I used to ride that way most of the off-season. Mainly it was because I was too lazy to mount the speed sensor on the crappy winter bike. I’d have an idea of how long I wanted to ride, picked an approximate route, then would occasionally check my phone for the time. The rest was on feel.

I came to like riding without the numbers staring at me. Having the data is nice for tracking your training, but at the same time it tends to become intrusive. I mean, part of the reason we spend so much time on the bike is because it’s enjoyable being outside.

A power meter makes it even worse. In the interest of making use of the expensive training gadget you have a tendency to make it be “all about the watts”.

It’s like we’re not allowed to admit that it’s just fun to go out and ride (naked).

I may have to start taping over the computer display. At least once in a while.

One of those mental notes read “Riverview Rd, north of Rt 82 in Brecksville”.

Only I didn’t follow my own advice. In less than a mile I had a rear flat and a derailleur cable that somehow pulled loose. The flat was fixable but I was faced with riding home 30 miles stuck in the 11-cog. With a climb up the Gorge Parkway in Bedford (painful in the 11).

That was before a Good Samaritan stopped, asked if I needed any help, then drove home and came back with an allen wrench so I could reattach the der cable.

Thanks, man. I will pay that one forward.

(PS. really, stay off Riverview Rd. north of Rt 82 in B’ville.)

Either they’re faux-whining about not being on the latest technology … or slamming people for being addicted to their smartphones … or talking about just how unnecessary it all is.

I could cover all of that.

What made me particularly aware of this was traveling last week. While sitting at the airport, on the plane, and at work functions I realized that I was in fact just about the only person who was not using a smartphone. And not constantly using a smartphone. I felt self-conscious using my dumbphone.

I don’t have anything against them. If someone gave me one, I’d use it. I like technology. I’d try not to be compulsive about it, but I’d use it.

But more than anything I’m cheap. They haven’t given me one for work, and I just can’t justify spending the money out of my own pocket.

Because for cost of the phone and plan I could buy something really useful. Like, oh, a couple cases of wine or new set of wheels. Or entry fees for a year, or …

If I wanted to get some kind of a workout, it often meant sitting on a crappy exercise bike in a little hotel-basement “fitness center”.

But since I started running more (going on 5 years now) I’m able to easily get an exercise fix when traveling or time crunched. To me this is the prime beauty of running. You just need shoes and a minimal amount of running clothing, a couple of minutes of prep time, and you’re out the door and on the road. You can almost always find somewhere to run, even if it means doing loops around a shopping mall parking lot (had to do that once in Ann Arbor).

And sometimes you stumble on a truly sublime running experience.

This week I was in Chicago for a couple of days. As it turned out, the hotel was downtown, just a couple of blocks from the lakefront. I was able to run out the door and easily find the path that goes for miles along the lakefront.

Side comment: it is just criminal that you are not able to do this in downtown Cleveland.

The doorman at the hotel looked at me like I was crazy. It was only 13 degrees at 7am. “There is a workout center downstairs”, he said.

But you don’t think about 13 degrees when you are running along Lake Michigan and seeing the sun come up on a perfectly clear morning, running out to the end of Navy Pier and then seeing the city skyline on the way back. And passing a handful other people doing the same thing. Crazy? I don’t think so.

“You really like this sport, don’t you?”, my wife said.

It wasn’t always like that. From what I remember from my school days, the cross country kids were the dorky ones who couldn’t play ball sports. No one really followed, or cared about, what the cross country team did.

So when my daughter announced that she wanted to run cross country her freshman year, and not play soccer, I was initially (and selfishly) disappointed. She’d played soccer on club teams since age 7 or 8. I had visions of going and watching all the high school games for 4 years.

But fortunately I recognized that it would be fruitless to try to influence her. At the time, I didn’t know how important cross country would become to her, and how much I would come to love the sport.

At the very first meet, standing around while the runners were nervously warming up, I watched a girl casually walk over a garbage can … and puke in it. And then go back to warming up. I remember thinking, “OK, this is a bad-ass sport.”

It’s roughly 20 minutes of intense effort (less for the faster runners, more for the slower ones). I can relate to that level of effort, because it’s around the same as our weekly Thursday night time trial. Short enough that it’s painful from start to finish. And long enough that it seems like forever.

What hooked me was the atmosphere and intensity at the meets. The pre-race nervousness, the anxiety on the start line, the starter’s pistol firing and the pack taking off. And then the drama of the race as it unfolds.

Unlike soccer, where the field is the same every week, each cross country course is different, and run under different conditions — rain, mud, heat, cold, hills, puddles. I’ve seen runners lose shoes, throw up, pass out, crumple with injury.

And then there was the girl (against whom my daughter’s team had raced) who finished the 2007 state meet crawling to the finish with a broken leg. (the video is on YouTube but is not for the faint-of-heart)

For my daughter, it was mostly about the team. Individual performance mattered, but overall it was the team. I will always have the picture of the team huddle just before the start.

She was team captain her last 3 years, and I watched her transform from an insecure freshman into someone who took charge and pushed each girl and the team to the best of their capabilities.

Watching those meets had the side-effect of making me want to run in the off-season. Each year since 2007 I’ve run more and more. I’m almost at the point where I think of myself as a “runner” too. So I can thank the sport, and my daughter, for that.

The state meet is today, and I will be checking the web site for results.

