learning to ride

(This was previously published in the Randonneuring Magazine in an edited fashion so you may have read it.  In case not, here it is.....warts and all). 

"The distance is nothing when one has a motive."

Jane Austen

Recently following a blog post about a solo century, a friend asked me how I ride so far.  A legitimate question and one I appreciate rather than the quick assumption that many people make that I am being blatantly untruthful, or at least exaggerating the miles I ride.  I still remember my first bicycle ride.  Being the baby of the family, I got my sister's used bike.  There were no gears.  I could not reach the pedals, so they attached blocks of wood to the pedals.  My three older brothers then took me to the top of the hill (we lived on the left hand side on the bottom of the hill on a dead end street) and sent me on my way.  Purposefully or not purposefully, they neglected to explain the mechanics of braking so while I somehow managed to remain upright until I was in front of our house, I did not know how to stop so as not to fly into the woods at the end of our street.  Needless to say, the curb took care of that for me, and the last thing I remember was flying over the handlebars and into the air.  It may seem peculiar that I don't remember landing, but I don't:  I just remember that feeling of helplessness when you know you are going to crash and there is nothing you can do to prevent it and thinking that my brothers finally had their wish:  my demise;-).  But despite all that, I was hooked, at least until every other kid on the street had a banana seat bike and I did not and adolescence knocked on my door.  Despite always being rather a "tom boy," I began to look at boys in a new way and they took precedence over bicycling and most other things.

My husband bought me my next bike because he worried that I was running too much.  It was a touring bike without drop handlebars, a Trek, a deep, dark forest green because he knew that I loved that color so.  I thought he was crazy for while I was not the best out there at it, running was my passion. But I did not want to hurt his feelings so I began to ride. The feeling of freedom, of independence, vaguely recalled from youth, began to renew itself. Eventually, I went on to complete my first triathlon on that bike, but that is another story.  I remember going out and riding for seven miles telling myself that I could walk if it was too far and almost falling over as I regained a sense my sense of how to balance.  When I made it those seven miles, I felt as if I had conquered the world.    More importantly, something inside me was kindled:  how far could I go? One hundred miles seemed impossible, a fairy tale.  As for brevets, even if I had heard of them I would have thought they were for other people, those with extraordinary athletic abilities,  not for those of us that are mere ordinary mortals.

I first heard about brevets from Jim Moore, Steve Royse, Bill Pustow, and Steve Rice a bit later,  after I joined the Louisville Bicycle Club.  They told me about this man named Johnny Betrand and that he put on a series of distance rides in Kentucky each year and of a ride called PBP and a ride called BMB.  They talked of riding through the night in all types of weather with all types of people and of using lights on your bicycle.  They talked of Johnny's routes and Cobb Hill.  It all sounded rather crazy, yet 200K didn't sound that much further than the century rides that I was completing by then, so when Jim asked if I wanted to do a 200K while we were at Texas Hell Week my first year there, I told him yes.

I rode with Jim that entire brevet and the others part of the way.  Frankly, I don't know if I would have had the courage to begin that journey without him.  I remember the long, arduous climb over the mountain from Vanderpohl to Utopia and how looking at it, it seemed an impossible task, particularly once I learned we had to return back over those very same climbs.  The steepness of the climb, the length of the climb was intimidating:  this was a tough though beautiful course, but this was further than I had ever gone.  I remember making Jim stop so I could free a goat in distress whose horns had gotten stuck in the wire fence.  I remember the beauty of the Texas landscape, so different from that to which I am accustomed.  I remember having a flat and nobody hearing me and watching as their lights faded leaving me in total darkness in the middle of a strange land filled with noises that I could not hope to identify, and how just as I accepted that it was just darkness and would not hurt me and that I would somehow I would change my tire and I would find my way and not perish. Shortly thereafter they returned after  realizing I was missing, and  I remember the warmth of knowing I was missed. And I remember finishing, riding into Fredericksburg glued to Jim's wheel,  my neck so sore and stiff that I could not turn to look behind me when Jim asked me to, my butt feeling like I had gotten the whipping of a lifetime, and thinking that I would never do something quite this crazy ever again.  Mostly, however,  I remember being proud and feeling as if I had accomplished a miracle.

