The group ride is the second of two monuments in blissful cycling. The first is any ride that transcends the rider from the physical act of riding and the surroundings to an indescribable place of harmony. Terrain, climatic benevolence or interruption, equipment kindred or foe become actors in the grand scene of extended climax and denouement. This ride can begin with group or as a race but must be finished solo. This place is reserved solely for the solo ride. While neither intentional nor frequent, the harmonious monument is every rider’s raison d’etre (raison de velo, perhaps?); the star for which one reaches.
In the solo ride pedals turn over with meaning and purpose but without unrepentant effort. The duration, location and choice machine are not factors in finding this transcendental bliss but once found, these factors can heighten the sensations many times over. The cellist finally masters the phrasing of one of Bach’s Cello Concertos on an heirloom cello in a concert hall. Hairs stand up, focus determined.
The group ride is the second monument because by its nature it cannot reach the ontological standards of the solo ride. The interference of other riders or, rather, more gently, the presence of other riders eliminates the possibility of the transcendental moment. If for no other reason than one must pay attention and a certain amount of credence to their presence. The ambitions of the other riders in the group, and of yourself relative to the other riders, make the Walden Pond moments impossible. This by no means lessens the importance and value of the group ride. For if the transcendental solo ride is few and far between, the kinship and progression involved in every group ride provides its own gratification.
This year’s Tour of Flanders is a prime example of the group ride leading to a solo ride leading to a transcendental moment. Nearly 200 riders began the group ride in Brugge (like the movie!), Belgium. After an appropriate amount of flogging, a large number of entrants remained in a different group ride. Later, the group ride happening up the road slowly dwindled in number until it was about 8 and then, not willing to dwell gregariously, just two. Perhaps sensing the edge of Walden Pond, Boonen and Cancellara set off on their own with a race acumen that dwarfed the incredible ability of every other rider. Boonen, the homeland hero, did not have the cause for, nor the inclination to, surreptitiously provoke Cancellara even one kilometer before the the finish line. And Cancellara, Spartacus, neither instigated nor asked for folly on the part of Boonen to pave his path up the pave’ on the Muur du Gramont. Cancellara, atavistically summoning the namesake of his moniker proceeded with the fury of little thing called cadence. (get it? (And did you notice that I used all three words that start with “dw” in that paragraph?)) Once Cancellara left Boonen he quickly found the shores of Walden Pond and began to dip his toes in the water. With but five kilometers left to ride he was fully immersed in the Pond soaking in its pleasures and omnipotence. Crossing the line first becomes the warm towel after emerging from the Pond; a new found sense of being is clearly evident.
The quest for transcendental satisfaction in riding is known throughout. By its definition it is found without forethought and often unnoticed until the ride is an afterthought. This is the true beauty of the ride; a purpose that exists regardless of knowledge, ability and intent.
