This unedited article is dedicated to my beloved husband who passed away December 15, 2014. How I wish he had been able to read it. Without his all encompassing love, compassion, wisdom, and support, I would never have had the strength to challenge myself and I would have missed so very much. He was present at my first triathlon, painfully hobbling to the start and waiting at the finish, assuring me I had enough grit in my craw to finish, and he bought me my first grown up bike when he worried I was running too much. He told me I could have a better bicycle when I was a better rider, and then he kept that promise. I always knew he was waiting, if not at the end of a challenge at home. Most importantly, I always knew that he loved me: fat, thin, winner, loser......there was nothing that I could be that he would not accept.
While we both knew this day was coming, I selfishly was hoping that it would not come so very soon. I say selfishly because he was always in so much pain. His last words to me were teasing me about us both having gotten the other's Christmas presents and how about going on and opening them as he knew what a stickler I was for traditions at Christmas. How I now wish we had.
It was shortly thereafter that a blood clot caused a massive stroke that stole his ability to talk and move. After a brief hospital stint, I brought him home to pass over as he would have wanted me to do. It is odd how you know what somebody wants without asking after being together over 34 years. It is odd how difficult it is to not be selfish and hold on despite being told he would never walk or talk again.
There have been times when I have been tempted to stop riding my bicycle, and he would encourage me telling me it was important. And somehow I know it will play a role in my recovery, in allowing me to move forward despite being more alone and frightened and lost than I have ever imagined being in even my wildest of dreams. In the end, perhaps his gift of my first bicycle was about this, for he always knew me better than I know myself and loved me regardless.
He was very brave and my hero. I am incredibly sad and lost, but I know he would be calling me a "candy ass" and urging me onwards. My world without him has become a "terrible stranger." But I know that he is still waiting for me and doing his best to watch over me because I have never been very smart. I just don't know how far it is until the end of this challenge. No split times on this course. And I pray I have enough grit in my craw to last until the end. I have been been a blessed woman to have known a love like that, a love that was always there. May each of you be so blessed as to know someone who loves you regardless of your flaws, hang ups, bad choices. May each of you love and be loved. And may you have the strength and wisdom to let that special person know despite the fact that doing so makes you so very vulnerable.
While we both knew this day was coming, I selfishly was hoping that it would not come so very soon. I say selfishly because he was always in so much pain. His last words to me were teasing me about us both having gotten the other's Christmas presents and how about going on and opening them as he knew what a stickler I was for traditions at Christmas. How I now wish we had.
It was shortly thereafter that a blood clot caused a massive stroke that stole his ability to talk and move. After a brief hospital stint, I brought him home to pass over as he would have wanted me to do. It is odd how you know what somebody wants without asking after being together over 34 years. It is odd how difficult it is to not be selfish and hold on despite being told he would never walk or talk again.
There have been times when I have been tempted to stop riding my bicycle, and he would encourage me telling me it was important. And somehow I know it will play a role in my recovery, in allowing me to move forward despite being more alone and frightened and lost than I have ever imagined being in even my wildest of dreams. In the end, perhaps his gift of my first bicycle was about this, for he always knew me better than I know myself and loved me regardless.
He was very brave and my hero. I am incredibly sad and lost, but I know he would be calling me a "candy ass" and urging me onwards. My world without him has become a "terrible stranger." But I know that he is still waiting for me and doing his best to watch over me because I have never been very smart. I just don't know how far it is until the end of this challenge. No split times on this course. And I pray I have enough grit in my craw to last until the end. I have been been a blessed woman to have known a love like that, a love that was always there. May each of you be so blessed as to know someone who loves you regardless of your flaws, hang ups, bad choices. May each of you love and be loved. And may you have the strength and wisdom to let that special person know despite the fact that doing so makes you so very vulnerable.
"I like the mountains because they make me
feel small," Jeff says. "They help me sort
out what's important in life."
Mark Obmascik
It is time to depart, to leave this place, this person, and these pets that are so very dear to me. And for a fraction of my second, as my eyes drink in their familiar visages and my lips welcome my husband's farewell kiss, soft, lingering and unbearably sweet, his embrace, warm and synonymous with home and safety, I think of just staying here and not riding. With all of his health issues and his failure to be honest about how he is feeling when he knows I am going somewhere, I worry if he will be okay when I get back. One year when I went to Hell Week, he was admitted to the hospital later in the day. With his typical generosity, he did not want me to miss something I wanted to do because of his health. And while I have been an absolute harridan since that time, threatening him if he ever does such a thing again, I know that he would and no amount of spousal threatening would stop him from repeating his action if he feels it would impact my embarking on a new adventure. I think perhaps long term illness and pain causes him to appreciate how important it is to live while you can still enjoy it. Or perhaps he knows that despite good intentions, I could not thrive shut away in a house only leaving to work or go to the grocery.
Experience has taught me that I can not live always worrying about what I know will eventually happen to each of us. Also my son, Jeff, and his wife, Lena, are awaiting my arrival in Annapolis, and while there is a part of me that would like to stay home a greater part of me wants to see them and also knows that I would forever wonder what would have happened if I had ridden. A part of me is eagerly anticipating the adventure and knows that I need it despite being scared to death of it. Life is not and should not be a lesson in stagnation however comfortable and appealing that may seem at times. I have never been to Virginia or West Virginia before and I won't get there any younger. And what better way to see it than by bicycle on a route designed by Crista Borras.
