[BHV] Spring is here!

[Bob Nunnink]

>From my favorite blog.
http://www.belgiumkneewarmers.com/2008/04/spring-is-here.html  After riding
last Tuesday all I can say is been there done that!  Hope to see everyone
tonight

Bobby

( Caution:The following may cause certain riders to swoon)

Establishing shot: Cyclist shown from shins down walking up stairs. With
each step water squeezes from his booties. The brand is unrecognizable
thanks to a mellange of mud and sand. As the camera backs up you see the
thick tights and jacket covered in sand too. The bike on his shoulder is
covered in grime. The cyclist shivers uncontrollably, drops his keys twice
before ramming one into the lock on his apartment. He opens the door, sets
the bike down and begins to strip: First the neoprene gloves, then the
glasses, helmet, struggles with the jacket zipper and as he staggers, naked,
from the foyer, we see a wet, dirty spot on the wall where he leaned while
he struggled with his socks.

That's a memory I have of a succession of springs I spent in New Belgium. I
would ride the eight miles to the university to go train with my cycling
team, ride some 40 miles with them, then turn off and head back to my
apartment. I'd do this two or three days during week while I was a graduate
student and the oldest guy on the team.

On phone calls home to my mother she'd ask me about spring. I'd tell her
about eight inches of snow, about sand on the shoulders of roads, about
stretches of black ice, the ride nicknamed "DMC," not in honor of a rap
star, but rather Jan and Dean's "Dead Man's Corner," how the name was apt,
how I couldn't keep my bike clean, that, in short, spring did not exist in
New Belgium.

Then, every year, at some point in May the daily temperatures would rise
into the 70s, I'd notice the piles of black snow were gone, and gardens
sprouting full of flowers; all this, seemingly overnight. Frankly, sitting
thousands of miles away, I can't remember a single ride I did in the spring
that featured 60-degree temperatures and that distinctly "springy" smell:
you know, the one that is part rain, part fresh manure, and part pollen. I
hated spring in New Belgium. Loved summer, was crazy about the fall, and as
a ski instructor, I couldn't get enough of the winter … but spring … spring
was a prison.

Miserable training ride after wet, miserable training ride went by and I'd
gradually ride myself into shape. I'd arrive home each day
humbled—nay—humiliated by the conditions. I'd stagger into the shower and
turn the hot water up gradually until I stopped shivering.

I've been away now for nearly 12 years. Or have I? I recently heard the
editor of a prominent mountain bike magazine say that Central California was
being called "New Belgium" as a result of all the rain that fell during the
Amgen Tour of California. New Belgium was meant to refer to a different
place, one with snow and maple syrup. But he had a point.

New Belgium is anywhere where the riding is unpleasant. Where 20 miles can
be epic. Where the stench on the road is organic, stronger than mustard gas
and likely to stain a jersey the color of chocolate. The roads are nastier
than a Hollywood attitude and the skies grayer than a battleship.

Here I must take a page from my mentor, James Tate. In his poem "Stella
Maris" he concludes a harrowing account of an overwhelming encounter with a
"beaten, disheveled" priest with the statement "only now do I look back on
my darkest hour with nostalgia." I relish the New Belgium spring. I treasure
the shivering, the frozen roads, the sand, the frost heaves, my shattered,
wretched self, a landscape too hard to love outright.
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