Green River Century

“Whether the weather be fine, Whether the weather be not, Whether the weather be cold, Whether the weather be hot, We'll weather the weather, Whatever the weather, Whether we like it or not.” Unknown author (probably referring to a Mad Dog;-)

June has been a hot month, more like August with temperatures in the nineties that make the outdoors feel like an oven, with temperatures that make thick syrup of the air that flows so freely in cooler temperatures. The wet, cold, windy spring suddenly leapfrogged to sizzling temperatures. The bees have had trouble finding nectar this year and I have had trouble getting enough riding in. Thus it is pleasant to hear the weather prediction for the Green River Century: lows in the sixties and highs only in the eighties......sounds a treat. The only problem is the drive. It is about two hours from Scottsburg to Campbellsville, Kentucky. I justify the trip by telling myself that I need the training and while I could do another century from my home and be a good bit through by the time I make the drive to and from, I won't ride as quickly. Riding alone hurts my speed because I am too lazy to push myself, and this year has not been conducive to training. More importantly, it will be nice to travel lesser known roads and to enjoy the companionship of friends.

When I went to bed last night I was exhausted from the Campbellsburg Century, a century that I always find to be deceptively hard. Sleep came easily, but it was fragmented, did not last, and I found getting up was no problem. My free wheel on my Trek was making strange and frightening noises on descents yesterday, so I decide to take the Lynskey. The Cannondale has a flat tire that needs fixing and while I have seen Jim Whaley ride this route fixed, I would never attempt it if I were not riding on my own or with others on fixed gears.

When I near Elizabethtown, I realize that I am unsure of the directions Grizzly has given. Do I exit at Elizabethtown and then find a Hodgenville Exit, or is there a Hodgenville Exit following the Elizabethtown exit? I pull off at Elizabethtown and phone just to be sure. I am not renowned for my spectacular sense of direction and I don't want to drive all this way and not find the ride start in time.

Grizzly gets me back on track and I soon arrive.

Arriving early, I see Jim “Grizzly” Moore's smiling face and his “Mad Dog flag,” an orange jacket waving high above his van. I sign in and then decide to get my extra miles needed to make this ride a true century prior to the ride start. It seems that every time I pass the parking lot there are new faces. Despite the fact he is now in college, I still struggle with Nate Dog driving and not being with Scott “Jammer” K. I suppose I grow old, and his growing up is just another recognition of that fact. So many Mad Dogs: I think how Eddie “Paco” would feel if he realized how the pack has grown. Some of them I know and some I do not. Despite the years that have passed without seeing Eddie, I am still thankful for knowing him and for his advice. Yes, Eddie, I remember to “weight my pedal” around turns, something that will be useful on this ride during one long, lovely, technical descent. I love those descents where it takes every last bit of concentration to find your line and hold it knowing that the least little misjudgment or distraction could result in your spilling onto the ground. You would think I would love roller coasters, but I don't. There is just something about a good descent and the way the wind caresses your face, a lover's touch tempting you toward fulfillment or disaster.

The dogs spill out onto the road, a collage of color and sounds. There is the sound of shoes clipping into pedals, gears shifting, wheels turning: the sounds I have come to adore. There is the sound of morning and the sound of conversation, jokes, and laughter between friends. There are the colors of the jerseys and the bicycles and the helmets. There are the smells that waft through the air. Every sense is engaged.

Unlike some rides, with the Green River Century I seem to be almost immediately away from any traffic and in the country. It is still a lush, fecund green. Orange day lilies line the road, straining toward light and the sun, almost obscene against their green background as they cry, “Notice me.” Other wild flowers, less flamboyant, line the roads and they make me think of Steve “Gnarly” Royse who often was able to tell me their names when we rode together more often. After the first store stop, I find myself riding off the front of the group I am with not only because I am feeling spry, but also because I want to sing. I am happy here. I am content. Sometimes being on my bicycle seems to calm my restlessness and convey contentment in a way that nothing else can. The song, “Friends,” by Elton John floats to my mind and as I sing I wonder what thought process brings certain songs to mind:

I hope the day will be a lighter highway
For friends are found on every road
Can you ever think of any better way
For the lost and weary travelers to go

