My comical "getting in over my head" story is not a cycling story, but I think it still has familiar emotions
My wife is an avid flamenco afficionado. She takes classes multiple times per week, attends shows almost every weekend, and savors the Spanish, Gypsy and North African cultural streams that all mix together. The SF Bay Area has a small but vibrant flamenco community, so usually if you go to a medium sized show with 100 people in the audience, you're going to see familiar faces. At small shows, you might know everybody. Performers from the last show will be in the audience of this show, etc. One of the traditional parts of flamenco is a percussion element. It's a wooden snare drum in the shape of a box. The Cajon. The drummer sits on the Cajon and plays on the front face of the instrument, making a surprising array of sounds. I'm recognized in this small community because I go to a lot of shows, but I don't dance, sing, or play an instrument. My wife had the idea that we could learn cajon together. Several years back, a visitor from Spain was holding a workshop in San Francisco, and she signed us up. The description said "all levels welcome". I asked "will they have a cajon for each of us to borrow?" She said "they must! All levels!" We got there and every student was a professional percussionist. There were 8 students in total. Every student had their own cajon, and the class was entirely in Spanish. There were no familiar faces. My wife and I had to play on the tops of our thighs. My wife was familiar with all the rhythms, since she had many years of dancing experience, and was used to doing *palmas, *which is the clapping accompaniment that is done at flamenco shows. So she did fine. Then there's me, desperately wanting to dig a hole in the ground to crawl into and never be heard from again. I had Literally. No. Clue. The only saving grace is that by being almost completely silent I was easy to ignore, so i didn't disrupt anybody else's experience. Also, the experience was sufficiently humiliating to be humorous. Something completely absurd at least gave me the solace "Well, this is going to make a good story". There is definitely "pushing the limits" of one's comfort zone, and then there is "you do not belong here". That first cajon experience was definitely the latter. There's pushing oneself up a level, and there's imposter syndrome, pretending to belong when you probably don't (or thinking you don't belong when you actually do belong). Finally there is being a complete stowaway. Since then, we found a cajon player who had taught classes before COVID but had stopped. We got a small group of friends together to do a beginner class. We host it in our livingroom. Now we're several months in, and we did our first recital on-stage during intermission of a small show. Our teacher, Marlon, is now one of our very close friends. The cajon my wife bought me for Christmas 2015 is more than a coffee table now. So it's all worked out. Bill Lindsay El Cerrito, CA On Monday, May 15, 2023 at 6:13:53 PM UTC-7 Bicycle Belle Ding Ding! wrote: > I just want to talk bikes. I don’t have anything to post FS or WTB…I just > want to tell Riv people this dumb story that happened this morning. You can > laugh or you can roll your eyes, or you can chime in with your own dumb > story of getting in over your own dumb heads. > > This is my second season of club riding. I was new to it last year, and > now that our weather is finally cooperating, I’m back. > > Last week, our bike club started a new ride. It would be on Monday > mornings and only 5 miles from my house. The pace was to be > “conversational” which I took to mean ‘riding at a pace you can still have > a conversation at.’ (I now know that could not be what it meant.) The route > would be new. The details were fuzzy - word was, the ride leader would make > decisions about pace and miles once people arrived. Now, I know Platypuses > are not going to fare well in the 18-21 mph crowd, but I knew that two > women upwards of 70 did this ride last week. I figured I’d be fine. > > I was the second to arrive; the first being the president of our bike > club. He was pulling his gravel bike out of his truck. He’s a roadie and he > leads the 17-18 mph groups. Hmmm. We’re friendly; I’m glad to know one > person on the ride, but if he is here, how fast are we going? Two more > people arrive; both men, roadies, and they pull jet-black, lethal-looking, > feather-light carbon bikes from their vehicles. They are strangers to me. > > Ok, well, it’s going to be fine. Who cares if you’re the only woman. So > what if you’re wearing your pink pants. Clutching the wide, sweepy bars of > your sparkly pink Platypus. Their eyes are hidden behind their Oakleys, and > I imagine what they are thinking - “She cannot be serious.” > > Behind my Oakleys, I am thinking, “I cannot be serious.” > > The three of them begin to discuss the route and the pace. The