It was sunny at home, but out of habit I checked the radar before leaving for the regional cross country meet. It was 36 degrees in Boardman with rain / snow. I knew it would be a muddy mess. I grabbed my Gore-Tex hiking boots, swishy nylon pants, rain jacket and gloves. And a change of clothes.

Those spectators who naively showed up in jeans and tennis shoes looked at me with envy. Their shoes would likely be unwearable afterward.

All the rain we’ve had has meant a tough season for area cross country runners. You either got good at running in the mud, or you suffered. Well, you suffered either way, but surely winning made it better.

In the (now 5) years of seeing races on the Boardman course, I’ve heard a lot of people complain about it. It’s always wet. But I like it because with a little bit of running myself it’s possible to see the runners at 9 different points during the race. At the start, standing on a hill about 500m from the line, I can barely get the long line of runners in the camera. When the gun fires the long line gradually narrows as the faster runners move to the front. The pack comes toward you like a wave, up and over the first rise. It looks like one giant organism rather than 120 or so individuals.

It’s an inspiring scene that always gives me goosebumps:

More than a few runners fell during the race. And some normally fast runners had disappointing results. But as they say, it’s the same course for everyone. Those who rose to the top seemed unaware of the bad conditions. They appeared to be running over the mud while others were slogging through it.

You’ll notice that I’ve not said anything about being at this race under different circumstances — without the emotional investment of having a daughter there running. That is because I did not want to spend half of my Saturday in an exercise in nostalgia and melancholy. I was there to enjoy the experience of the big meet and cheer for her former teammates.

Which is how it worked out. At the end of the race I was pretty well covered with mud too. I didn’t think about it at the time, but on the way home I realized there was a fitting end to the day: in the interest of avoiding turnpike tolls, I had left the course through a different exit than before, and was taking a different route home.

How could it be a year? The memory of that race is still so fresh in my mind. I can recall the weather, what I wore, where the team’s canopy was set up, and the details of how that 20-minute race went. But what I remember most is the feeling of walking to the car and driving away, with the course receding in the distance.

It was weeks before I could shake that image of leaving the big race for the last time.

Last time. It seemed so final. I think it took the crazy-stress of college applications to finally make that image lose focus. But now, a year later, the image is just as sharp as it was then.

I will go to the Regional meet again tomorrow, to watch my daughter’s former teammates compete, to talk with their parents, and hopefully to cheer them for finally making it to the state meet.

But more significantly, I want to be able to drive away from the meet with a different picture to replace the one from last year.

But every once in a while someone bugs me.

Like today. I’m out for a short ride after work, going up a little hill at a comfortable pace, when some dude comes by me pretty fast. He doesn’t say anything, but gives that little look that says “ha, I’m beating you’. Like how Lance gave Jan Ullrich “The Look”.

Well, on this day at least, I’m in no mood for that. I’ve got to head back for an after-work function, which means my ride is cut short.

So without thinking I slam it in the big ring, catch the guy, then attack like it’s the last lap at RATL. No looking back. Just hammer until I turn and head back towards work.

It kinda hurt. I haven’t done an effort like that since the last race of the year. Then I felt a bit stupid. I think that’s what happens when you don’t race for a while. I’m thinking I need to enter a running race soon. (and don’t tell me to “do ‘cross” … though that’s probably a good answer too)

Only it’s not “the same” as last year.

For the first time in 4 years I’m not going to all the meets to watch my daughter and her team. Saturdays have not felt right. It’s kind of like when the bike racing season ends and you’re wondering what to do with yourself. Only with bike racing there will be a “next season” not that many weeks away. There are no more next seasons for watching my daughter run with her high school team.

I went to the district meet, to watch her former teammates run. I realized that I miss the whole atmosphere of the big meet: the nervous anticipation, the intensity of the race, the smiles and tears after the race. I never fail to get goosebumps when the starter’s gun fires and the big pack of runners takes off.

In the heat of the race — running out to the far point on the course, taking pictures and cheering the runners — I wasn’t thinking about my daughter not being there. It was only after leaving the race that I started to think about it. I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to hang on to a piece of something that is gone. Maybe there is some element of that, but daughter or not I find these competitions to be compelling to witness.

The team advanced to the regional meet, which is even more intense as it means a potential trip to the state meet.

Now I’m supposed to say something about how fast it all goes by, and how parents should treasure every moment they have while they can. The thing is, I don’t think it makes it easier.

In fact I think it might make it even harder. If you’re not really involved, then there’s not much of a change.

See you at the regional meet.

One of my favorite routes goes east to Burton, then south to Hiram, then west and north back home. I did that route today, an unexpected September weather gift. It has 2 of those “unusual or significant” sights.

At Music Street and SR 44 I pass the spot where Miles Coburn was killed in 2008. I ride through here on average once per week.

Maybe 10 miles later, on Rapids Road, I pass the spot where Judge Charles “Chip” Henry was killed this past summer. There’s a little memorial there now, with an all-white bicycle with his name on it — with downtube shifters.

Both of these places are sober reminders that today (which just happens to be the anniversary of my birth) could in a moment be the anniversary of my death.

I like riding on these roads because they remind me not to be complacent. This is not to suggest in any way that either of those 2 riders were complacent or could have prevented their accidents.

But sometimes you can prevent it. I no longer assume that a car’s signal means it will in fact turn, or that the lack of a signal means it won’t. Or that it will stay in its lane, or leave sufficient room when passing.

I also like riding on these roads because they remind me what a gift it is to be healthy and able to ride.

I’m guessing that both of those cyclists would happy to know that others ride by those spots and remember.