And perhaps that is what randonneuring does for us, at least in part.  It gives us a sense of pride, of accomplishment.  It allows us to use our bodies as they were certainly intended to be used (despite a doctor once calling me a damned idiot and telling me if I want to go somewhere one hundred miles away to get in a car).  As Ms. Austen notes, distance becomes minor as we set a goal:  a 200 K, a 300 K, a K Hound, etc.  We train for this goal, minimizing the distance and the difficulties in our minds, readying our body by putting in the miles, riding in weather not conducive to riding, teaching our minds to ignore our doubts and our fears and our tiredness, because to "weep in the dojo is to laugh in the battlefield."  (Old Samuri saying, author unknown).  We prepare ourselves as best we can for success.  And we learn from both our failures and our successes.

Someday I will no longer do brevets, either because I will not want to or I will not be able to, but I do not think I will ever forget what they have taught me, about myself and about others.  Thank you, Jim, the Steves, Bill, Johnny, and all those who have mentored, aided, and steeled my determination, those who have celebrated my successes with me and commiserated with me on my failures. Whether I ever ride another brevet or not, you have enriched my life immeasurably,  and I really do not know if I have ever properly thanked you for this gift  you gave me.  With Gratitude, Puddle

The First Ever Indiana 300K Brevet

"Contrary to what we usually believe, 

moments like these, the best moments, are

not the passive, receptive, relaxing times---

though such experiences can also be enjoyable

if we have worked hard to obtain them. 

The best moments usually occur when a person's

body or mind is stretched to its limits in a voluntary

effort to accomplish something difficult and worthwhile.

Optimal experience is thus something we can make happen."

Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi

As I train for my fall 1000K, the one that scares me so as I am so with the unfamiliar terrain I will encounter and my ability to master it along with numerous other niggling fears, fears that I recognize but refuse to allow to define me, I am delighted to find that there is a 300K on the RUSA schedule that is  quite nearby.  Part of the problem training for a long fall event is that there normally is such a large gap between the completion of your qualifying 600K and the 1000K.  How do you maintain the fitness you have gained between the two events?  Even with a century every week-end and sometimes two, I feel like I am losing ground.  Yes, I feel faster and I am climbing better as a few pounds peel off, but I am  concerned about my endurance level dropping and I still am not and likely never will  be some slim whip of a lass.  I also am concerned about burn out, how to get myself to the starting line as strong as I can possibly be without being so tired of riding and training that I just want it to end.

It is doubly nice that this 300K  is a first in Indiana and I am going to be part of that first. Hats off to Bill Watts for starting a series in Indiana. Yes, I could ride and train that distance on my own, but it just seems too difficult to discipline myself to do that, particularly as I have no training companions at the present time. It is too expensive to go elsewhere. And my house has fallen in even more disorder than usual with my increased riding time.  But perhaps Steve Rice is right when he tells me that a large part of riding a brevet is the mental fortitude necessary to finish once you are century fit.  Time will tell.

I decide not to drive to Indianapolis and stay all night the evening before as I believe that starting to ride with not enough sleep is just a part of training for the fall event.  The 1000K begins at 4:00 a.m.  This ride starts at 6:00 a.m. which means this lazy girl doesn't even need to leave the house until 3:45 a.m. to make it by the 5:30 sign in.  As usual, my internal clock awakens me even earlier than I would need to be up and I stagger downstairs to make my morning coffee.  Cats haughtily stalk through the house, tails straight upwards,  following me and monitoring my activity, upset at this change in their routine and at not getting fed. I chuckle thinking that my husband can deal with their offended little egos when he arises later in the day, and I strongly suspect that he will not be permitted to sleep in.  While the coffee brews and the heady aroma wafts through the kitchen, I head upstairs and dress myself in the clothing I laid out the evening before.  My bag is packed and ready to go.  My bike had lights attached and was made ready for loading the evening before.  All I need is to get my coffee, throw everything into the car, and drive.

