By CHRIS AUSTIN
For The Beachcomber

After a long day in the saddle, I like to indulge myself in a favorite post-bike ride activity. I put myself in the capable hands of Karina or Joe, my favorite bartenders, and reminisce about my journey. The longer I sit there, the more impressive my ride was, and if I sit long enough, I become incredibly handsome and a fantastic dancer.

Recently, I sipped a pint of Cliff’s latest creation, and I felt a stab of melancholy realizing that summer was on the wane. So grabbing some napkins, I penned my last cycling article.

Hopefully you have put the best weather in the country to good use and cycled around our beautiful island. Now, with your legs tempered on the hills of Vashon, you may be looking for something beyond a casual ride. For many folks this means an organized bicycle ride.

For a small entrance fee, you can get a trip through some of the most scenic roads in the area, refreshment stops for food and drinks and a vehicle to pick you up if need be. While these rides are easy to find on the web, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Vashon’s own Passport to Pain (P2P), a September hill climbing fest on Vashon. Riding the short, medium or long route will give you gloating rights for an entire year. Plus the entry fee helps out Vashon Island Rowing Club and the Vashon Maury Community Food Bank.

An organized ride always has a few riders that take it too seriously, but most everyone else is out for a fun time, and some are decidedly on the unconventional side.

For instance, I remember this year in the Seattle Brews Cruise a woman who cycled 30 miles in high heels and a flower-print skirt. During the Flying Wheels Century ride, a man biked 100 miles wearing Viking horns, (maybe that’s what Vikings do in the plundering off-season).

While these rides are not races, I am not above seeing a person up the road and wondering if I can pass them. My favorite targets are the octogenarian on an adult tricycle or the parent hauling kids around with a trailer. They, of course, have no idea they are in a race. All they see is a guy in pain slowly passing them.

I have found, however, that gloating over a vanquished rider can be a fleeting emotion. At last year’s Chilly Hilly ride, I passed a few people along a long climb. As each rider was dropped, my head began to swell so much I thought I might crack my helmet.

Then I began to hear a familiar noise, the grinding of an unlubricated chain. I stomped on the pedals to leave the poorly maintained bike in my dust. Near the top of the hill, my burning legs faltered as the telltale sound of the grating chain came closer and closer. My relentless pursuer turned out to be an average looking dude wearing a one-piece pajama, complete with little booties for his feet.

No matter the activity, it is absolutely humbling to be beaten by someone wearing flannel clothes with a Jack Frost and elves motif.

You may be reading this and thinking that I am suggesting you to do something a bit out of your comfort zone. Perhaps, but never let it be said I don’t take my own advice. Last month I was asked to participate in the Xterra here on the island. Touted as an off-road triathlon, I was part of a three-person team, doing my job as the mountain biker.

I mountain biked 20 years ago through Southern California, yet gave it up 19 and a half years ago when I read about a guy the next town over who was killed and eaten by a cougar. So the mountain bike went to garage sale heaven and I went back to riding pavement where the only cougars were made by Mercury.

My Xterra teammates consisted of Susan, our swimmer and someone I am fairly certain is Aquaman’s sister, and Lyndsey, our runner, who was not only fleet of foot but an awesome motivator.

My contribution? Well it was quite an ego boost. An ego boost for my competitors. I was hands-down the slowest biker in my category. True, my lack of mountain biking skills didn’t help. More than once I dismounted to step over an obstacle only to have my competitors whizz by. I was like a living, breathing traffic cone.

Nonetheless, my stalwart teammates cheered me on as I rounded each lap. Most of the time I was out of sight, but never out of earshot. Going uphill I was grunting more than a women’s tennis final, and going downhill my squeaks of panic had every dog on the island tilting its head.

So if you are on the fence about signing up for an organized ride, think about my Xterra experience; I was out of shape, I came in last, I had a great time, and I met some wonderful people. It’s already on my calendar for next year.

— Chris Austin is the author of two books available at www.chrisaustinbooks.com. He also works at The Beachcomber.