Max Riffner

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On Left

Every time I ride on the trail, I always yell out “On Left!” as I pass walkers and runners. Some of them listen. Most don’t. Most are walking like morons with their dogs all over the trail. I almost plowed into one guy tonight as he was enamored with something on the other side of the trail and apparently not listening to me yell at him several times.

I hate these people.

But I still yell out, because they are a lot of asshole spandex riders who don’t. When I used to run, they would scare the hell out of me when they swooshed by me, riding on stealth mode (unless it’s someone with a mountain bike — you can hear knobbies coming for awhile).

Spandex set: announce yourselves.

Walkers: get out of the way.

Dogs: Um, don’t bite me?

Shackleton Turned Around, Too

The running program had been going well until this weekend. I suffered from a common ailment: drunk dancing. I seem to have twisted my knee up pretty damn good. Strangely, I found that I wasn’t that upset with the injury. I used to get in a deep funk about injuring myself like that when I was regularly running. But after running out on the trail again lately, I kept thinking to myself that I wasn’t going that fast.

And by fast, I mean I wasn’t speeding past the scenery on my bike.

People change. I no longer think of myself solely as a runner. As my friend Dan asked me the other day, if I keep getting hurt so often, why do I do it?

Well, part of it is to help stay in shape, and I think I’ll continue on the running program as I am. If I can run a couple times a week for 20-30 minutes, I’ll be happy. I enjoy it for the intensity, but I don’t really have a passion for it anymore.

Upon realizing that this morning as I cranked my sore knee up the steps, I thought I should prepare for some cold weather riding. I can’t run on the knee this week anyway, so why stop excercising completely?

I ran by a bike store and picked up a balacava, gloves, an orange jersey, and my first pair of tights. I rushed home, weaving in and out of traffic to get my new clothes on and get out on the road before dusk settled in. I rushed the dogs through their food and pottied them, then quickly changed and headed downstairs to load up the car.

When I got out to the garage, I found I had locked myself out. The bike was inside the house. At least I had my cellphone… but the Chief had a late meeting. It was dusk as she arrived home to see a Spider-Man lookalike in the garage, balacava and all (because it was getting a bit cold in the garage).

But damn if I was going to let it stop me (after a quick pep talk from the Chief). So out I went into the dark, rushing through the night with my lights on.

I stopped to a dead end on the trail; Dodge Street is still under construction after all. I took my light off my handlebars to inspect where the trail dropped off into a mudpit. It wasn’t the longest ride, I thought to myself, but at least I got out there. And as I picked up speed leaving the lights of Dodge behind me I felt pretty good about myself, right up until my headlight flew off my handlebars and shattered on the pavement.

Anybody coming out of the local Grissanti’s restauraunt probably heard a very loud “Fuck!” echo out of the trail. I was alone in the dark, with nothing but my blinking tail lamp to help me find all the pieces. After 10 minutes, I gave up.

I looked on into the darkness and pulled a Shackleton I mounted up and I rode on despite the setback. Now, out on the trail, you do go by some areas that are lit well, but mostly you are out in nature. And despite what my best instincts were telling me, I hauled. I shot through trail sprinting as quick as my legs would carry me, as if I were being chased.

I got back around 8pm, had some dinner, and laughed to myself about my misfortunes, but I couldn’t help the nice butterflies I got when I thought about how it felt to be going as fast as I could in the dark. I should have wrecked, the night I was having. Instead, I got hooked a little deeper into cycling.

Touching The Floor

I love secret languages, or rather, terms used on the inside of any profession/lifestyle that seem inpenetrable from the outside. I finished reading Lance Armstrong’s War today, and there were all sorts of neat terms like “touching the floor,” which is basically when a rider crashes. I also love all the wrestling books I read recently which had a very large secret language that was mostly based on carnival worker lingo.

Back to the book, Lance Armstrong’s War is about Armstrong’s 2004 season culminating in his sixth Tour de France win. It doesn’t make him out to be a hero or a villain, so if you are looking for dirt or proof of sainthood, I’d pass. It just presents the facts that are known and gets fascinatingly in-depth into the world of professional cycling. Like I said, I dig the professional vernacular the most.

Any cool phrases or terms in your profession?

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