When I arrive, I am surprised at the number of people who appear to be getting ready to ride, particularly since the weather is supposed to be very hot, humid, and windy with lots of thunderstorms thrown in to make things interesting. Per the RBA, 24 registered, 21 started, and 20 finished. But there you have it.....how sensible are people who ride brevets?  I grin thinking of the doctor I went to after PBP 2007 when I temporarily, a week or two after the event, reached for something and quite suddenly  lost feeling in a forearm for some still unknown reason. Thinking I was being smart, I made an appointment at the office of someone I knew  rides a bicycle albeit not long distances.  I get one of his partners who says, "You damned idiot.  If you want to go somewhere 100 miles away get in a damned car."  Incidentally, he did nothing to help me with my problem, but time cured it as time so often has a habit of doing if we are just patient.

It is interesting to see the variety of people and bicycles at the start.  Some of these  people I know, but most of them I have never seen before.  Dave King is here riding his fixed gear. Steve Royse and Dave Rudy are here. There is another fixed gear rider and a tandem  and two recumbants.  All the rest are singles.  There is one other woman riding, the stoker on the tandem. I wonder who, if anyone, I will ride with.  When I learn we are coming and going on a bike path through the city, it firms my resolve to try to find a suitable companion today, and I am lucky enough to find two:  Dave King, a good friend that I have known for many years now, and Bob Bruce, who I have not met before but who I  now consider a semi-friend.  I say a semi-friend because we don't know each other well enough to discern if our personalities mesh as Dave's and mine do.  Yes, Dave and I annoy each other at times, but we also like each other and enjoy riding together. The number of miles we have traveled together attest to that.

Almost immediately after we get off the bike path, we are stopped in our tracks by a train that is blocking the road.  It moves forward, stops, then backs up. Alas, it is hooking onto another load of cars.  After what seems like quite a long wait, it finally moves forward, creaking and groaning as it strains under its load,  and we proceed as best we can while having to stop at numerous traffic lights.  I tell Steve Royse that it reminds me of PBP 2007 when he dragged my sorry rear in at the end of the ride.  I have never wanted to get off a bicycle so badly and felt terrible having lost my ability to force food down, and it seemed fate was conspiring against us with every light throughout the  town turning red right before we got to it: an endless procession of red lights.  Only Steve and his hard candies (something my brother, the dentist abhors) got me through the last few miles.  I spend some time thinking about how kind some people are to others and that Steve was drawn to the right profession when he chose medicine or when medicine chose him.  I do admire kindness in people, and while my husband once told me that people can sense an inner core of kindness in me and that is what has made me successful at what I do, I often feel I am lacking in that area. 

I am not used to riding in the city, and the traffic and even some of the people we pass make me rather nervous while at the same time fascinating me.  What would it be like to live in such a place? I realize I will be more comfortable when we get to a more rural areas, but that is not necessarily a good thing.  I waken from my reverie to find that the larger group I was riding with has now split into smaller groups as bicycling groups are wont to do.  On the way back into the city later, Bob says something about the country mouse not liking the all the commotion of the city and it was very odd as I had just been thinking that I was a country mouse and would be glad to get back to my own quiet, rural home despite all the enriching experiences and people a city holds.  It was one of those moments when you get the uncomfortable feeling that someone is reading your mind. I didn't ask if he was referring to me or to himself and whether he thought it was a good thing or a bad thing, but I feel certain it was to me he was referring to, and what a coincidence that he would use the exact same terminology that I was using in my head. "It is not easy to to walk alone in the country without musing about something."  (Charles Dickens) Yes, the city is fine for a visit, but I would not want to live there.  Even as a child I knew that, that I needed the green fields in the same way that some people need the roll of the waves or that some people need the snow or that others need the bustle and hum of the city. 

