Guest Blogger; Oliver Yeh

I Believe in Wormholes

Yesterday, I did a George Costanza. I went on the Delaware Legislators Bike to Work ride down to Dover. When the email first came out announcing the 60-mile event, I thought about doing it for sure. Then my lardness snuck in shims of excuses in between my everyday ongoings suggesting, "It's a weekday, you won't know anyone, it could rain, you've never biked that distance before, you need to get back in time for pick-up..." So I strategized. In a last minute flip of attitude, I did the opposite of letting the event pass and set plans in motion the night before so I couldn't back out.

Oliver +1

Lardness 0

People talk about muscle-memory's role in cycling. I find even more intriguing the Pavlovian response to getting ready for a cycling event. It felt like 'cross season had already arrived. The laying out of clothing, gear, foods. Breakfast in the dark. One shot of espresso and out the door I went into the chill of the morning. My stomach gurgled here and there. Anticipation, a little anxiety. This is when logic seems to get clouded and fear (for no good reason) takes hold.

I think if there's ever a compelling reason to do an event you've never done before it's to experience not the event itself but its people. Maybe I'm more affected than you because I sit at home all day in my mental cave while you drive-to-work types get your fill of other beings that actually exist. All sorts arrived at Zingo's Supermarket's parking lot that morning. I was the outsider for certain but a couple of familiar faces gently folded me in like a nice meringue. This took away some of the fear and unlatched my shutters to the whole experience.

I unleashed a few ounces in the bathroom at Zingo's (yes, there is one, in the back right, through the doors and up the stairs -- you will get looks if you're wearing cycling gear). We saddled up. Cue sheets were handed out, a welcome, a few scant announcements, warnings, precautions and off we went. I wore on my wrist my wife's Garmin 405cx. It's been acting a bit wonky recently so I wanted to test it again before sacrificing it to my son as a superhero watch, or for use as target practice with our sledgehammer. Twenty-some minutes into the ride it blanked. I prayed it wasn't a sign. But really, what was I keeping track of?

Wormhole: a hypothetical portal between separated regions of space-time. (Ergo, you enter a "hole" and come out somewhere else in time. Let's use the assumption that it is a forward movement in time.)

On planet Earth, I think traveling through a wormhole is indication that something great is happening. Something enjoyable. Children travel through them all the time which is why they hate it when they arrive into a parent's arms and hear those fatal words, "It's time." Dates that are going well go through wormholes. On the converse, a team who is being pummeled by an opponent is traveling in the wrong direction in a wormhole. It cannot budge time.

While I could hypothesize the whole event was a wormhole, I encountered two distinct instances. The first went something like this: I rode alongside a person, we talked in depth about an interesting topic, we kept pace and on a long stretch of road we looked up to see no riders in front of us. We looked back to see no riders behind us. We stopped, waited. Checked the time but didn't know when we started or when we're supposed to end. We looked for water towers only to see what I thought were vultures or some large birds that eat roadkill. We couldn't even find tumbleweed. Luckily he had his smartphone and I pulled out my sweaty cue sheet. Find, find, find. What's funny about getting lost is that you tend to accelerate your traveling pace when searching for the right track (or deepen your level of lostness). I tend to worry in these situations so I pulled most of the way back to find the next gathering spot.

The second hole happened at the end of the ride. After a break-stop before the last stretch to Legislative Mall, a small group set off ahead of everyone. Overall, I thought that this would be a nice coast-in. Instead, when I set off, a new friend and I became the lead of a group of fast hard-charging line of cyclists. It was thrilling. The two of us started to pick up the pace (I don't know if either of us wanted to but it just happened partly because I told myself to let go). After a long pull, we backed off when a red light inserted a much needed breather. I paused my restart and sandwiched in the middle of a new single-lined train. In my head I heard voices of mentors telling me to tuck in, keep my nose out of the wind, and all those small tips you cannot begin to understand until you're in dire need of them. Feeling the wind, keeping an eye out for the wheel in front. Not thinking about the pain. We caught and passed the very first group (who had a pace I should've been riding with).

Eventually, I imploded and bowed out. It was only later I heard someone had marked us at 39 mph at one point on the flats. I don't know if it was accurate. But I do know we were in the express line.

I came out of the wormhole at Legislative Mall: after dropping off, I smiled and sidled a couple of riders who had also dropped off. Eventually there remained myself and another talking and lost again. We quickly found our bearings to a table of volunteers who looked at us as if we were Gil Gerard and Twiki.

"Where is everyone?"

"I don't know, weren't you with them?"

"They were in front of us."

"Well you guys are 1st, 2nd and 3rd."

Someone who rode a folding bike (who rode in the fast moving surge that shot us out) had arrived first. So then I remembered someone mentioning Subway and how they couldn't wait to eat before the ride back up to Zingo's. I backtracked knowing the intent was to ride as one and waited next to a DelDOT photographer who only spoke when asked a question. Not used to speaking to large Chinese guys in spandex I guess. Eventually, the whole crew rode by and I slid in.

It was impressive hearing Senator Dave Sokola's speech if not for the mere appreciation of the history behind the cycling efforts in Delaware. When we enter a new world, whether it's a sport, an area of work, or what not, it's easy to gloss over a past long established. The thrill is having the opportunity to add to that map and to meet those who contributed their own piece. As a newcomer, connecting those pieces is an enjoyable adventure in knowledge. I admit I won't remember everyone's name. I will however remember the smiling faces and what we did together. I now have a piece of my own.

Do a Constanza once in a while. Break routine. Lose yourself; find a wormhole.