With this thought in mind I head out the door. As Oscar Wilde once said, "To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." I don't want to just exist: I want to grow, and learn, and experience. I want to be brave despite being such a coward at heart. I don't want to die wishing I had done things that I did not do. I want to ride my bike.
The land switches from flat to hilly to mountainous during the trip, farmlands yielding to towering aeries. Briefly I think that is why the best riding requires climbing: the land is just too wild to be completed tamed and subdued. Entering Maryland, I see signs indicating that there are bear here. For some reason, this surprises me. We have deer and an abundance of wildlife in Kentuckiana, but so far as I know we have no bear in our area. I wonder if they are aggressive. Will the thought of a bear keep me from feeling comfortable pulling over for a short shut eye if I feel too sleep to ride safely? In my mind, I go over all I have heard about how to act during a bear attack, but I only remember not to run, good advice when dealing with any predator that is not human, but oh so difficult to remember if one is frightened because it means fighting a basic instinct.
I visit with Jeff and Lena for a few days and organize what I have brought into drop bags, hotel bags, and stay-at-Jeff bags. I can't decide whether or not to use my carradice or to just stick with a large rear bag and my handlebar bag. Nick Bull suggests I bring both packing my carradice in my drop bag so that I can add it if I feel it is necessary after the first day. I heed his sage advice and feel better having it available in case I need it though I end up not using it. Finally organized, I head for Leesburg. This means driving on the "Beltway," another new experience and quite stressful to someone who is not used to much traffic and is such a poor driver. Everything is so busy and crowded here. I wonder how people think with all the noise and bustle. It is not necessarily bad, just different than what I am used to and rather unsettling. Still, I am glad that I am just visiting.
I arrive at the host hotel, check in, have my bike inspected, eat, and go to bed. During this time, I meet several of the riders, but I know I will not remember their names. Not good with matching names to faces in the first place, the stress of the past few days combined with an aging mind has made it more unlikely. Everyone is friendly and welcoming but I still feel rather out of place. I have trained as best I can, but do I truly belong with these skinny, athletic looking people? They all look so fit, and then there is me who carries a bit of a belly around with me. I do love food and were it not for my bicycling I fear I would weigh 300 pounds.
Briefly I wonder if anyone else is nervous and has doubts or if it is just me. So many things can happen on a brevet: I doubt anyone is completely confident that they will finish. I don't expect to sleep well as normally I toss and turn and sleep only sporadically the night before a challenging ride, but I find myself drifting to sleep easily despite the fact it is only 7:30 p.m. This bodes well for day one.
The prediction for the first day of the ride is for oppressive heat, something that I have not had enough of this summer to acclimate to for in Indiana we have had an unseasonably cool summer. I respect heat. I fear heat. During my years of riding, I have seen what heat can do to people and have suffered under his brutal hand myself. He is merciless and has no heart, squeezing people dry and leaving them with nothing, laughing cruelly all the while, crushing any illusion they have of strength or endurance. I also continue to worry about the course. With the heat and the hills will it still be a delight or will it turn into a death march? I know three men who are very strong riders who have ridden 1000K rides in Virginia, and all three have warned me about the demands of the Virginia terrain: Greg Zaborac, Tim Argo, and Bob Bruce. Each is much stronger than I am, and I begin yet again to question what in the world I am doing here. I have until 7:00 a.m. Monday morning to finish the course I assure myself. I need not be so very strong to finish in the that amount of time. It is only 623 miles. Surely with a bit of luck and a lot of determination it is possible. In the past I have ridden farther, and I have trained assiduously for this ride. But I also realize that I must ride smartly, something more easily said than done. I decide from the beginning that since it is going to be so hot, I will not press the hills as I often do but gently spin up them, changing gears whenever I find my leg muscles being pressured.
Despite sleeping well, it seems all too early when the alarm goes off, an alarm that I set but almost neglected to wind. Freudian slip? I dress quickly and head down to grab something to eat as the hotel check in person had assured me they were serving breakfast at 3:00 a.m. as there were so many riders that would be leaving from the hotel. Despite it being 3:00, there is nothing there yet other than coffee, yogurt, and cereal, so I head back to my room and down the milk, juice, and bagel that I brought from Jeff's. I also pack the ham sandwiches with butter on yeast rolls that I made at my son's house to carry on my journey, a trick learned from Steve Rice.
Heading downstairs with my loaded bike, a bike that seems to weigh 100 pounds despite my best efforts to take only what I need, the lobby/breakfast room that was empty at 3:00 is bursting with activity and sound. Nervous chatter and laughter fills the void, cleats click against tile floors, derailleurs sing their clicking tune as everyone completes their last minute preparations and hopes that they are one of the lucky ones who finish. Someone, I believe his name is Mike, is clicking photo after photo as we ready ourselves and for a moment as the flash on the camera triggers relentless, I think that this must be what it feels like to be important and have the paparazzi on one's trail.
Momentarily I desperately long for the comfort of familiar friends who ride the brevets near where I live: Steve, Dave, Bill, Mark. There is something about having someone you know on the course even if they are not riding with you, even if you are having one of those times when you need or want to ride alone undisturbed by the demands of companionship. It is like a life jacket, a source of comfort and safety. I slap myself internally and remind myself to be brave and not such a gutless coward: it is time to cut the cord that binds me, restricts me. It is time to assert my independence. For just a moment, I am extremely jealous of the women here who have spouses to ride with and to share their journey with, to help them through those "dark times" that a brevet inevitably holds. How I wish my husband could ride and not be tied down to an oxygen machine. But in the end, I need to be thankful for what I have: a supportive husband and friends who encourage me to be here despite the fact many of them think I am off my rocker. "We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures." (Thorton Wilder). And I have been blessed with a husband, children, friends, health, employment.