The course becomes quite beautiful after the first control and I find my interest particularly piqued when we hit the town of Bean Blossom.  This seems rather silly as I have only seen the name on a map and wanted to ride there, but I  have never ridden through it before.  There is not much there in Bean Blossom, but the name strikes my fancy.  Like many small towns in this age of huge corporations and conglomerates, decaying dreams line the main street. We have so many more things now, but are they the important things?  Or was it better to pay more and  have fewer things but have something else, something I can't find a word for but I know was there, or I think was there. But then I am a dreamer and my dreams tend to romanticize reality. As I have told friends, it is a quality that is one of my biggest strengths, but it is also one of my biggest weaknesses. 

As we near Nashville, the second control, the rain begins to hammer us with that stinging rain that feels like little javelins are being hurled at you by some Lilliputians. Bob and I stop as he remembers the course from the 200K as being different from the cue sheet.  I had turned off the mapping on my Garmin earlier as alas, yet again, after the first control it kept giving me the message that I was off course and then started to tell me to take wrong turns.  I turn it back on and it does pick up the right trail and works again for awhile through eventually I end up turning it off completely.   I don't  particularly like looking so stupid in front of Bob, but I am what I am, and technologically challenged is a nice way of saying it.  I feel a bit better later when I find that Dave also has had some problems with his GPS. Strange, the comfort there is in knowing we are not alone.  And Dave is good with technology and does computer stuff for a living. Thanks to Bob's memory, we take the right turn and end up in Nashville.  It is there that we see Dave again. I am glad. We had arrived at the first control together, but I didn't know if he was behind me or left ahead of me.  

Nashville brings so many memories as we normally go there during the Christmas holidays to have lunch at The Muddy Boots and so that my daughter-in-law can look at the quaint little stores that line the village.  It is one of those excursions that begins as a whim and ends up being somewhat of a tradition.  And I am all about tradition. But my coldness from the rain and being thoroughly soaked from head to toe keeps me from getting caught up in the past.  Bob suggests hot chocolate and I concur thinking how odd it is to be drinking hot chocolate on a day when it is predicted to be in the nineties.  I also think how stupid I was to leave my rain jacket in the car as I begin to chill.  At least I did have the sense to wear wool socks and my feet are warm enough. The rain does not last long, however, and before you know it the warmth of pedaling has filled me as we make our way toward Freetown. When we return this way later in the day, there will be no thoughts of hot chocolate.  The air is syrupy thick and steaming hot, and it is like riding in a sauna. 

It seems such a short time before we have passed through Freetown and made it to the turn around.  We stop at a small cafe to have something substantial before the return journey.  It looks like a hole in the wall on the outside, but inside it is clean and humming with business.  It turns out the food is good, the prices are reasonable, and the service is quick.  The waitress does everything but stand on her head to help us out bringing pitchers of water with ice to the table so that we could drink our fill and fill our water bottles.  What strikes me the most about the meal, however, is that nobody takes out a smart phone to check e-mail or the weather.  We just enjoy the meal and each others company.  Other than meals with my husband or my best friend, Sharon, I can't think of many times that has happened recently.  And I often wonder about everyone's obsession with checking the radar:  what good does it do if you are half way through a ride.  Weather just is going to happen and you have to deal with it.  That being said, I have been caught out a few times when I wondered if I would survive the weather:  but are those not the rides you best remember, those that test your courage, your determination, your ingenuity, your endurance? I can't say I am sorry to have missed the stinging hail some of the others got to experience during the ride though.  Ken, who finished before us, says it hailed on him and others behind post it hailed on them, so it must have danced around us.

