It’s quiet now.  No crowds and no evidence of the impressively done event.  Just folks getting back into Monday work mode and me wondering if I could have pushed it just a little more yesterday.

The bike I’m on is a dated Cannondale Cad 6.   Retired racer relegated (and reborn) to courier rig.  An old war horse and what I was on the last time I saw regular NRC action circa 2001 era.  Now, that is rare to never.

This rise in the course was where it was possible to move up, especially near the end as heat took a toll and the attrition level kicked in.  I made some progress, recaptured forgotten sensations and was able to reach the front of the field in the closing laps but in the end I didn’t move up enough and fell one out of the money in 26th.

It was interesting seeing the streets I have been riding since ‘91 carved into a bona fide big league race course.  Some folks had suggested prior that I would have an advantage knowing these lanes so well, which I went along with, even though I knew that would have absolutely no impact.

Once the route is set, beyond the local cheering section, which is huge, it could be a crit course in any city.

Angles and efforts.   Sixty laps.  Seven turns.  Figuring it all out and getting in the rollercoaster rhythm.   That is the feeling that returned.  Following wheel.  Strung out.  Gauging out put and running the red line.

The first time I noticed laps there were 59 to go.  It is hard from the start and I knew that I would have to get over the hump and hope to adjust back to NRC speed or risk getting blown out.  I tried not to look until it was lower forties.  Just rolling.  With forty I set twenty as a goal.  To at least not be embarrassed.

With 20 I felt maybe better but at least not any worse.  I can count down twenty.  20 more sessions.   140 more corners.   The mental drills are kind of funny and I’m guessing pretty varied across the varied board of racer types.

With the heat and the speed it is hard to know when and if you will get popped.  Things that seem fine can change quickly.  Operating at the limit and slightly out of practice means the engine might be touchy.

Luckily I felt more solid toward the end than the beginning so it was a decent day. Adrenalin and exhaustion mixed oddly and comfortably by the close.

The production Mark Sommers and the DC Sports Authority put on was large.   The crowds, which were mostly made of up of fellow racers and family, were good but it would be nice if more sports fans in general came to a FREE event with world class athletes on display.  Maybe the races need to have steep ticket prices and ‘fans’ will start showing up!

For instance the person I noticed walking one day.  In a suit.   Tired but somewhat composed.   The next day seen again.   In another part of town.  Same suit.  A little disheveled.  A little less composed.    Still walking, but blending in.  A part of the crowd.

This continues.   Each time more ragged.   More dirty but still a guy in a suit, walking.  I cover a wide area of the city.  So does this person.  I figure I may be the only one who is aware that he is basically on walkabout.  From somewhere, for some reason.  One day he just left something behind and started walking.  My vantage point is invisible but my scan is wide.  Blended in and part of the fabric.  Not stopping too long and not repeating too much.

There is another man who has been in his routine for as long as I have been in mine.  Between 9th Street and 14th Street NW bordered by L to the north and D to the south.   A small region but big enough to get lost in.   Mostly alleys and loading docks. He rarely comes out onto the main drags during business hours.

In the early 90’s he was draped with ties and moved slow.   Hunched over slightly but at the same time solid steady and consistent.   Disconnected but firmly focused on his movement and direction.  The ties hanging down gave him a lagoon creature vibe.  Over the years he has lost the ties but has maintained the same appearance of purpose.  An incredible time span and a statement on resilience and survival.

If I myself wasn’t shadowing those same routes in the courier lanes his appearance would be isolated and without continuity, but when viewed through this lens his movements are not so different then a career government employee on the same stretch.

There have been numerous characters that come and go.  Footnotes and sign posts.  I crisscross the metro boundaries so much, that patterns appear even if I don’t seek them.

One winter I started to see a man with a big walking stick who was wearing nothing but cut up shorts that gave the appearance of a loin cloth.   Obviously an unusual sight and something that garnered notice.  At the same time the data, details and oddities come so fast and regular that I mainly, for self preservation as well as business purposes, stay focused on choosing good clean bike lines and transacting my parcel delivery.

I figured this was a one shot deal.  The conditions and the garb were both extreme for the setting.  I started to see the man regularly as I passed through Lafeyette Park.  He arrived around the same time and sat at the same bench.  In the gear.

On an especially challenging weather day with northwest winds, temps in the mid thirties and a persistent rain; a day when I had all my gear on and still couldn’t get warm I saw him in place.   Sitting.   Calm.   Relaxed.   Poised and clear.

This is months after he appeared.   Always, his countenance was even.