ride leader > says, “The route is hilly. Let’s keep a 17 mph pace in the flats.” As soon > as I hear that the route is hilly, I want OUT. I have always kept up in my > club rides, but hills are the one thing that the Platypus does not do well. > Oh, a Platypus can climb, but don’t ask it to do it at high speeds. I use > momentum to get me uphill. To compensate, I always shoot ahead of the > group, but I slow on the incline and those carbon bikes are gaining on me > near the top. About the time they catch me, I’m back up to speed and am > innocent of causing anyone to slow down, but that extra effort is the price > I pay. The game is: Never Make Them Slow Down For You Even If You Have A > Heart Attack. > > My mind is searching for a way out. I don’t have a good feeling about > this. It’s early in the season. Maybe if I was in tip top, but today? But > then came introductions. J, the president says, “This is Leah. She’s fine. > She can keep up with us.” Liar, I think. > > And with that, we are off. > > We hit a hill right out the gate. I’m toward the back because I don’t know > the route. They are calmly approaching that hill, not changing speed. I’m > confused. They’re slowing me up; it’s too late for me to get around them. I > will not have the burst of speed I need to start that hill. And worse, I’m > in too high of a gear. I have friction shifting - and now I’m committed. I > am desperate not to look like a fool. I am standing on my pedals, wishing > for the first time in my life that I am 10 pounds heavier. All my weight on > the left pedal. All my weight on the right pedal. Tossing the bike side to > side. Panting. Heart wildly beating. Wishing I was somewhere else. I don’t > know if I can do this, and we have just begun. And the two guys in front > are now sailing uphill and creating a wide chasm between us. This is the > worst first impression. But looking behind me, one of them is having a > harder time with that hill than me. So, at least I’m not LAST. > > The leaders soft pedal and we regroup. New strategy. Way lower gears on > the uphill. Pedal like a rabid animal on the downhill. Announce I’m going > around them to get enough speed/momentum. > > This works better. “Hey, Leah’s getting a better workout than us!” they > joke. “She’s pedaling downhill AND uphill!” Yes, she is, and she’s > exhausted. I push something on my Apple Watch and screw up the metrics. I > look to J - how many miles have we gone, I ask. > > “11.” > > This is a 25 mile ride. I’m going to die, right here on my Platypus. > > The flats have them screaming down the road. They want to go fast, so do > I. It’s just that it costs me a little extra. I have to push, but this I > can do. The man behind me is loving it. I am giving him the loveliest > draft, he says. I look behind me and am shocked that he is right on my > wheel. That is new to me. I hope he’s good at it. > > I’m always the fastest on the downhill in the women’s ride. But these men > tuck in, get low, and even just coasting they sail downhill, passing me. I > wonder how fast they are going. I am wildly pedaling in my hardest gear and > barely feel resistance. > > I love the stop signs. Just a small break to fully inflate my lungs and > slow my pulse is heavenly. I learn to shift to lower gears as we approach > the stop sign so that I can start at a faster pace. > > J asks me how I like this ride. I tell him it’s a gorgeous route that I > don’t know if I’m ever doing again. “But think how strong you would be!” he > says. I am not tempted. > > The last few miles are flat and fast. We eat up the miles quickly. I am > relieved to get back to the parking lot. Elated that I made it. Humbled by > how much I am still learning. The guys are complimentary; last week was a > slower ride and they are happy they got to go at their pace this week. > > I am in my vehicle, thinking lots of thoughts. I mostly believed my > Platypus could do anything…because I love it. In the other rides I’ve > attended, it did what I asked. But it is not as efficient or fast as the > bikes these men have. And it is not a speed climber. It cannot be > everything, but it is still the only bike I want to ride. It has tons of > advantages; I accept its minor limitations. I’ll ride it joyfully. This is > the bike I want to make the memories with. > > I discover I don’t like suffering. I do like a push. I want a challenge. > Give me some hard! But when hard becomes panic, the fun drains out. > > I don’t know if I’ll be back to that ride. But I’m glad I went. > > Have you ever gotten in over your head? > Leah > > > > > > > -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "RBW Owners Bunch" group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to rbw-owners-bunch+unsubscr...@googlegroups.com. To view this discussion on the web visit https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/rbw-owners-bunch/3879a2f5-5d3b-4830-b906-7f30aa03d826n%40googlegroups.com.
