The Patron Saint of Cyclists

I decided this year would be the year I advanced from "casual-neighborhood-coffee-shop-rider" to that of "real cyclist."  The time has come for me to log some real miles, climb some real hills.  Heck, maybe even a mountain!  I'm ready to stay on Dave's wheel, rather than draft from afar because I fear sudden stops and painful collisions.  Finally, I want to overcome my fear of hard left turns precariously placed at the bottom of a hill. Again, for fear of crashing.

I'm not sure what prompted this decision. I'm not exactly sure how, or when, anyone knows when it's time to  bump up their game. Is it determined by miles logged? Making it up Owen's Beach Hill?  Finishing the STP or Ramrod?  Or is it simply by becoming a subscriber to Bicycling Magazine?  The answer is  probably different for everyone.  At any rate, I knew I was ready for a new challenge, and since my running is still hit and miss, the timing seemed right.  

Like many people, I learned how to ride a bike when I was a little kid, so, technically, I haven't been a newbie for a long time.  But riding as a kid was different.  Back then I simply rolled up my jeans, hopped on my bike, and away I went. I never worried about my chain coming off, repairing a flat, or wondering if I had enough Cliff Shots in my back pocket.   I don't even know if I wore a helmet, probably not. 

In order to make this leap now, I knew I needed to do two things: first, become a self-reliant cyclist (one who can fix her own flats, thereby increasing her  confidence on long, solo rides away from home) and second, buy new shoes, of course. So to get things rolling, (no pun intended) I "enrolled" in Tacoma Bike Shop's "Mechanic Mondays."  I don't think they actually titled these classes, but, hey, it sounded catchy. Nor did I actually "enroll," they weren't that formal.  I did, however, RSVP on their Facebook page.  And, despite my fear of being the only girl in a very male-oriented environment, I went.  Every Monday in January I went.  Sometimes alone, sometimes with Nora, and finally, with Dave.  But really, he just came to  the last class to hear M.B. talk about his travels, and for the wine.  And I am SO glad I went.  I enjoyed every minute of them.  I learned how to change a flat tire, adjust my brakes, and even deal with some other mechanical issues on the road.  And all for free!  

So with my new skills in hand, I was ready to move on to Step Two. Admittedly, I had been pretty happy with my old shoes.  The shoes my friend Chuck sent me from the bike shop he works at in Worcester.  However, since they started this cycling journey with me last year, I felt a little sad about dumping them.  We had logged a lot of miles together.  They carried me up the big hill at Point Defiance, and eventually (with encouraging words from Dave) up the hill from Owen's Beach.  They have carried me to Steilacoom and back, pushing me up Chambers Creek Hill, or dragging me along depending upon the day, so often Dave now refers to that loop as "Sonja's Ride."  They endured the rollers when I was too wimpy it was too cold for me to ride outside.  They took me to the Starbucks in Dupont for my very first DD (even though I could not, should not, would not, partake in the drink this ride is named for.  I will never be that tough.) They took me up and down the snow-covered hills of Bainbridge Island last year during my first Chilly Hilly.  They were with me in Chelan as I rode the Cycle de Vine.  Which was a beautiful ride, by the way, AND came with a certificate for free wine!  After the ride, of course. They were with me on my birthday: 45 miles on my 45th.  And, finally, they were with me on that beautiful day last summer when I rode my first 50 in The Tour de Peaks.  Everything about that day was perfect. The sun was out, the sky was blue, we rolled through beautiful farmlands on perfectly smooth country roads. We rode past barns, cows, fields of flowers, and then returned to my riding partner's house where we waited for the slowpokes (those 100 milers) to show up as we sipped on Coronas while cooling off in her pool.  So, yes, those old shoes have been good to me. 

Despite our history, though, it was time.  Dave said so: "They aren't real road shoes."  Enough said.   So with him in tow, and my Smartwool socks in my bag,  (to make sure the new shoes fit with my "warm socks" on)  off we went to the bike shop. And then it was right back home so Dave could "fit them" for me.  Then, with his trusty black Sharpie and a few strips of masking tape, he very scientifically proceeded to locate the ball of my foot inside a shoe that I have decided feels akin to wearing a ski boot.  The bottom is so stiff and hard, if I hadn't put my foot in there myself, I would not have believed it was in there.  But it was.  And somehow he worked his magic, getting my cleats attached.  

Finally, I hopped on the rollers to try them out.  Oh my gosh! These were not like my old pedals at all.  I couldn't even get unclipped!  I was going to be stuck in Dave's smelly, old, man-cave forever!  Thank Gosh he recently put a TV in there. 

"Just keep practicing," he said.  "They're just new."  This from the man who has been cycling from birth. Heck, probably in the womb.   

When the next day dawned, blue-skied and sunny, I knew it was going to be The Day.  The day I prove to myself that I can do it.  I can get my foot out. I can get a few laps in at Pt. Defiance without falling over sideways onto the Five-Mile-Drive right in front of God, deer, rabid-looking raccoons and--heaven forbid--another cyclist.  I would be a Real Cyclist.  

Despite my complete confidence in my mechanic's husband's abilities, I was a little nervous about this ride.  I still felt I needed a little help from above.  Surely there must be someone watching over us cyclists.  Someone whose job it is to keep us safe from potholes, foul weather, nasty drivers who don't believe in sharing the road.  Not to mention those afore-mentioned pesky mechanical problems.  So, of course, I ran to the computer.  

Meet Madonna del Ghisallo, aka Our Lady of Ghisallo and Madonna of Ghisallo.  The Patron Saint of Cyclists.  

According to legend, and Wikipedia, the Medieval count Ghisallo was being attacked by bandits when he saw an image of Virgin Mary at a shrine. He ran to it and was saved from the robbers. The apparition became known as the Madonna del Ghisallo, and she became a patroness of local travellers. In later times, Madonna del Ghisallo (the hill) was made part of the Giro di Lombardia bicycle race.

A local priest, Father Ermelindo Vigano, proposed that Madonna del Ghisallo (the apparition) be declared the patroness of cyclists. This was confirmed by Pope Pius XII. Nowadays the shrine of Madonna del Ghisallo contains a small cycling museum with photos and artifacts from the sport. There also burns an eternal flame for cyclists who have died. 

Immediately, I felt better.  I kissed her--right through my IPAD--because that's what you do right?  You kiss the statue, the shrine when you wish to be blessed?  I'm Lutheran, so this is a bit out of my league.  At any rate, with her blessing, I was off.  

And she took good care of me. There were no crashes, no falls, no embarrassments. As a matter-of-fact, the only thing she could have helped with was my spitting. Despite my years of running, and now riding, I have yet to learn how to spit like a man. Honestly, though, I don't blame her for choosing not to intervene.  As my jacket now clearly demonstrates, spitting is disgusting.  

Then, before I knew it, I was back home.  Safe and sound.  So, thanks Madonna!  For keeping me safe, for keeping me upright.  And thanks, too, to Dave.  For working his magic like always.  

S-

P.S.  I do know that my confidence as a cyclist will only come from practice, miles logged.  Not from what I wear, or how I look.  But it is kind of fun to play the part, even if I am probably the least flashy cyclist on the road.  And there are some "pretty flashy ones" out there.  Let's just say I have seen jerseys that make my head spin.  As for the shorts, I can only say--just black.  Always black. Never anything but black.  Got that boys?