Frequently he would be engaging folks in discussion but they came to him.  No ranting.  No proclamations. No solicitations.  No posters.   Just a dude, in a loin cloth, on a bench……..

I guess it was my turn.  Mainly I wanted to know about that internal temperature gauge he had going.  Granted, at the time I was pursuing the racing in a big way and my body fat was close to zero, but the tolerance disparity was embarrassing.

He was there with the answers.  Some I could have projected.  Mind management and relaxation techniques.  Stuff that is evident and possible but he had taken to fruition and high levels.  He said in the winter he ate greens that only grow in the cold.  I don’t know about the science on that one but it made sense and his result confirmed.

That winter he was a regular visitor to the park.   This is over ten years ago.   Then he was gone.   Another footnote but a strong imprint.   Blunt proof and a reminder of the mind and bodies capacity.

Recently he reappeared looking the same as before.  Strong and positive.  Even though previous contact was limited I rolled up and he greeted me like a friend.   He greets everyone like that.

He’s got a name. Elijah Nature Boy Logan.  He’s got a website and stories written about him.   He’s got a wide dimension spanning philosophy.  The particulars can be up for grabs and debated but he walks it like he talks it and still, sits in the center, calm and composed.

He is in town for a ‘few months’.  Another stint and then I imagine he will be gone just as quietly as he arrived.

Later that day in a different park corner I see a guy dressed in a full overcoat doing a moody remnant of tai chi.  It is 90 degrees out.  I’m rolling.  In motion.  The sharp late day sun is kicking angles and shadows on the rush hour traffic.  I look for space and watch for irregularities.

Inexplicably a person is hitchhiking.  Traffic is a standstill at Mass Ave and 5th Street.   This elderly man is dressed in yellow shorts and a yellow t-shirt and carries a satchel on a pole that resembles a hobo stick.  He’s got his thumb out like he just stepped off the old Route 66.

I’m blocks past him now still dodging obstacles and meeting deadlines. Trying to be fluid but unhurried.  A yellow memory blur is all that registers.  There is more coming at me.  Moving parts.  Signs, symbols and trap doors.  It’s endless.

(note: gratuitous Soda photo taken previous day, same park under different circumstances)

Anyone can enter a Congressional office building if they pass through the metal detectors, but there are no real security checks like identification or anything.  

OK. So, amid all that line-standing clutter, FOUR Capitol Hill Police Officers zero in on ME and say can we talk to you. I’m behind a velvet rope, like in a club or movie theater that they had set up to guide the line. I say sure even though I am a little nervous since there are four of them. What else am I going to say? Plus I know a lot of these guys and they know me. I have been coming in and out of these building for years as a bike messenger.

They say, “No, over here….” (pointing) So I go over the rope and say, OK. They say “No, walk with us.”

Now I’m getting a little more nervous because I have no idea what they want and we have to walk a while before we get out of crowd range. I’m not sure if they will lead me to the proverbial ‘black van’ and that will be the end…..

Then we stop. Four of them and me. They are acting kind of tentative like they have something to say but don’t know how to approach it, which makes me more nervous. Finally one of them says, “What’s up with your leg?”

I’m dressed in bike stuff. Tights shorts. Lots of layers.

Me: “What do mean??”

Officers: “Well it’s kind of big…”

I deduce that they are suspicious/curious and try to diffuse and provide answers.

I explain that beside being a cyclist and already having big quads I had major surgery on the leg in question and the cuts into muscle sheath, which is called facetious, disfigured the leg and make it look even bigger. I have to peel back my tights and show them the evidence (in the hallway…. right where they were questioning me!) The spot where the bone came through the skin. The scars from ankles to hip. The whole deal, which is pretty convincing and I think the more I go the more embarrassed they get.

Then I say “Since I answered you, now answer me. I know all you guys and there are all these questionable characters here today. You know, what gives?!”

They said “Someone said something.” I understand they have to follow up and indicate that. Then I ask, “Who/what?”

They said it was just some “citizen” who had never seen a leg like that. I said “What do you think I could have here. It’s all lycra.”

They’re kind of laughing (kind of) but one says well we never know what you could be “packing.”

I guess they hadn’t really seen a cyclist before or at least paid close attention. I say “The only thing I’m packing is a mean-ass sprint.”

(Disclaimer: Before there are any comments from local cyclists who know me, I realize I don’t quite pack a “mean-ass sprint” exactly, but I couldn’t say I can accelerate repeatedly and I recover well day-to-day. The ‘packing a’ thing just sounded better.)