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The Green Lamborghini

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greenWhen last we left off I was riding my bicycle over hill and through dale. I had become ‘un-bound’, as it were, from everyday constraints. I had passed through the colloquial ‘glass ceiling’ presented by normal transportation modes and into a, new for me, realm inhabited by forms of time — space that offer a transcendent view upon otherwise everyday scenes. I was now a traveler propelled unceasingly in a direction that would eventually lead me back to my home Westport Connecticut but yet I had so many more twists and turns ahead of me that the path forward still felt as if an adventure. To be sure, my route was planned well in advance, and yet, there were many forks in the road, and choices as yet to be determined, so as to make the journey still somewhat spontaneous.

As a for instance — a big question; now that I was in Redding, on Route 58, where I make that left hand turn where the church is, and I start heading toward Weston environs, thus closer to home, but yet, could I prolong the experience with yet more dangerous descents and ever more taxing climbs?; “Oh yes,” I could make that turn left down Newtown Turnpike and be quickly into contact with the reservoir, or, further prolong things by going straight, and thus, down that crazy steep hill?

That was it. I still had plenty of gas in the old tank – the oatmeal reserves – that never ending source of cheap fuel for my wandering nature filled and wonder inspiring breathtaking/exhilarating adventures.

To put it more bluntly, and plainly, I was just peddling along — without a care in the world, save for wiping out or getting hit by a car or being caught in the approaching storm far from home. I was pretty sure that I would take the long way as I passed the Newtown Turnpike turn. I could always turn back and take the easy way, but as I passed I knew I would never turn back. Ahead of me was the big hill. I swallowed hard thinking about it. Though dusk was approaching I knew there was just still enough light to be had.

My speed started to pick up. There was a car ahead of me going about thirty. I passed them by. “See-ya,” I thought to myself, maybe out loud. I wasn’t sure if I was thinking my thoughts or speaking them at this point. It didn’t matter. There were some potholes and sticks in the road. I accelerated now at an increasing rate. No need for brakes because I was to be piercing the countryside. My hands were on them, just in case, and I tapped the very slightest pressure test to be sure of my options. I had already moved into the very fastest gear ratio available to my vehicle. If there was any kind of mis-hap now — severe pain, and most likely death, would occur.

But no, all was well cruising at close to 65 mph on my bicycle. Handling was good, everything was working perfectly. And though that hill feels like it goes on forever, actually, I get to the bottom with a quickness. There is a moment or two, down there, before the climb begins. And you would think, at least I usually do, down there, that the momentum would carry me and my cycle quite a ways up the forthcomimg hill, but it never does.

It gets steep real quick. The exhilaration of the speed gives way to the agony of the accent to Redding Ridge. This part is not fun. Up and out of the saddle, there is no other way. You can’t take a break or chill out and look at the scenery. The only way forward, the only way home — there is no turning back, is to slog it out peddle stroke after peddle stroke. By now my lungs are heaving. I am in the easiest gear. I only have a single 42 up front so it’s not as easy as a 34 would be against my rear 28 tooth gear. It just plain ole sucks. My form becomes erratic well before the halfway point. This tells me I am not using my power efficiently. I’m running dangerously low on gas but I have to make it to-the-top. I-have-no-choice. I could die right then and there but I would still have to keep going, pushing harder and harder. Just when I think I am about to pass-out the grade slackens just a little bit.hawk

Oh yes, this gives me more than hope! There is a deer leaping over the stone wall to the right. I see the flutter of a Golden Hawk cross my field of vision to the left. Still, no time to get-with-nature but still symbolic of that little light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, or, in this case a demonstration of the quantitative fact that the probability of me surviving the climb is getting better than 50/50. The odds quickly turn in my favor as I stomp a little harder sensing the almost certain possibility of triumph.

False flat: You think you’re there, but no, the hill just keeps on being a frickin hill, up-up-up. Cars pass me by. The drivers look at me like I’m a maniac. Am I – a maniac? I don’t know and I don’t care. I just have to get to the top of this hill.

And then I’m there; at the top; Redding Ridge; it’s great. Wow — holy shit I’m alive.

My breath evens out. Every muscle in my body quits. I just glide for a moment. I’m not really happy and I’m not really sad. I’m just there rolling along. White church on right; little old New England crossroads. “It’s nice,” I guess. I catch my breath pretty quick. I don’t really know what to think. My body is not sure if it’s in shock or if everything is okay. Then I see it.

The Green Lamborghini!

This guy is watching me blow through the stop sign. He’s just sitting there waiting for me to go by. Was there a smirk on his face? Did I look wrecked?

I could have stopped — but I didn’t want to.

But it was the look on his face as he watched me go by. Was it some kind of superiority? You think you’re better than me!

I don’t know what made me do it. I really shouldn’t have, but I have this way, with my body language on the bike, of saying, “your Lambo sucks!” If I was walking it would be some sort of strut, as I can project a nuanced form through athleticism.

I stood up out of the saddle as I was just passing through that quaint little intersection. Then I turned on the gas big time. I swiftly swapped into a faster gear and picked up speed as I started down another hill. As I did so, I could hear the revving of the Lambo engine. I was thinking to myself that, “it doesn’t really take that much effort to press a foot on a gas pedal.” I was kind of laughing about it to myself. But the revving got louder and louder. I pushed harder picking up speed rather quickly. Behind me I heard the squeal and finely tuned thunder of the Italian sports car motoring out into the road behind me. Fine — all right dude — it’s on!

I knew I was going to beat him to the next stop sign because I had had a running start. I also knew that if I had a clear shot I could blow through that sign and bang that left down to the next hill. I saw three cars coming from the right. If I pushed I could get out into the road ahead of that line of cars. At this point I could hear the roar of the engine and the shifting of his transmission behind me but I knew he would have to stop at the intersection because of the oncoming cars.

I was so-clear of that situation, within seconds I was gone. I was powering flat out at this point and already had my next moves worked out. For some reason I wasn’t tired at all and I felt the force of months and months of training as inate abilities now. The green Lamborghini was making all kinds of crazy noise behind me, what a racket. Me – I was like wind itself — cool, fast—silent.

I banked hard to the right. I had a bunch of real twisty descents coming up. Would I make it to the next real steep section before he caught up with me? I didn’t know. All I knew was that I had to keep my focus on being safe and hitting it as hard as possible. I banged a left — cutting him off just getting to the next turn before for him. He had no choice but to hit the brakes hard around that turn going into the hill. Boom! I was gone.

I turned back with a glance to see. He had got caught up in the turn and had spun out — almost going off the road. It’s a pretty steep embankment dropping off hundreds of feet, this guy must be nuts. He would have to be(nuts) —  to have a car with that shade of green, but that’s beside the point. The point is this; a well-engineered bicycle can take turns a higher rate of speed than any car, it’s just of fact of the physics involved with motion, weight and tire width. A fast bicycle rider can outperform even a motorcycle on very sharp turns in a decent. A second point is that I have more experience on these roads, I grew up here – on these roads, and I know every little shape and twist intimately. You can’t buy experience or consistency in training. I don’t care how much money you spend – knowledge and hard work will leave you in-the-dust — every time.

I could hear him back there trying to negotiate those turns. I was just so gone — that, by the time I rolled leisurely past the Mark Twain Library, the green Lamborghini was lost. I mean, I don’t have an attitude about it, it’s just that consistent hard training with the proper tool for the job gets you from point A to point B faster ’round these parts. It’s just a fact. You can rev your engine all you want – but it don’t mean s**t.

 


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