...in which I receive THE Wave...

Waving during a cycling ride, that sometimes imperceptable acknowledgment, meted through the nod of a head, the lift of a finger, or an actual wave of the wrist, has sometimes been a question mark for me. In Hawaii, I waved at just about everyone I saw--and knew just about everyone I saw. It was small town cycling on limited roads in limited time frames. The sun set at almost the same time year round, and in order to get that 20-miler in after work, everyone had to leave at the same time. There just wasn't much leeway. The main body of cyclists in the part of town where I lived started from the same point, rode the same road, and we all waved hello--even across 4 or 6 lanes of traffic.

Waving in Albuquerque has been a little different. Here, I'm waving at strangers. There's a larger variety of cyclists. On the bike path I see families, recreational cyclists, mountain bikers, commuters, and dedicated racers. A lot of people don't wave back. Instead of the larger hand-off-the-handle-bar wave, I've recently settled into a flick of my fingers, an acknowledgment of the "we're all in this together," without the actual commitment of a true wave--which, on some days, can be ignored a lot.

On this morning, a beautiful, sunny, leisurely day, perfect for the bike path, I resolved to wave to everybody, rain or shine so to speak, regardless of make, model, or apparent creed. The wave, of course, would be the 4-finger flick--acknowledgment without commitment. Perfect for me.

The ride started slow. New Mexico wind gusts and riding into a head wind made spinning difficult. I couldn't get moving. After what seemed like a long warm up, I gave up on feeling good about my ride performance, and settled into a slightly less than acceptable pace--only to be taken over by a tandem pair, singing "hello-o-o" as they went by. The pass went like this: female voice first, pause as I see the woman pull up along side, than the baritone of a man singing out, pause as I realize it's a tandem, then the man passes by.
For some reason, it seemed like a long pass.
And for some reason,
probably the length of the pass,
it got under my skin.

Even though I was supposed to be riding light--
Even though I knew that a 2-person engine is stronger than my single pair of winter legs--
Even though 1/2 of the pair on the bike was a solid looking male with strong leg muscles--
I subtly turned up the pace a notch--almost trying to hide it even from myself--for a steady, gradual chase.
Easy.
The tandem blocked the wind, and I came up from behind in no time.
Then I noticed the male, the stoker in the back, turning his head form side to side, ostensibly sightseeing, but I guessed that he was checking me out.
And he was.
The pace increased.
I actually stayed several bike lengths back, and off to the side, knowing that the 2-person engine in front of me had the advantage.
But at one point, unintentionally, I pulled up to the man's rear left. I stayed out to the side, but probably closer than he wanted me to be. In fact, he probably didn't want me to be close at all. But I stayed there--choosing not to pass, because I didn't want to play leapfrog--but not dropping back either.
And I waited.
To see if I'd hear it.
And I did.
The "click" of the shift as he moved into another gear.

Now it gets harder.
We've been going for several miles like this
I haven't been able to breath well, ever since we went to sea level on vacation, and I can really feel it.
But I keep trying to hang on and minimize the "damage" which, as defined by me, is not letting him get too far away.
I've been riding the hoods the entire time, but now decide to get to business, and drop down into a TT position. I'm feeling on pace, getting aero, breathing hard. The tandem has opened up a gap, but it's not too far out, although I'm essentially on my own. I'm as low as I can go and feel like a little gnat trying to mimic a racer.

Throughout all of this, I've forgotten to wave.

Coming towards me is a man in a blue kit.
He's lean and pale.
I don't see much except for paleness.
He looks at me.
And he waves.
He takes his hand off the handle bars and gives me a wave. A real one. Hand in the air. It's the biggest gesture I've seen all day.
He see's what I'm doing, and he gets it.
From one cyclist to another.

I don't catch up with the tandem, partially because a family shows up in front of me, and I slow down to keep the kids safe.

Mark catches up with me on the return trip.
"Did you see Levi?"
"Huh? What color was he wearing?"
"Blue"
"Baby blue and white?"
"Yup"
"Clear glasses?"
"Yup"
"Pale and white?"
"Yup. He has that red headed complexion."
"Are you sure it was Levi?"
"Yup"
"HE WAVED AT ME!
HE TOOK HIS HAND OFF THE HANDLE BARS AND HE WAVED AT ME!"
(pause)
Then I ask him, "Did he wave at you, too?"
"Nope"
"You sure?"
"Nope. He just rode by, and I recognized him"

I wallow in it.
Levi Leipheimer waved at me.
America's other Tour de France rider and last year's third place finisher, winner of last year's Tour of California, now training to defend his title, and the U.S. national road race champion, all rolled into one, waving at me.

Now, he could have waved at me because I was riding so demonically fast.
Or, because I looked cool in my best TT position and he thought I was a fellow pro.
But then I remember the silly, purple bandana I have tied around my neck, and I realize that Levi was probably just acknowledging the odd juxtaposition of a southwest accent on a cycling kit. The wave could just as easily have been a "what the heck is that" gesture.
Still.
He waved at me.
And, regardless of the reason, like all good fans, I've suddenly fallen in love.