The sharp, glassy edges of reality

A few weeks ago I used this space to assert my theoretical superiority to every other bicyclist on the road. As long as I am safe in my car, I argued, I believe I am faster than anyone I see riding.
In the absence of objective proof, why should I give some other sucker the benefit of the doubt? Sometimes, though, reality rears back and smacks you down like broken glass puncturing a tire.
For me, one of those broken glass moments came last weekend.
On Sunday afternoon I drove out to Stillwater to watch the final stage of the Nature Valley Grand Prix, a five-day bike race that also had stages in St. Paul, Cannon Falls, Minneapolis and Mankato. The final stage was roughly 25 miles and the leading riders finished it in about an hour. So, you have a pretty good idea what kind of speed they were going.
The race course one short, very steep hill. According to the race’s web site the hill is a 24 percent grade. By way of comparison, the site explains, federal law does not allow highways to have a grade steeper than 6 percent. In other words, this particular hill is at least four times as steep as any highway you’ve ever driven on. At just a couple of blocks long it’s the next best thing to a wall.
The course also has a long downhill, this one several blocks in length, that runs from down the bluff into downtown Stillwater. It’s not as steep, but racers approach 50 miles per hour on the way down, then immediately whip into a 90 degree corner, never appearing to slow down or even consider that they are one slick spot from ending up stuck to the side of a building.
These racers are not the best of the best. They’re professionals, but they’re like minor league baseball players or golfers on the Hooters tour. They travel around the country, put in hours of practice and make very little money but they’re doing something they love to do. They are trying to earn their way to bigger things and some of them make it, but most have reached their highest level of competition. They can dream all they want about becoming the next Lance Armstrong, but they’re more likely to be the cycling equivalent of a star player for the St. Paul Saints.
They don’t even get to compete in events with cool names like “The Hooters Tour.”
Every one of them could kick my butt.
It’s not easy for me to say that, but while I haven’t actually raced the course these guys competed on, I can’t argue against what I saw. Mostly, that was a blur of brightly-colored jerseys whipping past me on both sides.
I’m not the greatest hill climber in the world. At six feet, six inches tall I carry too much weight to make riding up mountains a sensible thing to do. I’m pretty sure, though, that the racers who competed Sunday would gain more time on me on the downhill part of the Stillwater hill than they would on the up. To put bike handling ability in automotive terms, they are exotic, highly-tuned Italian sports cars while I am more like a school bus.
Fully loaded.
Pulling a semi.
With flat tires.
In other words, while they were zipping around the corner and heading back toward the uphill, I would be somewhere in the middle of the downhill, squeezing my brakes in a death grip and rethinking my decision to save a few bucks on discount tires. I don’t want to sound like I don’t trust my bike to hold up, but I weigh somewhere around 210 pounds and my bike weighs between 15 and 20. I’m just saying it seems like a lot to ask. It’s not a bet I’m willing to make with the good health of my skeletal structure.
So, yes. I’ll give these guys the benefit of the doubt. I will admit the professional bike racers who dedicate hours to their sport are faster than me. It hurts, but it’s the truth.
I’m still pretty sure I’m faster than everyone else, though.