Cycling - The Racing Post

Cycle Logic - Sag Wagon Saga

By Diana North

I decided some time ago that all non-cycling people who support or even put up with cyclists probably qualify for saint status. My gratitude also extends to cyclists who are willing to forego riding to assist other cyclists during organized rides and races, especially now that I qualify. This newfound appreciation came on the heels of an entire day spent in a SAG vehicle for Houston’s local charity ride called “The Space Race” held in April.

As a member of the club that sponsors the annual ride, I thought it would be nice of me to give up riding in it and actually do some work to help other cyclists do the riding part. And the fact that the cycling club treasurer cornered me near the dessert table at last year’s Christmas party had very little to do with my decision.

With echoes in my head of my best girlfriend’s warnings about how hard it would be to work while other people were riding, I got up early and helped load the supplies into our SUV. My bike hung quietly in her rack, while I kept my missed-ride crabbiness to myself. This wasn’t as hard as it may sound. It had rained during the night and the roads were soaked.

Arriving at the meeting spot for SAG vehicles I ran around in my orange vest taping on SAG signs, learning to use the radio and generally getting in the way. It started to rain. The ride started, and it continued to rain. But cyclists, as we all know, are a brave and hardy lot. The rain didn’t dampen their spirits one bit. Those watery rooster tails and soggy shoes were taken in stride. And I didn’t feel one bit jealous.

Eager to burn the energy I wouldn’t use riding, I probably got carried away. While my husband drove, I repeatedly jumped out of the vehicle every chance I got in my eagerness to show him up. I used our utility broom to sweep gravel, sand and glass from road shoulders and turns. I even used the broom to move a dead squirrel, much to my husband’s dismay, and he almost didn’t let me back in.

When we reached the somewhat dicey 20-mile turn-off, I volunteered to stand in the rain so I could gesture and yell directions at riders, which probably confused them more than anything. Still, quite of few of them called out “thank you” so I didn’t even mind that my voice was hoarse and my Ron Jon hat was dripping wet.

Throughout the day I changed tires, pumped tires and was glad I’d conned a gas station cashier into giving me handfuls of moistened towel packets. The rain and dirt combined with bike grease made me a car mechanic impersonator after the first stop. I loaded bikes, unloaded bikes, worked the radio, gave out cold drinks and yelled encouragement out the window to riders who looked bedraggled. I urged my poor husband to use our vehicle to block dogs trying to chase them. He even yelled something loud, but civil, to the dog owners about keeping their pets out of the road. Just in case, I reminded him that I had that squirrel-moving broom in the back seat.

At one point, I even got called “crazy” by a woman I thoughtlessly offered a lift. Silly me. I just figured pedaling while clutching her stomach might mean she wasn’t having fun anymore.

About noon, while stopped to help in yet another tire changing, the woman with the flat realized she was standing in a fire ant hill. Suddenly her shoes and socks were covered with ants. She stripped them off, but not before her ankles were speckled with bites. Then while I was picking ants out of her rain-soaked shoes, I heard her say she was allergic to ant bites, and we were off to the finish line medical tent. I’m pretty sure she lived, but all she could talk about was how disappointed she was to be cutting her ride short.

One guy standing by the roadside punching his own upper thigh with his fist told us he didn’t need a lift, thanks. His friends told us, yes he did. He said he was fine. The one woman with them said, “…of course he isn’t going to say he needs a ride because he’s a man after all, and men do that.” Then as we started to drive away he motioned for us to stop because he’d changed his mind. But we’d better not tell anyone even though his friends would be on their cell phones telling the whole world the minute they finished and he would never hear the end of it. Oh well.

Trying to get the poor guy’s mind off his misery, my husband suggested salt tablets and electrolyte chewables and tried to cheer him up. And my husband should know, he’s the “cramp king” in our family. Because of him I have the unjust reputation for being the cruel one. Simply because I’ve been known to say things like “only crybabies cramp” and “just push through it, we’re almost there.” I kept my attention on the radio and bikes.

I must not be too cruel, though, because at the end of they day I was glad I’d helped out. The money raised goes to a wonderful charity. The riders were, of course, a great bunch of people. The organizers and people helping out worked hard and so did we. All in all, I was too busy to be jealous. The cyclists were appreciative and gracious and glad to see us, and it was nice to be on the receiving end of it. Most of all, it gave me a chance to give something back. To be one of the people I always appreciate when I get a chance to ride.