After lunch Dave tells Bob and I to go on when we hit the hills, and I smile inside knowing Dave does not do himself justice.  And while he does lag a bit on a few of the longer climbs, there are many that he is way ahead of me on.  He even makes it up the steep climb after Freetown, weaving upwards and beating me to the top. But I also am smiling as I told Bob this same thing near the start of the ride when it became apparent that our paces were somewhat similar as I knew he would most likely be stronger on the hills.  I would have been really concerned if I had know his cycling history:  Leadville, Cascade, Granite Anvil, etc.  Odd how we don't want to hold others back, and as I told him at one point if there is one thing I have learned about randonneurring it is that  you must ride your own pace. It is hard to stay with someone who is much stronger or much weaker on the bike, and there just seems to be more of a speed variation on hills.

As we near Indianapolis, Dave picks up the pace while I do my best to hold on.  The miles pass quickly and we get on the bike path.  There is something going on which I assume is a 5 K run, but people are dressed like victims of a mass murder or disaster with fake blood and dirt covering them.  We pass through a tent that has decontamination tent written on a sign and people wearing white with spray cans of some type.  I am impressed at the number of young people I see running, and I cheer for them as we pass.  But the rain has started and is gradually increasing in intensity, pounding out a rhythm on my helmet and dripped over the end of my helmet. Lightening begins to streak the sky in jagged, beautiful, patterns.  Rather than heading earthward it seems to be streaking crosswise.  I note this all the way home in my car as well. I laugh thinking of a storm safety lesson I heard on the radio just a day or two prior to the ride and realize that we are doing everything that you are warned not to do: we are riding by the river, near and under trees, and on metal objects. Who said brevet riders have good sense?  Perhaps we don't, but we have had a day filled with challenge and companionship and just plain fun, at least when it wasn't hurting;-)

My only concern is the pain in my neck has returned.  Thus far, I can deal with it, but I worry about how severe it might become on the 1000K and whether it is permanent pain or one of those things that will heal once I take a rest from the long miles.  We get old, things hurt, but we still carry on as long as we can.  That is life. My next big training experience will  be riding four centuries in a row in August.  What a way to spend two vacation days!  "What fools ye mortals be."  Shakespeare

Kentucky 400K brevet 2011

"Well at least it is supposed to be warmer," I reassure myself as the wind forecasts for Saturday reach the 20 mph. mark.  400K:  it seems so improbable, so well, far.  When I talk to non-randonneurs about my plans, they look at me as if I have lost my marbles and perhaps I have.  Some even believe I am lying.  At least I am not alone in my insanity.  Steve Rice informs me that 31 people have registered for this ride.  Of that number, 30 will start and 29 will be successful.  Once again people are coming from different states and even from Canada. 400K:  according to many the most difficult brevet distance in a series.

Susan has invited me to stay at their home the night before the event as the ride will start at 4:00 a.m.  and I have a bit over an hours drive to the start.  I have been hesitant to accept due to my occasional insomnia and have considered the motel, but she is gracious and allows me to make the call on Thursday.  I have slept well all week, so I accept only to find myself sleeping three to four hours on Thursday night.  "Oh, well," I tell myself, "perhaps that means I will sleep tonight."  And I do.  Not long after arriving, I am in a comfy, albeit strange bed listening to the first crack of thunder.  "How peculiar," I think, the last time I slept in that bed, the night before Johnny's 300K last year, it stormed. And that is my last conscious thoughts before surrendering to blessed sleep.

My bike is ready.  With no need for lots of extra clothing, I have decided to go light and forego carrying my carradice.  I have added a larger saddle bag and handlebar bag and will stuff my pockets with any excess clothing.  I have tools, tubes, and a folding tire. I often think I carry a lot, but later in the ride I will learn that I have nothing compared to Dave, but I am skipping ahead of myself.

