I have ridden in Albuquerque for most of my life. The discovery of two bike trails in 1984 was a leap pad to my favorite activity for years to come. Soon after the end of the school year I found one trail I would start in the north east heights and finish west, near the University. Twenty five years later I still do not know the distance of that trail and have not ridden it for at least 15. The Second trail I found stared just three miles south of the first and ran East to the base of the Sandia Mountains.
Because of my starting point this day I would take the second. A fairly gentle 2% constant incline with intermediate steep hills would get the muscles warmed up and allow me to clear my mind. Since the original trail was built a bridge spanning Interstate 40 near the uptown malls was put in. This lead to my original start point. I took off easy and made my way over this bridge. The moment I hit the trail head, though, I felt it.
It was a jolt in the recesses of my mind. Hit by an odor of charcoal lighter fluid and grilling meat I looked down and saw the flash of a red bike. But mine was white. I sat back, blinked, relaxed and peddled. I rode a bit and started to think about how my work week was going to play out. Soon I arrived at the first of 3 small wooden planked bridges that spanned arroyos, ditches that drained rain water into the Rio Grande.
My front tire hit the wooden bridge and once again my olfactory sense was bombarded by an age old smell. The smell of hot wood. As I bumped over the small arch the smell of the sun baked oils used to treat the wood met me with another jerk. This time my jersey cracked into a white T-shirt. I looked down again and the red bike was back. This time a shaking of the head did me no good. I felt my helmet-less head and the white T-shirt with crude pockets sewn into the back.
I immediately knew that I had shrunk. The bike was big and made of steel and the riding position awkward. I reached to the down tube where I knew the shifters would be and moved the right one enough to hear the rear derailleur move. My cadence increased and I continued along my path.
I hit the second bridge and the scent of plum blossoms whisked me to a cobbled street. I was in the Peleton and I was ready for the break. I stood in the peddles and bridged the small gap made by Sean Kelly, Ireeland's greatest cyclist, who was trying to catch Gregor Braun and Alain Bondue who had made their own break early on in this spring Classic.
But the rarest of occurrences of the Paris-Roubaix thwarted my efforts to win this prestigious race. Traffic. Six lanes of cars and trucks were negotiated carefully but to no avail, Sean Kelly would win this day.
However, something was looming in the distance, the Koppenberg. A cobblestone incline of 22% that beat down the best riders in the world. I rode with Sean Kelly and we were a mere 30 seconds behind Johan Lammerts. I stood at the base of the climb, felt and heard the clacking of the cobbles beneath my wheels. The Tour of Flanders was mine for the taking.
That wasn't right, though, cobbles did not clack. As I crested the mighty hill I looked down to see the white top tube of my modern carbonfibre frame. The large stones faded into large wooden planks. I slowed to a stop, atop the last and largest wooden bridge. This one stretching more than a hundred feet over a major Avenue.
I unclipped my shoes and dismounted. Walked around and looked through the arch of the Bridge to the West. The expanse of Albuquerque stretched before me. The roads, defined in a grid, that I rode everyday in the great races of Europe.
I remounted and headed back down the way I came. Listening to the clackety-clackety of the wood I rode slowly down the winding ramp and back over the trail and through my memories reliving every race I dreamed of winning as a kid.