Making friends for the world to see
Let the people know you got what you need
With a friend at hand you will see the light
If your friends are there then everything's all right

It seems to me a crime that we should age
These fragile times should never slip us by
A time you never can or shall erase
As friends together watch their childhood fly

Making friends for the world to see
Let the people know you got what you need
With a friend at hand you will see the light
If your friends are there then everything's all right

Making friends for the world to see
Let the people know you got what you need
With a friend at hand you will see the light
If your friends are there then everything's all right
Music by Elton John
Lyrics by Bernie Taupin

During the ride I watch Steve “Mule” Rice rescue a little, tan dog that followed me onto the highway, scooping it up in his arms and returning it to its home and somehow making it stay there. I watch Carla “Stormy” Dearing conquer hills with determination flashing in her eyes and I think how strong she has become. I enjoy the easy companionship of Dick “Minner” Rauh and Mark Rougeux, as yet Mad Dog nameless. I laugh at Dave “Bam Bam” King and Mike “Deisel” Kamenish's jokes. I take food orders for people like John “the Vaccinator” Larson as the lunch stop is overwhelmed by the number of dogs rolling in. I could go on and on. For those dogs already my friends with whom I spent all or part of the day, I thank you. For those yet to be my friends, while I tend to be a bit reserved due to excessive shyness, I look forward to meeting you and hope we become friends as we share the road and our love of cycling.

Kentucky 600K 2011

As Mohammad Ali once said, "The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses - in the gym and out there on the road, long before I dance out there in the lights."  While I am not the talented champion Muhammad is, I have prepared to win the fracas as best I can and I am ready to dance the hills on my bike, my lights not stage lights but the stars, facing the challenge of the Kentucky 600K, the opponents myself and the course: 375.4 miles with approximately 20,000 feet of climbing. Rather than the normal nervousness that troubles me, I am inexplicably calm.  Perhaps having done this route and this distance before in 2007, I have accepted that there will be times that I will feel pain and times that I feel like giving up.  Perhaps the previous rides and the exacting weather conditions have distilled in me a confidence that I did not previously know I possessed. For whatever reason, I feel certain that I have the mental fortitude to conquer these moments tomorrow barring something new and unforeseen.  I have trained as best I could and I intend to win this fight, a struggle with myself to conquer my own weaknesses, both mental and physical. But if the unforeseen should happen and I should fail, I know that the world will continue to turn and I will go on.  Either way I will have learned something about myself.  So many times in life I eschewed goals from fear because I might not be successful, but not tomorrow. Tomorrow I will dare myself.

Once again Susan Howell is kind enough to invite me to share her lovely home and enjoy her gracious hospitality, but I have decided to decline and to stay in the motel next to the starting place so that I can have everything in order.  My plan is to sleep for a few hours following the 400K section of the course, and I don't want to face having to check in at whatever time I might arrive.  Experience has taught me how exhausted I will be and how nice it is to have a motel room key and everything laid out and ready to bathe, sleep, and continue the journey.  One thing that continually amazes me is how a few hours of sleep can revive a weary body filling it with the strength to continue when reason tells it to stop, and I treasure every moment of the restoration.

This has been a hard year to prepare for a series.   There have been personal issues such as my mother's ill health and work stressors. The winter held me housebound and off the bike more than usual, and the cold, wind, and rain held me hostage through much of the spring.  It is just so difficult to force yourself out the door and fling yourself into the face of the wind and the cold sometimes when the house is warm and the couch beckons, seductively whispering that there are books to be read and movies to be watched.  It has helped having friends who are also preparing and brave the weather conditions with me for longer rides on the week-ends when the wind is strong and the weather inclement.  In a sense we have a symbiotic relationship, these friends who are all so very different but united in their love of distance riding and the bike and the desire to participate in the wondrous occasion that is Paris-Brest-Paris. We encourage each other to ride at times when it would be much more comfortable to stay home wrapped in the warmth of our families.