Outside in the darkness, I put the batteries in the GPS charger, a charger made and loaned to me by Steve Rice, the Kentucky RBA. I download the course to the first control. Per his suggestion, I programmed the route from control to control. It gives me comfort to know that if I mess up one section, I can start afresh at each control. It also helps me understand some of the nuisances of the course, particularly in those areas where you ride out to a control and turn around. I have also brought my own GPS to have as a back up. Yes, people navigate course with no GPS at all, but I do have the most horrible sense of direction and I am not at all familiar with this area.
It is not yet hot outside, but it is clammy. Just standing there I can tell that the humidity is high and that it will be one of those days where sweat does not cool you but just stands on your skin until it drips to the ground taking your life juices and salts with it. Anticipation can be felt as Nick Bull gives his speech about the course, about calling if you DNF, about safety. I momentarily panic as I realize I forgot to have anyone sign my brevet card this morning, but I realize that Nick won't be taking off on a bicycle as he rode the prior week. When Nick asks if anyone thinks they will finish before 55 hours, one man says he hopes to. Looking at the results, it appears that it was Barry Dickson and that he was successful finishing in 46 hours and 49 minutes. Unbelievable. It makes me feel like such a weak, whiny baby. I know brevets are not races, but what must it feel like to ride so swiftly and conquer the hills so effortlessly? Would it be a good thing or would you be so caught up in your speed that you miss your surroundings? Despite the fact that I am not very fast, there are times that I wish I had ridden more slowly and absorbed more of what surrounded me. Some of my favorite rides have been solo rambles where I creep along stopping to photograph or appreciate the grandeur of the scenery. But there are also those times that I wish I were as swift as the wind and could be home long before it is a reality. In the end I suppose there is no "one size fits all" type of ride, even for the same person.
While waiting, I chat for a moment with a man named Nigel and I wonder if we will ride together at all. He seems a comfortable sort of person and he even is familiar with my blog. And then we are off, a blur of white and red lights and reflective gear. Shortly after we start, I realize I can still hear the night sounds here: frogs and insects valiantly chanting their farewell to summer. I will miss this sound, the sound of summer and of life as it yields to the stony, barren silence of winter rides. And I think how I always celebrate in the spring when the frogs and insects first wake up, hungry for warm summer nights and mating, filling the air and my ears with their joy, a song of hope promising warm weather and rebirth and of long, leisurely rides where you don't have to worry about your fingers or your toes getting cold.
I think how differently this group is riding compared to the Kentucky brevets where the front group heads out as if it were a race and there were not so many miles to follow. The pace is subdued, even slower than I would normally ride. The route seems to descend forever to Harper's Ferry and I begin to worry about the return trip. My friend, Paul Battle, warned me that there would be a climb if I was visiting Harper's Ferry. What a climb it will be at the end of a long journey when I am already worn out, but at the first control someone mentions that this is not an out and back course, something I knew but had forgotten. One trick I use on out and back brevets is to tell myself that ever hill I climb I will be able to go down on the return journey. I am disappointed that it is dark and I can't see this famous place where John Brown once bravely walked, where the states of Maryland, Virginia, and West Virginia all converge. Tendrils of mist swirl through the lower areas and through the headlights it is as if I can see the dance of small droplets that are the core of its being: silver and beautiful, like a lace shawl, its beauty hiding its potential danger as I am less likely to be seen by any approaching automobile, yet still enchanting and fairy-like.
After the first control, the larger group begins to break into smaller groups. Dawn begins to muscle his way into the world, silently but relentlessly, until the last bits of darkness yield. His mane glows and waves with billowing tresses in shades of pink, purple, and gray. Traces of fog remain hidden in hollows and valleys as we ride along, a resistance movement against the steadily encroaching sun, so I leave my lights on. I am hungry and eat one of my sandwiches. Butter squeezes out the sides and I rub my greasy fingers on my leg when suddenly the thought arises that a bear may possible like buttered human flesh for dinner. The damage is already done, however. I suppose that any passing bear will prefer me to others due to my sweet butter smell;-)
I wish I could tell you from day to day and hour to hour what happened, but as always on a brevet, the longer I ride the more confused my mind becomes until everything seems to blur together in a rhythm that involves riding, eating, and sleeping: repeat. The first day I do remember being surprised at the ease of the course other than the heat. I remember fields yielding to more mountainous terrain, the verdant green that speaks of fertility and enough rain. I remember the beauty of the architecture and of the surrounding fields, the camaraderie at lunch where everyone entering the restaurant was welcomed by other riders. I remember the Teresa's friendliness at a control. Mostly, however, I remember the intense heat, heat that will repeat itself the next day. I remember the relief that a brief, late afternoon shower brought, how the rain seemed so cold after the intense heat. I remember that Norman and I sheltered for awhile in someone's barn when lightening was flashing and he did not laugh at me because I did not have a smart phone or know how to use his before we parted ways. I remember the rainbow arching lithely over the earth following the rain, off to my left, colorful and oh, so very beautiful. And I remember coming into the overnight control alone and tired and being overwhelmed by the kindness and caring shown by the volunteers.
