A phone call waits.
We ride early in the afternoon, a one-hour break from the routine of the day. Yet, any rhythm is already broken.
There’s the shoveling of snow in the morning, clearing winter’s cover measured in inches and the wind’s drifts tallied in feet. There’s the cup of coffee and catching up with a friend who stops to help. There are bills to pay and packages to mail. And before long, lunch and a cup of coffee to reheat before heading back to the office.
I feel guilty, carving out time on the trainer, with deadlines before me and stories unwritten. Mostly, though, there’s the interview.
We ride in short sleeves, two fans manufacturing the breeze in our faces. Turning the cranks, trudging up 12 percent grades and pacing through rollers in obedience to a coach on a video. All the while, we talk of hills we have never seen.
And, I’m thinking of the call I haven’t made.
He is possibly the world’s leading authority on studio ceramics, his 30-year career defined, in part, by the 50-some books he’s authored. We’ve never spoken. And though this is my livelihood, there remains the nervous edge that comes before any interview.
Truth be told, I don’t like to talk to people — an odd statement from someone whose occupation requires it. I’d rather face a daunting climb on a hot day, pushing myself up Sanes Creek Road or Boltinghouse Hill. It’s the singleness of cycling I like. The loneness. Just me and the bike, even when in a crowd, like the tangle that always comes at the first real climb of the Hilly Hundred.
Today my concern is about time, needing to finish the workout, to make the phone call. But not wanting to lose focus on what I’m doing on the bike.
We ride through the hour-long training session, giving ourselves the privilege or luxury of extra miles at the end. Glancing out a window, staring into a white landscape, we wonder aloud how long we’ll be married to the trainer. The Pike, though mostly thawed, is a mixture of slush and sand and patches of ice. While U.S. 40 may be clean enough to ride even now, it’s the challenge of hills I want — the rising and falling of the land in Franklin and Fayette counties. But there, too, winter holds firm, and the roads will not be clear of grit until well after the arrival of killdeer and grackles and drenching spring rains.
We stop separately, turning off the bike computers and stretching silently, alone with our thoughts. I’m tired and tight and pleased — feeling the pull in my hamstrings as I stretch on the carpet, telling myself that this is what I need for taut muscles, just as the effort put into the hardest part of the workout is what’s called for to climb efficiently in the coming season.
Glancing at my watch, I cut the stretching short. Forgoing a set of sit-ups, I head to the house to change into warm, dry clothes, then make my way back to a now-empty office.
In the comfort of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, I take a deep breath and dial the number, for this is what I do. This is who I am.
“Hello,” I say. “This is Don Johnson.”
Trainer/road bike — 25.05 miles
