). Instead, this was a sweet little village, and there he was, comfy, dry, and warm in a cute café, greeting me with a smile framed with latte foam and cinnamon roll icing. 

Him: ‘Hooray! You’re here! Can I order something for you?’

Me: silence.

Him: ‘No? Umm, okay then. Can I just finish my coffee?’

Me: silence.

Him: ‘No? Ummm, okay then. Ummm, I spent all my cash on a Mars bar and a Coke about twenty miles back. Can you get the bill?’

Me: Silence.

And so goes the pick up call. 

Don’t get wrong, of course we want you to call if you need us, but look at it from the bikewife point of view. The least you can do is suffer a little until we get there!