I hope I never forget how it felt when Crista introduced herself and said that a friend, Greg Smith, had asked her to check and make sure I was okay, as if a soft, fluffy blanket had been wrapped around me. Mistakenly, I assumed they somehow knew each other. I hope I never forget the melodious, mellow sound of Carol's voice and laughter floating through the room, and her tenderness dealing with a rider who came in sick from the heat, unable to eat and nauseous. Of how she carried his drop bag for him and helped him to his room so that he could recover to ride another day. I hope I never forget the way the smell of food wafted through the air, heady and enticing, fuel for another day. Or how it felt to take off my riding shoes, to feel my feet sigh with relief. Or how showering felt, the inebriating smell of shampoo and soap, warm and sensuous, washing away the days travels and cares. Or how the bed was welcoming and warm, a respite from a road and from my long journey. Sometimes I think that this is what I like the best about brevets: it gives me a new appreciation for things I too often take for granted and a renewed faith in human kindness. These volunteers will be here all night, doing without sleep, caring for riders as they come and go. And it will be repeated the following evening by other volunteers and the evening after that. Who could not want to be part of a club that has such people in it?
Sleeping a few hours, I head back out into the dark hoping to make the first significant climb, Warm Springs Mountain, before the heat once again lays claim to the day and yet again begins relentlessly pounding me with his smoldering fist. I am more tired than I expected and had trouble drinking the coffee as it was strong and my stomach somewhat unsettled. I climb and climb, and next to me I hear the rushing, chuckling sound of water, laughing as if it knows some secret that I do not. I wonder how I missed this sound the prior evening coming into the control as I am tracing my way backward on the same road I came in on. I wish I could see it rather than just hear it, but it still so dark. Still it sounds lovely and makes the steady climbing easier somehow. I worry, however, about two hours later, long after the stream has been left behind, when I find I am averaging only about nine to ten miles per hour. The climbing is not particularly difficult, but it is demanding and it will be a long day if my pace does not pick up. Still I know it would be quite unwise to push myself with such a long distance left to cover. Eventually I meet up with Kelly and we ride together to the bottom of the first big climb. His company helps to put my sleepiness at bay, and I am wide awake by the time I stop at the store to refuel and he heads onward.
I can't describe for you the loveliness of the climb up Warm Springs Mountain, the rhythm of my pedal strokes, the pattern my breathing takes when I climb, as if my body becomes a song. I can't say I am sorry when I reach the top, but oddly enough I am not particularly glad either for I have enjoyed the climb, that is until I see what awaits me at the summit. At first I think my eyes are betraying me, and they are, for there appears to be an ocean winding among the mountains, tapping around corners with an errant paw, arching its back, curling around the edges, and settling down, still but not still as it is fluidity and constant motion, a shining, shimmering sea of mist, blue and gray. And I begin to cry silently, glad the guys aren't here to see the tears streaming down my cheeks, at finding such beauty in the world. All the scenery has been delightful, but this view alone is enough to make a 623 mile ride seem insignificant. It would be a worth a lifetime of climbing and striving and riding to see this, to feel the coolness settle tenderly upon my shoulders like a heavenly shawl. And I feel small: small and grateful. I am grateful to Crista for designing this route, to God for creating such magnificence, and to the DC club that organized the event.
Coming in that evening, once again by the Maury River but this time able to see through the insidiously creeping dusk, I feel like a drunk woman, inebriated by the beauty that filled the day, by the ice sock that kept me from overheating when it was one hundred degrees in Covington. Now the river is going to give me more. Huge, grey rocks lace the sides of the road forming patterns and the river gurgles and sings and laughs at my human foolishness. But I am oh, so tired and cannot pedal much faster despite the downhill. Cimmerian night grabs hold gently brushing my forehead with her cool, soft hand before I reach the end of this road and the cruel last climb after a blessed downhill stretch. It starts to rain and I find that despite the rain, I need to stop whenever I need to drink as I am having trouble getting my water bottle back in its holder and can no longer do so safely without stopping. God provides when I am having trouble attaching my jacket to my rear bag so it does not rub the wheel. There on the ground is an elastic cord just waiting to be picked up.
Again, I am glad I am alone here in the arms of the night, able to do what I need to do to keep myself safe, not feeling any pressure to keep up with others and not impede their progress. Perhaps I should feel afraid here, alone, in a strange place on strange roads, surrounded by shadows and murky darkness, but oddly enough I do not. There is so much left to see, but I am temporarily sated. Like a sponge that has been in water, I can't absorb anymore. Alone I can begin to process everything.
And then there is the third day. When I leave the control I feel a tad dis-spirited for I am weary, my legs are sore and complaining and my butt hurts. Additionally, I have been warned about the climbs between Lexington and Leesburg and how they will beat a rider up. 200 miles seems a very long way to go when one is already tired. Gratefully, I latch onto someone's wheel as they pass hoping that he does not mind. I think that this, along with the cooler temperatures, is my salvation. Would I have finished otherwise? Probably, but who knows. Certainly I would not have finished as early or with so little effort because in the end, the third day practically flew by.
Before long we are climbing again and I call a thank you to this unknown man as he pulls ahead on the climb and settle into my rhythm. One lesson I learned early on about brevets is the necessity of riding your own pace unless there will be payback for the greater effort, like being sheltered from a strong headwind. Out of the dark on the side of the road Norman appears, temporarily startling me, saying his bicycle has broken and help is being called. I head on when he assures me he is okay. There is nothing I can do to help him and I have "miles to go before I sleep." (Robert Frost) I repay the man who gave me the pull when I see him miss a turn and shout out to him so he can turn around.