Before leaving the house, I check the weather forecast one last time.  Other than fairly strong wind predictions, Saturday sounds quite delightful though I know the higher temperatures will put me at greater risk of dehydration as I have not yet adapted to any warm temperatures.  Even Texas this year was unusually cool.  I eagerly anticipate the warmth, but  I also respect it and the need to embrace it slowly.  Drinking regularly will be of the utmost importance. For  Sunday we are back to cooler temperatures and the normal rain that has harrowed this spring, but at least the wind predictions are less than on Saturday.  I think how nice it will be to have sunshine on Saturday.  It seems an eternity since I have ridden in the sunshine and gazed at shadows frisking on the ground. I eagerly anticipate soaking up the sun, spring flowers, and the lush greenness that an excessively wet spring brings.  We have had our April showers; now for the May flowers.

I get to the host motel and sign in.  Steve Rice is manning the sign in and tells me that 21 riders have signed up.  I am glad to hear that Jeff Sammons from Tennessee is riding.  I have not seen him since the Natchez Trace 1000K he organized last year.  While we are not close friends, I have ridden with him occasionally and he seems to be a nice person.  One has to admire anyone that can organize a 1000K event.  Again the series has drawn people from various states and from Canada with various bicycles.  There is a recumbent, a tandem, and a fixed gear as well as regular road bikes of different makes and styles.  One rider, Alex Meade, is even riding a bike he made and designed himself.  His web site is: http://www.sandsmachine.com/bp_amb.htm.   I think how special that must feel and how I envy those who have the ability to create.

After signing in, I head to the motel and run into my friend, Bill Pustow, as I am carrying in my bags.  Yes, bags as in plural;-)  One is filled with normal clothing.  The other has bicycling clothing for all conditions and bicycle supplies.  I have learned my lesson about weather.  It is better to have more than what you need and not use it than to not have what you need, and weather predictions are often wrong. Yes, I have donned plastic trash bags and cotton work gloves while on a ride, but while I applaud the creativity it is not my preference.  In the morning I will don clothing I think is appropriate, then double check by stepping outside the door into the open air. It is a surprise to see Bill as I did not know he also was staying.  I anticipated that he would drive over in the morning as he lives much closer to the start than I do.  After a brief hello, we each head to our rooms.  I chuckle to myself thinking that the only time I ask for a 3:15 a.m. wake up call is for a brevet start. Of course, I don't normally try to go to sleep at 8:30 p.m. either.  Even though I normally do go to bed early and have suffered the taunts of my children for years over this schedule, 8:30 a.m. is early even for me: 9:00 p.m. perhaps, but not 8:30 p.m.

In my room, I organize everything so as to use as little time as possible getting ready to ride or to sleep.  I have prepared sandwiches to take both days and put them in the refrigerator, then I tape a note to my bike so that I don't ride off without them tomorrow.  This year I have been working on my nutrition and my drinking while on the bike and it seems to be paying off. (Now if I could only translate that to off the bike and lose some of this weight;-) The rides have been challenging, sometimes incredibly hard, but I have been successful. Before I know it, I am snuggled in bed reading a few pages, entering a world not my own to help me doze off.

I awaken at 3:00 a.m. before I receive my wake up call, clamber out of bed and push the start button on the coffee pot that I prepared the night before, then I snuggle back in bed for a few more precious moments watching the weather channel while the smell of freshly brewed coffee begins to wrap itself around me.  I think how coffee is a comforting smell familiar from my childhood, the smell that wafted from the kitchen mixed with other enticing odors while my mother fixed breakfast for us children.  I remember fixing breakfast for my own children and that wonderful feeling that somehow comes from feeding people that you care about knowing they are warm, safe, sated, and content.  I feel a moments guilt riding today rather than driving to see my mother in the rehab nursing home she recently entered following an unexpected illness, but my brothers have promised to check on her this week-end knowing of my plans.  My mother does not like my riding a bicycle because she believes it is dangerous.  My mother does not like my riding a bicycle with men as she believes it is unladylike.  While she loves me, my mother had hoped for a much different daughter than the one she took home from the hospital and she has no understanding of brevets; but for some reason, this year she surprises me by saying she feels I should go to Paris-Brest-Paris.