The day dawns.  Well, not really, as it is still dark outside and will be for a few hours after the ride begins, but the day begins anyway.  I eat breakfast and head out with my brown bag of small sandwiches that Susan thoughtfully provided for the ride.  Dave and Steve are already gone as I, the slug a bed who greedily snatched every moment of sleep, leave the house, this time without mowing down the mailbox as is my wont.  I arrive and test my lights to be sure they are leveled right.  If the light is set too high, I can't see well enough directly in front of my wheel, and if it is set too low, I will outrun my light on the down hills.  Everything seems to be working.  There is a large crowd and it seems I can feel the nervousness and excitement in the air.   I see Alex Meade and ask if he is going to PBP this year, and he says he doesn't think so.  I commiserate with his indecision saying that it is a lot of money.  He says that for him it is not the money that is causing second thoughts; it is the recovery period afterward.  I will ponder this during the ride, a ride I had not intended to make until I had thoroughly committed to riding PBP.  I still, however, have not made a firm decision.

Registration time for PBP is drawing short, however, with preferred registration opening today and lasting for only two weeks. After today I really must make a decision. Life has just been throwing the normal curve balls at me, but I am not so young and adaptable as I once may have been.  Retirement looms, and I know that with the age difference and my husband's health issues, I will probably spend much of that time alone and with one income and I don't want to be a drain on anyone. And if I am honest with myself, like Alex,  it is not just the money that causes me to hesitate.   The physical demands of a ride like PBP are tremendous, and I am not a spring chicken anymore.  I think yet again of a picture I saw of my friend, Greg Z., and the look in his eyes, and I recognize that separation from the self, the sinking deep within during a long distance event.  I ask myself if I want to go back there.  And then there is the travel.  It is not that I don't like to travel, but being alone in a strange land and not knowing the language is uncomfortable for me.  If everyone spoke English, it would not be a problem:  the inability to communicate haunts me. When I am with others it is wonderful, seeing new sights and experiencing new things; but alone it terrifies me.   Such a big baby this woman who rides the most rural of roads in unknown areas with no fear.  Last PBP I was lucky enough to run into Alex at the airport.  I didn't know him then, but he identified another rider, me, by the t-shirt Claus had sent.  In the Chicago airport, there are lots of us with Claus PBP shirts.  This year, however, I have decided to forego Claus if I go as far as air flights.

Before you know it, the lot of us are rolling out of the motel parking lot onto the dark roads. Once we leave the city lights, it seems there are stars everywhere shining brilliantly. I think of a quote that I like, author unknown:  “I haven't a clue as to how my story will end. But that's all right. When you set out on a journey and night covers the road, you don't conclude the road has vanished. And how else could we discover the stars.”  I notice Steve Rice slowing and I wonder what is wrong.  He tells me that his light is not working.  Once or twice he thinks it is fixed, only to have it die again as we take off. I offer him the light off of my handlebar, but he takes one of Mark R.'s knowing that Mark has two.  I don't envy him, riding so many night hours with just a handlebar light.  He will make the wise decision to stay with others with better lights for most of the night riding.  I think how much I like night riding, this gliding through the dark surrounded by sounds that sometimes you can identify and sometimes you can't, and how I will mourn it for my night vision is another thing that age is gradually stealing from me as it eventually will steal these special friends and our rides together. I am wise enough to know that endings bring new beginnings, but I am also wise enough to know that won't hold true forever and that endings will come more quickly.  I spend a moment treasuring what I have, these friends, the awakening world, a husband who not only loves but cherishes me.

The next stop, unplanned,  is at the bottom of a valley,  Hammond's Creeks,  when Dave has a flat tire. Of course it is the rear wheel.  It is still dark and the other riders in our group stop and point their lights so that Dave can see to fix it.  While I have not been cold while moving, it is freezing down here.  Mark looks at his thermometer.  I tell him not to tell me until later.  Knowing the temperature will only make it worse.  As Dave finishes up the large muscles in my thighs begin to spasm from the cold and I know that if I don't get moving I am going to be in trouble.  Luckily he is ready to go.  Just a bit up the road we pass Jody and Steve pulled over at the side of the road.  They also have had some type of problem and have stopped for a repair.  I feel guilty not stopping, but I know that my body needs to keep moving to keep warm.  I did not dress for long stops or for this temperature.  Weather predictions were forties to sixties.  Mark will later tell me it was 28 degrees.  Jody will later tell me they suffered through three flats and some chain suck.  These things are bad enough on a century or shorter ride; they make you feel cursed on a 400K.