I later end up spending the rest of the day with the man who turns out to be Paul Donaldson. He reminds me so of my dear friend, Davy "Packman" Ryan, and I grow comfortable with him quickly, something that is normally quite hard for me. (Packman was a very strong brevet rider consistently arriving at the last control earlier than people who are now Charlie Miller riders. He never owned or drove a car, but he was paralyzed after being hit by a car, one of life's little ironies). I get the feeling that Paul, like Packman, has forgotten more about randoneurring than I have yet learned. Of course, he started riding brevets in 1992 while I was still rearing children and would have joined the crowd in thinking anyone riding brevets was, well, just a little bit off. Rather than soaking myself in scenery this day, though I did some of that, I immerse myself in friendship and laughter and the telling of stories. The miles pass unbelievably quickly as we laugh and joke.
At one point, on a descent, I feel something moist pelt my arm momentarily wondering if it has started to rain. A large purple splotch is there, and I mean large. It have been pooped upon by some gigantic bird. Luckily, I carry wet wipes on rides and it is on my skin and not my clothing. I complete the descent and clean myself. Later in the ride, a truck pulls out in front of Paul and I, a truck carrying turkey dung. It seeps through the cracks in the trucks siding and tail and dusts us with feces from head to foot. Now if you have never smelled turkey/chicken dung, you have much in life to be thankful for. One year, my husband got me a load for my garden for some holiday: birthday, anniversary. I just don't remember. What I do remember is not being able to garden that year or spend any time outside of the house because of the pungent aroma wafting through the air. I tease Paul about being shit upon twice in one day in one ride. We also laugh about my inability to find any fried chicken along the route, something I have been craving since the ride start for some reason. I suppose, as Bill Pustow once told me, it helps to coat the stomach with grease at times on long rides.
Jim and Roger join us a bit out from the end, though Jim later says he is going to drop back. Nobody else appears to have noticed the house I noticed a day or two ago that allegedly was designed by Thomas Jefferson and I think about how each ride is unique to each rider. I keep teasing Paul saying he said he would have me home by midnight, and he does.
And it is somehow over. I have not been eaten by a bear or fallen off a mountain top. All the planning, training, and hard work lead to fruition. Not just in completing the course, however. I am not quite the same person I was when I embarked on this journey, and I suspect that the others are not either. I am a bit stronger, and I realize more that my strength has grown only through the giving of others. Christa, Nick, God, the mountains, and so many others.......more precious the gift in that it was given by strangers. Thank you all for this feeling of accomplishment. Hopefully one day I can return the favor and pay back. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
Experience has taught me that I can not live always worrying about what I know will eventually happen to each of us. Also my son, Jeff, and his wife, Lena, are awaiting my arrival in Annapolis, and while there is a part of me that would like to stay home a greater part of me wants to see them and also knows that I would forever wonder what would have happened if I had ridden. A part of me is eagerly anticipating the adventure and knows that I need it despite being scared to death of it. Life is not and should not be a lesson in stagnation however comfortable and appealing that may seem at times. I have never been to Virginia or West Virginia before and I won't get there any younger. And what better way to see it than by bicycle on a route designed by Crista Borras.
With this thought in mind I head out the door. As Oscar Wilde once said, "To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." I don't want to just exist: I want to grow, and learn, and experience. I want to be brave despite being such a coward at heart. I don't want to die wishing I had done things that I did not do. I want to ride my bike.
The land switches from flat to hilly to mountainous during the trip, farmlands yielding to towering aeries. Briefly I think that is why the best riding requires climbing: the land is just too wild to be completed tamed and subdued. Entering Maryland, I see signs indicating that there are bear here. For some reason, this surprises me. We have deer and an abundance of wildlife in Kentuckiana, but so far as I know we have no bear in our area. I wonder if they are aggressive. Will the thought of a bear keep me from feeling comfortable pulling over for a short shut eye if I feel too sleep to ride safely? In my mind, I go over all I have heard about how to act during a bear attack, but I only remember not to run, good advice when dealing with any predator that is not human, but oh so difficult to remember if one is frightened because it means fighting a basic instinct.
I visit with Jeff and Lena for a few days and organize what I have brought into drop bags, hotel bags, and stay-at-Jeff bags. I can't decide whether or not to use my carradice or to just stick with a large rear bag and my handlebar bag. Nick Bull suggests I bring both packing my carradice in my drop bag so that I can add it if I feel it is necessary after the first day. I heed his sage advice and feel better having it available in case I need it though I end up not using it. Finally organized, I head for Leesburg. This means driving on the "Beltway," another new experience and quite stressful to someone who is not used to much traffic and is such a poor driver. Everything is so busy and crowded here. I wonder how people think with all the noise and bustle. It is not necessarily bad, just different than what I am used to and rather unsettling. Still, I am glad that I am just visiting.
I arrive at the host hotel, check in, have my bike inspected, eat, and go to bed. During this time, I meet several of the riders, but I know I will not remember their names. Not good with matching names to faces in the first place, the stress of the past few days combined with an aging mind has made it more unlikely. Everyone is friendly and welcoming but I still feel rather out of place. I have trained as best I can, but do I truly belong with these skinny, athletic looking people? They all look so fit, and then there is me who carries a bit of a belly around with me. I do love food and were it not for my bicycling I fear I would weigh 300 pounds.
Briefly I wonder if anyone else is nervous and has doubts or if it is just me. So many things can happen on a brevet: I doubt anyone is completely confident that they will finish. I don't expect to sleep well as normally I toss and turn and sleep only sporadically the night before a challenging ride, but I find myself drifting to sleep easily despite the fact it is only 7:30 p.m. This bodes well for day one.
