This half-mile loop has a 13% climb and a nice, smooth descent. Kids on Haro bikes are always riding down the big climb section as I'm going up. I'm sure they think I'm working on a heart attack. Climbing past them I get out of the saddle and hammer on to the best of my ability, regretting my gear selection almost immediately. I estimate and curse the weight of my water bottle, iPod, cadence meter and helmet. One of them will scream past me, descending with teeth clenched, trucker hat turned slightly askew, eyes locked on the half-effort waterlogged and cracked plywood ramp that's been set up on a brick or two to launch them over the rain ditch.
As I make it to the top I hear his bike-heavier than mine-crash onto and over the plywood. The group of three friends waiting for their turn at the top laugh and hang their wrists over handle bars with ease, cans of Monster energy drink held so lightly, so lazily that I doubt they've even left fingerprints. The first time I ride away from them, one of them shouts "Yeah Lance, Live Strong!" Mockery. Haven't heard that in a while. Two minutes later I climb by them for the second time. They hide their laughs until I'm a block away. After the third, fourth, fifth passes they don't seem to laugh anymore. One of them, sitting alone at the top, nods at me on the sixth. On the seventh they're missing. Eighth, ninth, tenth still gone. On the eleventh lap I see them coming down Highfield. They took the long, easy way around, but still they fight the climb.
Twelve, thirteen. I get to the top, smile and nod. They're drinking Red Bull now. As I finish my fourteenth lap they're still sitting there. I forget how much of my teenage life was spent loitering. Final lap. I spin down the descent, get into a climbing gear early, and, legs-shaking, attack the climb for the last time today. Ugly. Legs shaking, lungs have had enough for the day, even my arms are tired. Slow. They must think I'm ancient. I'm listening to Operation Ivy on my headphones and I realize the song's older than all of them.
Summit. This is no Everest. Alpe d'Huez it is not. But I've done it. Fifteen times. I doubt they were counting but they break from their conversation as I give my last few kicks before the top. I smile. They smile. I nod. They nod.
"I'd have to drink like, ten of these to do that shit man," holding up his Red Bull, "that's crazy."
I memorize his words. Incredible. They reveal something about Waterford, something about expressing yourself as a teenager, something about respect. I smile and nod towards the ramp.
"Care if I try?"
Moments later, tearing down what was my climb, madly shifting into my biggest gear, crouching low, gripping hard, clenching my own teeth and thanking the universe for the weight of my helmet but regretting the bike shoes which are clipped into my pedals I focus on the jump. Behind me someone yells, "Yeah Lance!"
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