Allez, allez!
The two blocks east of Kodak Office (world headquarters of Eastman Kodak Company), between State Street and the river gorge, used to be called Brown’s Race. It was so named because a guy named Brown built a mill race, diverting waters from above High Falls for the several water-powered mills that gave the city its original nickname, The Flour City.
Water power went out of fashion and the area was pretty much abandoned by the mid 20th century. The city pumped millions of dollars into the area and rechristened it the High Falls Entertainment District. Now it’s pretty much all upscale bars and restaurants, with a museum thrown in for us teetotalers.
At the north end of Brown’s Race (I think the street is still called that) is a road that leads down into the river gorge to RG&E’s old Beebee Station power plant. BeeBee Station sits about a quarter-mile downstream from the falls. A victim of clean-air and clean-water laws, BeeBee station has been closed since the 90s. But the road is still well-maintained and well-lighted.
And pretty fucking steep.
Thank heavens the hill repeats got out of the way early on tonight’s Tuesday Night Urban Assault ride. Without question, the road down to BeeBee Station is the steepest hill I’ve ridden.
I made it through three repeats down into the gorge and back up. Riding the brakes all the way down, lowest of low gears coming back up. Panting so hard and so loud I didn’t need to warn other riders I was on their left. But I made it. Passing riders each time before running out of aerobic capacity. Plus my heart rate had to be 200 or above.
Not bad for an old guy who’s been smoking for 35 years. Even the best riders did only four repeats.
More than the workout, I enjoy the TNUA ride itself. Tonight, two dozen other riders and I set out from from the Adams St Recreation Center, headlights ablaze, blinkies flashing as we rode through Corn Hill, across the pedestrian bridge, through downtown and into High Falls.
I love riding near the back of the pack seeing the line of blinkies stretched-out before me. I love it when we outnumber cars waiting at stoplights. I love it when people on the street just stop and gape at all the idiots riding their bikes at night in the cold and wind and rain.
After a few laps up and down Brown’s Race while waiting for a rider to fix his flat, we crossed the river on the old Platt St bridge. The Platt St bridge was closed to vehicles in the 60s. It was too narrow for the huge cars of the times, and not strong enough for the increasing loads trucks were allowed to carry. Rechristened the Pont du Rennes, it’s now a pedestrian bridge linking the High Falls Entertainment District on the west side, with the former Genesee Brewery (now called High Falls Brewery) on the east side.
The falls were lit tonight and we stopped to watch it for a while. The river is high and running strong after the past few weeks of rain, and the river pouring through the High Falls was certainly impressive.
We rode through the brewery, past the projects, took a little detour through the High Falls Park, the headed back through downtown. Riding along Saint Paul St, we came upon the 7:05 line-up.
We’re supposed to call out passing cars, parked cars and other obsticles. It’s hard to miss a line of buses idling at the curb. And as the callout came back, “Parked bus!” slowly morphed, based on the ads on the buses. “Cheeseburger!” was called back to me, I called back “Fries and a Coke!”, and so it went behind me.
People on the buses and waiting to board, just watched in astonishment.
We dove onto the Riverway (east bank) and the line of riders stretched-out. Younger, faster riders had to be a quarter-mile or more ahead of me. There were a couple behind me too and the one guy I passed, later passed me as I ran out of steam riding up Wilson Blvd.
We regrouped in a parking lot at U of R before crossing into Genesee Valley Park. Circling the lot, calling out “car up” and “car back”, I nearly called out, “Hot longhaired guy right!” And almost followed him instead.
We rode on the park road across I-390 and to the same loop of park road we used for crit loops last week. It had started to rain, and the road was dark, wet and covered with leaves again. I found a rider with a comfortable pace and stayed with her. We were just ahead of the last guys in the group, who were riding slowly so they could chat. Even after being lapped by the leaders, we kept tooling along at that nice, comfortable pace.
We regrouped after several laps and crossed back over I-390 into the park. We looped around the Roundhouse, where the annual gay pride picnic is held. I almost went down on some wet leaves. I was going just a bit too fast and the turn was fairly sharp. As the front wheel slid out, I remembered the advice to relax, keep pedaling and ride it out. I did that, and it worked.
Crossing the river on the bike bridge, we headed south to the Greenway trail, taking the lower route through the flood plain. I was surpised to hear many riders say they’d never ridden it before. Leaves entirely covered the pavement which was a welcome break from the wet asphalt. Much easier to see, and more colorful too.
We came upon a night burning exercise at the police and fire academy. Strangely, no-one thought to call out, “Fire truck right!” The firemen were just as interested in watching us pass as we were in watching them—probably because we had far more flashing lights.
We looped back, crossing the canal again and headed up the Riverway (west bank). I said to the bunch of riders I was with, “I sure hope he knows it’s blocked-off on the other side of Elmwood [Ave].”
Riding through the Waterways Center, a group of young guys, presumably hockey players, stopped, mid-amble across the parking lot to let us ride through. I didn’t quite catch what they were yelling, but they seemed to be cheering us on and wishing they were on bikes instead of ice skates.
I turned to the girl who was my pacesetter and remarked, “That was cool! I’d have felt even better had they been yelling ‘Allez, allez!’ And I suppose cowbells would have been too much to ask.” She laughed out loud.
Both the trail and Plymouth Ave were closed at Elmwood Ave. “It’s a dead end,” someone called out.
“No it isn’t,” I called back. “It’s just sleeping.”
One of the back-of-the-pack riders told me, “For that, you get to ride DFL (Dead Fucking Last).”
Not that I was far away from that anyway.
The ride went through nonetheless. As the lead riders held open the plastic fencing, one-by-one we wiggled out bikes through. One of the mechanics from Towner’s complained, “I can’t take a road bike through there. Hell, I’m on a single-speed, 62 by 12.”
Which is such an impossible gear ratio, leta lone on a single-speed, that it deserved an equally snappy come-back—which is my specialty.
“Wimp. Just dial it up to 400 watts and smoke by us all.”
Unless one knows power training, or hangs out on bikeforums.net, the reference to dialing-it up to 400 watts would be lost. Fortunately, it wasn’t. I got props for that one.
We rode through the muddy street, to the fence at the other end, where the process was repeated, then on through the tree tunnel and home.
I logged nearly 24 miles tonight. Temps in the upper 30s, SW wind at 10–15 and several passing showers. I’d worn a long and a short-sleeved t-shirt under my rain jacket, jeans and my ratty old sneakers. All that got cold were my toes, because these sneakers could be classified as open-toed, and my fingers, because my gloves are mesh-backed.
More importantly, after being in a funk for the past couple of days, I felt great.