The prediction for the first day of the ride is for oppressive heat, something that I have not had enough of this summer to acclimate to for in Indiana we have had an unseasonably cool summer. I respect heat. I fear heat. During my years of riding, I have seen what heat can do to people and have suffered under his brutal hand myself. He is merciless and has no heart, squeezing people dry and leaving them with nothing, laughing cruelly all the while, crushing any illusion they have of strength or endurance. I also continue to worry about the course. With the heat and the hills will it still be a delight or will it turn into a death march? I know three men who are very strong riders who have ridden 1000K rides in Virginia, and all three have warned me about the demands of the Virginia terrain: Greg Zaborac, Tim Argo, and Bob Bruce. Each is much stronger than I am, and I begin yet again to question what in the world I am doing here. I have until 7:00 a.m. Monday morning to finish the course I assure myself. I need not be so very strong to finish in the that amount of time. It is only 623 miles. Surely with a bit of luck and a lot of determination it is possible. In the past I have ridden farther, and I have trained assiduously for this ride. But I also realize that I must ride smartly, something more easily said than done. I decide from the beginning that since it is going to be so hot, I will not press the hills as I often do but gently spin up them, changing gears whenever I find my leg muscles being pressured.
Despite sleeping well, it seems all too early when the alarm goes off, an alarm that I set but almost neglected to wind. Freudian slip? I dress quickly and head down to grab something to eat as the hotel check in person had assured me they were serving breakfast at 3:00 a.m. as there were so many riders that would be leaving from the hotel. Despite it being 3:00, there is nothing there yet other than coffee, yogurt, and cereal, so I head back to my room and down the milk, juice, and bagel that I brought from Jeff's. I also pack the ham sandwiches with butter on yeast rolls that I made at my son's house to carry on my journey, a trick learned from Steve Rice.
Heading downstairs with my loaded bike, a bike that seems to weigh 100 pounds despite my best efforts to take only what I need, the lobby/breakfast room that was empty at 3:00 is bursting with activity and sound. Nervous chatter and laughter fills the void, cleats click against tile floors, derailleurs sing their clicking tune as everyone completes their last minute preparations and hopes that they are one of the lucky ones who finish. Someone, I believe his name is Mike, is clicking photo after photo as we ready ourselves and for a moment as the flash on the camera triggers relentless, I think that this must be what it feels like to be important and have the paparazzi on one's trail.
Momentarily I desperately long for the comfort of familiar friends who ride the brevets near where I live: Steve, Dave, Bill, Mark. There is something about having someone you know on the course even if they are not riding with you, even if you are having one of those times when you need or want to ride alone undisturbed by the demands of companionship. It is like a life jacket, a source of comfort and safety. I slap myself internally and remind myself to be brave and not such a gutless coward: it is time to cut the cord that binds me, restricts me. It is time to assert my independence. For just a moment, I am extremely jealous of the women here who have spouses to ride with and to share their journey with, to help them through those "dark times" that a brevet inevitably holds. How I wish my husband could ride and not be tied down to an oxygen machine. But in the end, I need to be thankful for what I have: a supportive husband and friends who encourage me to be here despite the fact many of them think I am off my rocker. "We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures." (Thorton Wilder). And I have been blessed with a husband, children, friends, health, employment.
Outside in the darkness, I put the batteries in the GPS charger, a charger made and loaned to me by Steve Rice, the Kentucky RBA. I download the course to the first control. Per his suggestion, I programmed the route from control to control. It gives me comfort to know that if I mess up one section, I can start afresh at each control. It also helps me understand some of the nuisances of the course, particularly in those areas where you ride out to a control and turn around. I have also brought my own GPS to have as a back up. Yes, people navigate course with no GPS at all, but I do have the most horrible sense of direction and I am not at all familiar with this area.
It is not yet hot outside, but it is clammy. Just standing there I can tell that the humidity is high and that it will be one of those days where sweat does not cool you but just stands on your skin until it drips to the ground taking your life juices and salts with it. Anticipation can be felt as Nick Bull gives his speech about the course, about calling if you DNF, about safety. I momentarily panic as I realize I forgot to have anyone sign my brevet card this morning, but I realize that Nick won't be taking off on a bicycle as he rode the prior week. When Nick asks if anyone thinks they will finish before 55 hours, one man says he hopes to. Looking at the results, it appears that it was Barry Dickson and that he was successful finishing in 46 hours and 49 minutes. Unbelievable. It makes me feel like such a weak, whiny baby. I know brevets are not races, but what must it feel like to ride so swiftly and conquer the hills so effortlessly? Would it be a good thing or would you be so caught up in your speed that you miss your surroundings? Despite the fact that I am not very fast, there are times that I wish I had ridden more slowly and absorbed more of what surrounded me. Some of my favorite rides have been solo rambles where I creep along stopping to photograph or appreciate the grandeur of the scenery. But there are also those times that I wish I were as swift as the wind and could be home long before it is a reality. In the end I suppose there is no "one size fits all" type of ride, even for the same person.
While waiting, I chat for a moment with a man named Nigel and I wonder if we will ride together at all. He seems a comfortable sort of person and he even is familiar with my blog. And then we are off, a blur of white and red lights and reflective gear. Shortly after we start, I realize I can still hear the night sounds here: frogs and insects valiantly chanting their farewell to summer. I will miss this sound, the sound of summer and of life as it yields to the stony, barren silence of winter rides. And I think how I always celebrate in the spring when the frogs and insects first wake up, hungry for warm summer nights and mating, filling the air and my ears with their joy, a song of hope promising warm weather and rebirth and of long, leisurely rides where you don't have to worry about your fingers or your toes getting cold.
