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Improvisations on a Paceline by John Stenzel I am alone with my self-imposed sentence, my speedometer-battery dead, my gut cramping and growling from too much rest-stop fruit juice. Click to read Essay Profile of Author Bio of Author from ETG Essay, Late-breaking Developments Author's Comment on the ETG Experience Updated Bio Click to Purchase Send email to the author (The copyright on this essay is held by the author.  For permission to duplicate: copyright@cunepress.com)

Improvizations on a Paceline
I am sixty miles into my first 100-mile bicycle ride, the Chico Century. I have finished the hilly section and enter the windswept Flatlands of California’s northern Central Valley. Against a quartering headwind—not quite in my face, but more in the face than at the side—I begin to crank my gears lower and lower, even though the countryside is table-top flat. Four hours earlier, several thousand riders had started out, snaking through the cool morning air like a neon-hued Spandex worm, climbing into the foothills from the little university town of Chico.

Ahead of me I can see dots in the distance. I am alone with my self-imposed sentence, my speedometer-battery dead, my gut cramping and growling from too much rest-stop fruit juice. My car is waiting for me forty upwind miles away. How the heck am I going to make it?

From behind I hear the smooth whir of riders, and my pace increases automatically, even though I have been passed many times already by lines going several miles an hour faster than I want to. This group hasn’t closed in too quickly. Can I ride their slipstream? A few minutes later I have joined a quartet of gray-haired riders wearing Sacramento Wheelmen jerseys. I am about to get a lesson in the impromptu jam session known as paceline riding.

My newfound mentor, Gordon, drops his left hand down and edges toward the traffic lane. My front wheel is spinning slightly behind his and to the side, and I have been enjoying an eerily quiet pocket of calmer air amidst the methodical north wind. I hear someone call out "Clear," signaling that Gordon can safely sag back to the rear of the line. Just behind me is the metallic, free wheel hum of another rider following closely. As soon as I lose the comfort of Gordon’s slipstream, the resistance increases on my pedals, and I must fight the urge to press too hard. Five minutes earlier I was warned not to speed up when my turn came "at the point," the head of the paceline, and here I am, trying to maintain a steady cadence. A good paceline is a smooth one, and seasoned riders have little patience with the dangerous "bungee-cord" style of inexperienced cyclists.

I’m determined not to rush, or slow down, or pull too long at the front. Gentle corrections waft up from behind me, just as I’ve requested: "That’s a bit rich, ease off, fine, fine, anytime you’re ready to come back, just let me know." Just as I do before a concert, I’m feeling my share of performance anxiety, though I don’t fear judgment from this crew. Nevertheless, before I really need to, I’m pointing my finger down, easing to my left, and letting the group stream past my right hip. This way I’m the only rider exposed to traffic, and the new leader can smoothly begin his pull at the front. All I do is let up on my pedals—the wind does the rest. Gordon welcomes me back in with a grin, and for some reason I thank him: "Heck, I should thank you—that was fine, real steady."

Working together this way, sharing the wind load, we move several miles an hour faster than a solo cyclist. The teamwork turns work to pleasure. Gordon’s helmet mirror lets him spot cars before I do, calling out "Car back," and "Clear," but the group keeps up a lighthearted banter even as they clip along. Within a few minutes he’s up front again, and I’ve gotten a few more bits of advice: never touch the brake; find a tandem going your speed and stay with ’em all day; focus on the seat-post of the guy ahead, not the wheel; stay aware of what’s coming; don’t zone out; ease off early, not late, before you get tired. I’m a sponge for this basic knowledge, and learning it makes me forget the soreness in my seat and the tightness in my gut.

After several more exchanges we pull into the last rest stop, stretch our legs, and fill water bottles. We agree to keep together for the final run into Chico, straight into the wind. I feel almost no fatigue, I’m floating with a rhythm and harmony that I don’t experience in my rides alone. Even as I enter this new world, I’m aware of the next level and the next, of racing packs and the thirty-five mph peloton of the great European races. Yet here, in miniature, is my fantasy camp, my master class, and I buzz with the collective energy of the group and the moment.

I’ve experienced this feeling before, in team sports like basketball and rowing—yet my mind is drawn, oddly, to music. I think of a chorus blending disparate voices, of a small group playing sonatas with tight agility. A few years back I’d played recorder sonatas and studied Baroque performance style at a music camp run by my older brother, a cellist, and his harpsichordist partner. By the second summer I had caught the magic from these professionals and moved through technique into the next level of teamwork. With complete trust we passed melody lines back and forth, completing harmonies, articulating lines, adding ornamentation, listening and responding as we maintained pulse and spirit. Now I was feeling the same joy, riding a bike instead of playing a recorder.

Our paceline turns north and hooks up with the section-line roads into town. We have attracted a pack of thirty tired riders who are glad for the windbreak. The five of us smoothly exchange stints at the front, with hardly a word spoken. In the confusion of the finish-zone parking area I lose track of my teachers, the quartet that had absorbed me, so I load up my bike and drive away. On the freeway a truck passes me, and I unconsciously slide in behind it. The wind-noise falls once I enter its slipstream.

Profile
John Stenzel brings music to everything he does, whether it be row, row, rowing his boat or ride, ride, riding his bike.

An accomplished linguist, he moves easily through the world’s many accents, skipping with astonishing ease from Etonian English (he did study at Oxford), to Sid Caesar German, to shopkeeper East Indian, to California Surfer Dude. He likes to ski too fast, which brings him pleasure, but also brings other things (his wife, Amélie, just showed me the bruise on her thigh from their last ski trip). He sings around the office—Mozart or "Rubber Ducky" or whatever it is he is rehearsing at the moment. When I join in, he never seems to mind that I don’t know the words or the tune. He is a good person and/or a good actor. He also plays recorder like a classically trained lark. Indeed, everything he does is like a lark to him, seemingly effortless, but graceful and beautiful. This is especially so for his writing.

—John Boe

Bio
John Stenzel
Place of residence: Berkeley.
Birthplace: Richmond, Virginia.
Grew up in: San Jose, when there were still orchards.
Day job: Lecturer, English department.
Education: B.A., Pomona College. M. Philosophy, Oxford University. Ph.D., University of California at Davis.
Serial publications: American Rowing—essay.
Current projects: Anthology of essays and poems about rowing. Critique of computer-assisted writing.
Craving: Quality—in people and practice. In the Robert Pirsig sense, not Donald Trump’s!
Favorite Bach cantata: BWV 106, "Actus Tragicus."
Favorite books that I can’t re-read for fear of spoiling the pleasurable memory: Robert Heinlein’s juvenile science-fiction.
Favorite easy rock climb in a stunning setting: Snake Dike, Half Dome.
Runner-up: South East Buttress of Cathedral Peak.
Favorite student question: "Do we need to know this?"
Favorite computer message: "The application ‘unknown’ has unexpectedly quit, because an error occurred."

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