Unlike the earlier brevets, the first control in the 200 and 300, Lawrenceburg,  is no longer a control; we ride on without stopping.  For those who don't understand the term controls, at the start of a brevet you are given a card that must be signed at each control to confirm that you have indeed passed that way.  I have plenty of water and the sandwiches as well as other things to eat.  I am trying to pay better attention to making myself eat and drink and to practicing this on the bike, and it pays off.  Today I feel pretty good up until the last fifty miles, and that was a mental weariness.  The first control arrives fairly quickly, and as usual we are in and out quickly.  The wind is picking up, and I when I find myself going up an incline at 25 mph without breathing hard I know the return trip is going to be difficult.  Earlier in the ride I told Mark that my plan was to try to stick with two or more riders if possible without going anaerobic so that we could take turns with the wind.  The cross winds are wicked at times and I find myself putting pressure on the handlebars to stabilize the front wheel.  At least the sun is shining and I am not wet.

At one point we pass a field made beautiful by some type of purple flower.  There are daffodils and forsythia bushes with their golden branches dancing in the wind.  White petals off some type of tree cover the ground like confetti in places and make me think of weddings.  The fields are turning brilliantly green and the trees have that tinge where they flirt with leafing out, green bleeding timidly from the branches.  We pass two riders at the side of the road.  As usual, we ride slowly and ask if they have what they need to make repairs.  "No," one man replies.  "I am done. I broke my pedal."  A few moments later, it turns out that Dave King has an extra pedal, the exact kind that man was using.  Dave gives it to the man and he is able to continue.  What are the odds?  What all does Dave carry in his carradice?  I think that I should be using mine to get used to the extra weight, but today I am glad that I did not.

We push onward and the miles fall behind us.  Somewhere along the way prior to the second control we find Mark is no longer with us.  As we are leaving, he is making his way into the control.  We had decided not to eat a meal until the turn around.  I worry about him trying to make his way alone into the wind that is going to batter us, but I know I need to stay with the group.  I feel strong, but not strong enough to shepherd another rider alone into the wind.

When we reach the turn around point, we run into Chris Quirey eating a sandwich at the control.  It looks tasty.  Despite this, we decide to eat at the Subway across the street.  It was a mistake in 2007 and is a mistake again today.  We spend what seems to be an eternity waiting in line to get our sandwiches.  I find this particularly irritating as I just am not a big Subway fan. Then we are  back on the road to grind up a huge climb, probably one of the few climbs I have ever seen where the grade is actually posted by the side of the road along with the truck warning signs.

As I suspected, the wind at times is fierce, slapping and tugging at me.  I begin to see the weariness on the faces of those riding with me.  While it is better than the weather on the 300K, the wind and distance are taking their toll.  When it is my turn to pull, I try to stay on the front for at least two miles but I feel my strength waning.  The guys think we will feel better if we eat something, so we end up at Dairy Queen.  I don't feel particularly hungry for anything on the menu, but I force myself to down a cheeseburger and some fries.   For some reason I am craving chicken, but I go along with the crowd.

Before you know it we are at the last stop.  It is the control that is no longer a control, but we are tired.  I insist on sitting for a bit.  Tim is there with his fixed gear.  But we will never get back by sitting, and after a moment's rest we are back at it.  It is dark and we have once again donned our reflective gear and turned on our lights.  Despite his poor light, Steve surges ahead feeling stronger than the rest of us.   I begin to feel weak, but with the wind I know I must hold the group.  It has died down some, but at this point molehills feel like mountains.  I finally decide to try a caffeinated energy gel I had brought, and I am amazed at how it revives me.  Still, when we pull into the motel I am glad to be there.  Those last 37 miles were like a death march.  It will be good to get home to my own bed and to smell like a girl again.