I think how differently this group is riding compared to the Kentucky brevets where the front group heads out as if it were a race and there were not so many miles to follow. The pace is subdued, even slower than I would normally ride. The route seems to descend forever to Harper's Ferry and I begin to worry about the return trip. My friend, Paul Battle, warned me that there would be a climb if I was visiting Harper's Ferry. What a climb it will be at the end of a long journey when I am already worn out, but at the first control someone mentions that this is not an out and back course, something I knew but had forgotten. One trick I use on out and back brevets is to tell myself that ever hill I climb I will be able to go down on the return journey. I am disappointed that it is dark and I can't see this famous place where John Brown once bravely walked, where the states of Maryland, Virginia, and West Virginia all converge. Tendrils of mist swirl through the lower areas and through the headlights it is as if I can see the dance of small droplets that are the core of its being: silver and beautiful, like a lace shawl, its beauty hiding its potential danger as I am less likely to be seen by any approaching automobile, yet still enchanting and fairy-like.
After the first control, the larger group begins to break into smaller groups. Dawn begins to muscle his way into the world, silently but relentlessly, until the last bits of darkness yield. His mane glows and waves with billowing tresses in shades of pink, purple, and gray. Traces of fog remain hidden in hollows and valleys as we ride along, a resistance movement against the steadily encroaching sun, so I leave my lights on. I am hungry and eat one of my sandwiches. Butter squeezes out the sides and I rub my greasy fingers on my leg when suddenly the thought arises that a bear may possible like buttered human flesh for dinner. The damage is already done, however. I suppose that any passing bear will prefer me to others due to my sweet butter smell;-)
I wish I could tell you from day to day and hour to hour what happened, but as always on a brevet, the longer I ride the more confused my mind becomes until everything seems to blur together in a rhythm that involves riding, eating, and sleeping: repeat. The first day I do remember being surprised at the ease of the course other than the heat. I remember fields yielding to more mountainous terrain, the verdant green that speaks of fertility and enough rain. I remember the beauty of the architecture and of the surrounding fields, the camaraderie at lunch where everyone entering the restaurant was welcomed by other riders. I remember the Teresa's friendliness at a control. Mostly, however, I remember the intense heat, heat that will repeat itself the next day. I remember the relief that a brief, late afternoon shower brought, how the rain seemed so cold after the intense heat. I remember that Norman and I sheltered for awhile in someone's barn when lightening was flashing and he did not laugh at me because I did not have a smart phone or know how to use his before we parted ways. I remember the rainbow arching lithely over the earth following the rain, off to my left, colorful and oh, so very beautiful. And I remember coming into the overnight control alone and tired and being overwhelmed by the kindness and caring shown by the volunteers.
I hope I never forget how it felt when Crista introduced herself and said that a friend, Greg Smith, had asked her to check and make sure I was okay, as if a soft, fluffy blanket had been wrapped around me. Mistakenly, I assumed they somehow knew each other. I hope I never forget the melodious, mellow sound of Carol's voice and laughter floating through the room, and her tenderness dealing with a rider who came in sick from the heat, unable to eat and nauseous. Of how she carried his drop bag for him and helped him to his room so that he could recover to ride another day. I hope I never forget the way the smell of food wafted through the air, heady and enticing, fuel for another day. Or how it felt to take off my riding shoes, to feel my feet sigh with relief. Or how showering felt, the inebriating smell of shampoo and soap, warm and sensuous, washing away the days travels and cares. Or how the bed was welcoming and warm, a respite from a road and from my long journey. Sometimes I think that this is what I like the best about brevets: it gives me a new appreciation for things I too often take for granted and a renewed faith in human kindness. These volunteers will be here all night, doing without sleep, caring for riders as they come and go. And it will be repeated the following evening by other volunteers and the evening after that. Who could not want to be part of a club that has such people in it?
Sleeping a few hours, I head back out into the dark hoping to make the first significant climb, Warm Springs Mountain, before the heat once again lays claim to the day and yet again begins relentlessly pounding me with his smoldering fist. I am more tired than I expected and had trouble drinking the coffee as it was strong and my stomach somewhat unsettled. I climb and climb, and next to me I hear the rushing, chuckling sound of water, laughing as if it knows some secret that I do not. I wonder how I missed this sound the prior evening coming into the control as I am tracing my way backward on the same road I came in on. I wish I could see it rather than just hear it, but it still so dark. Still it sounds lovely and makes the steady climbing easier somehow. I worry, however, about two hours later, long after the stream has been left behind, when I find I am averaging only about nine to ten miles per hour. The climbing is not particularly difficult, but it is demanding and it will be a long day if my pace does not pick up. Still I know it would be quite unwise to push myself with such a long distance left to cover. Eventually I meet up with Kelly and we ride together to the bottom of the first big climb. His company helps to put my sleepiness at bay, and I am wide awake by the time I stop at the store to refuel and he heads onward.
