Pelotons

Monday, June 5. Albany, NY. It's a sign of just how tired we were Sunday night that we forgot to mention two encounters on the road.

Our route follows the Hudson River; this is a river with many faces. From some vantage points, the river is picturesque and I envied the homeowners at these points for their view of the river and surrounding valley. In other places, the river was so brown that I mistook it for a tilled field.

At a few places, our route climbed away from the river, and we rolled through small towns and villages like Greenport and Hudson. It was near Greenport that we spotted the paceline, moving swiftly toward us (they had the tailwind) like a multi-colored ribbon, undulating with the rolls of the road. I love to see groups of riders like this--even though seeing them reminds me how slow and burdened my own riding is. And usually, a paceline is serious. These riders are competitive; their main goal is to leave their buddies in the dust. This makes them very focused on their riding, and even though they may be cycling some of the country's most beautiful backroads, they'll miss the entire view.

So I was not at all prepared for their reaction as they met and passed us on the opposite side of the road. Each and every one of the riders in the paceline wore a complete "kit"--the matching jersey and shorts from a favorite pro cycling team. They were a colorful stream of speed, and I expected them to pass in a blur. But as they passed us, to a man, each one of them sat up in their seats, breaking their race posture. And they whooped, waved and hollered their support of us as they passed! I swear I heard one of them yell "yeah, baby".

They passed us in a flash of spandex, and I was still grinning as we neared Hudson. As we reached a flat stretch of road a convoy of Harleys stretched out in front of us, heading our way. We've seen a lot of motorcyles on the road during our trip, and the majority of them have been Harleys. A swarm of close to a hundred of them passed us on the bridge right before we reached Camp Lejeune. Even single riders are generally friendly; most of them give us a nod or a low-down, low-key flash-of-the-hand.

But this is the first time we've passed a big group of riders coming from the opposite direction, and I start grinning again as we get big arm waves and salutes from every rider. No whooping, though. I don't think they have the lungs for it.

Anyway, I love stuff like that--fleeting, chance encounters with folks whose choice of recreation might be considered odd by the general public. Motorcyclists and bicyclists share something that I think can only be found on two wheels--even the sportiest convertible doesn't give you the same sense of free-wheeling that you get from a bike. No matter how it's powered.