I can't describe for you the loveliness of the climb up Warm Springs Mountain, the rhythm of my pedal strokes, the pattern my breathing takes when I climb, as if my body becomes a song. I can't say I am sorry when I reach the top, but oddly enough I am not particularly glad either for I have enjoyed the climb, that is until I see what awaits me at the summit. At first I think my eyes are betraying me, and they are, for there appears to be an ocean winding among the mountains, tapping around corners with an errant paw, arching its back, curling around the edges, and settling down, still but not still as it is fluidity and constant motion, a shining, shimmering sea of mist, blue and gray. And I begin to cry silently, glad the guys aren't here to see the tears streaming down my cheeks, at finding such beauty in the world. All the scenery has been delightful, but this view alone is enough to make a 623 mile ride seem insignificant. It would be a worth a lifetime of climbing and striving and riding to see this, to feel the coolness settle tenderly upon my shoulders like a heavenly shawl. And I feel small: small and grateful. I am grateful to Crista for designing this route, to God for creating such magnificence, and to the DC club that organized the event.
Coming in that evening, once again by the Maury River but this time able to see through the insidiously creeping dusk, I feel like a drunk woman, inebriated by the beauty that filled the day, by the ice sock that kept me from overheating when it was one hundred degrees in Covington. Now the river is going to give me more. Huge, grey rocks lace the sides of the road forming patterns and the river gurgles and sings and laughs at my human foolishness. But I am oh, so tired and cannot pedal much faster despite the downhill. Cimmerian night grabs hold gently brushing my forehead with her cool, soft hand before I reach the end of this road and the cruel last climb after a blessed downhill stretch. It starts to rain and I find that despite the rain, I need to stop whenever I need to drink as I am having trouble getting my water bottle back in its holder and can no longer do so safely without stopping. God provides when I am having trouble attaching my jacket to my rear bag so it does not rub the wheel. There on the ground is an elastic cord just waiting to be picked up.
Again, I am glad I am alone here in the arms of the night, able to do what I need to do to keep myself safe, not feeling any pressure to keep up with others and not impede their progress. Perhaps I should feel afraid here, alone, in a strange place on strange roads, surrounded by shadows and murky darkness, but oddly enough I do not. There is so much left to see, but I am temporarily sated. Like a sponge that has been in water, I can't absorb anymore. Alone I can begin to process everything.
And then there is the third day. When I leave the control I feel a tad dis-spirited for I am weary, my legs are sore and complaining and my butt hurts. Additionally, I have been warned about the climbs between Lexington and Leesburg and how they will beat a rider up. 200 miles seems a very long way to go when one is already tired. Gratefully, I latch onto someone's wheel as they pass hoping that he does not mind. I think that this, along with the cooler temperatures, is my salvation. Would I have finished otherwise? Probably, but who knows. Certainly I would not have finished as early or with so little effort because in the end, the third day practically flew by.
Before long we are climbing again and I call a thank you to this unknown man as he pulls ahead on the climb and settle into my rhythm. One lesson I learned early on about brevets is the necessity of riding your own pace unless there will be payback for the greater effort, like being sheltered from a strong headwind. Out of the dark on the side of the road Norman appears, temporarily startling me, saying his bicycle has broken and help is being called. I head on when he assures me he is okay. There is nothing I can do to help him and I have "miles to go before I sleep." (Robert Frost) I repay the man who gave me the pull when I see him miss a turn and shout out to him so he can turn around.
I later end up spending the rest of the day with the man who turns out to be Paul Donaldson. He reminds me so of my dear friend, Davy "Packman" Ryan, and I grow comfortable with him quickly, something that is normally quite hard for me. (Packman was a very strong brevet rider consistently arriving at the last control earlier than people who are now Charlie Miller riders. He never owned or drove a car, but he was paralyzed after being hit by a car, one of life's little ironies). I get the feeling that Paul, like Packman, has forgotten more about randoneurring than I have yet learned. Of course, he started riding brevets in 1992 while I was still rearing children and would have joined the crowd in thinking anyone riding brevets was, well, just a little bit off. Rather than soaking myself in scenery this day, though I did some of that, I immerse myself in friendship and laughter and the telling of stories. The miles pass unbelievably quickly as we laugh and joke.
At one point, on a descent, I feel something moist pelt my arm momentarily wondering if it has started to rain. A large purple splotch is there, and I mean large. It have been pooped upon by some gigantic bird. Luckily, I carry wet wipes on rides and it is on my skin and not my clothing. I complete the descent and clean myself. Later in the ride, a truck pulls out in front of Paul and I, a truck carrying turkey dung. It seeps through the cracks in the trucks siding and tail and dusts us with feces from head to foot. Now if you have never smelled turkey/chicken dung, you have much in life to be thankful for. One year, my husband got me a load for my garden for some holiday: birthday, anniversary. I just don't remember. What I do remember is not being able to garden that year or spend any time outside of the house because of the pungent aroma wafting through the air. I tease Paul about being shit upon twice in one day in one ride. We also laugh about my inability to find any fried chicken along the route, something I have been craving since the ride start for some reason. I suppose, as Bill Pustow once told me, it helps to coat the stomach with grease at times on long rides.
Jim and Roger join us a bit out from the end, though Jim later says he is going to drop back. Nobody else appears to have noticed the house I noticed a day or two ago that allegedly was designed by Thomas Jefferson and I think about how each ride is unique to each rider. I keep teasing Paul saying he said he would have me home by midnight, and he does.
And it is somehow over. I have not been eaten by a bear or fallen off a mountain top. All the planning, training, and hard work lead to fruition. Not just in completing the course, however. I am not quite the same person I was when I embarked on this journey, and I suspect that the others are not either. I am a bit stronger, and I realize more that my strength has grown only through the giving of others. Christa, Nick, God, the mountains, and so many others.......more precious the gift in that it was given by strangers. Thank you all for this feeling of accomplishment. Hopefully one day I can return the favor and pay back. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
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