After dressing and eating a bowl of cereal that I brought with me as the motel will not serve breakfast for a few hours, I head over to the ride start while double checking my lights.  The crowd is much smaller than the earlier brevets, but there are still 20 who will make a beginning, rolling out into the dark night where only a sliver of  yellow moon is visible.  The wind is noticeably absent despite the prediction. Wimp that I am, I momentarily wish that it will stay that way. It doesn't. Wind makes such a difference in the effort involved in a ride. Steve Rice says someone is missing.  I notice that I have not yet seen my friend, Steve Royse, but when I ask I find Royse is there waving with that kindly smile that he wears. While I don't ride with him at all this ride, I am glad he is riding and gladder still when I later receive an e-mail that he is successful in his quest. I don't figure out who is not there that had signed up.

Steve says that it is time to start and we head down the slope of the driveway and onto the road.  There seems to be an unusual silence in the air and I wonder if it is just me:  not much chatter, simply the sound of cranks and chains and shifting gears, redundant and comforting somehow.  In an hour or so, the early morning bird song will begin, sweetly drifting through the air, but not yet.  Soon I am with the first group I will ride with:  Steve Rice, Bill Pustow, Jeff Sammons, and David Rudy.  David says it will be his first PBP and I am excited for him.  Firsts are so very special, and PBP is such a unique experience.  Jeff and I talk briefly of perhaps riding together during PBP, and I think it would be nice to have company.  Still I know that the last PBP I learned that to be successful I had to ride my own pace. Trying to hang with Steve Rice and Joe Camp about did me in.  They are just stronger riders than I am. When I gave up the group I came into my own, my solitary rambles around my home coming to my rescue. I  enjoy company on rides normally, but I don't require it.

I notice that the honey suckle vines have started to bloom, something I normally see the first Saturday in May during the Pam Ride, and my nose searches for that sweet, familiar scent;  however,  today it eludes me. I wonder if the rain has washed the nectar away or if more warmth is necessary for the fragrance to begin to perfume the air.  So many things I don't understand. The irises are beginning to bloom, their beards a contrast to their petals, and in the wooded areas, wildflowers gaily raise their heads seemingly delighting in the sun as much as I am.  I rejoice in the fecund beauty of this birthing world.  I note a shadow crossing the road in front of me and look up quickly enough to spot a red tailed hawk soaring boldly through the air.

At the controls, we barely pause.  There is time to get my brevet card signed, have a quick bathroom break, gulp a drink, and stuff some food in my mouth, but only barely.  In the bathroom I monitor the color of my urine to watch for dehydration. Rather gross, but quite helpful.  I have learned to save time by leaving my helmet on.  The gloves stay on as well unless I do take a bathroom break.  The group waits on no one: friend or foe.  It is not that the event is a race or that they have developed some strange desire to get shut of me or drop me, but that there is such a distance to cover.  Every extra minute stopped is an extra minute without sleep, a fact I learned well at the last PBP when Dave and I stopped to help a rider who was weaving and falling asleep on his bike. And group riding is just more efficient.

As we pass the controls I think of how I do not anticipate seeing them next year for I have decided to take an easy year next year, and I surprise myself when I find I discern an internal stab of sadness.  At one point, early in the ride, I announce that this will be my last PBP.  Nobody seems to believe me and I am not sure if I even believe myself, but I worry about whether my body can continue to handle the demands that long distance riding of this type asks of it.  Health is a precious gift, one we too often fail to appreciate until it is stolen from us. I wonder if I can continue to maintain the mental fortitude necessary to forge forward even when exhausted and disheartened.  And brevets are hard task masters with little forgiveness for those who fail to approach them with the proper respect. I remember the depth of my weariness following the last PBP and how I then understood what is meant by weary to the bone.  I remember the faces, mostly unknown, that mirrored my own, exhaustion evident particularly in and around the eyes.  I grin thinking of the French man who came up to me at Brest asking how I had stayed looking as fresh as a daisy. Oh, he lied so sweetly.

During the ride, Bill asks me what made me decide to ride PBP this year, a question I am not quite sure how to answer.  I suppose the main impetus is my husband saying that he feels I should go or I will live with regret.  His life experiences and illnesses have made him wise in some areas, and he reminds me that money is made to be spent as well as saved. Sometimes it seems that our years together have merged our beings so that we know each other as well or better than we know ourselves. Not that he is a spendthrift, but despite being older he does not have the legacy of the Great Depression and of being destitute left to me by my mother. We balance each other.   It helps that he gives me permission so that I do not feel selfish.  But there are other reasons, still his words are ever there with me.

"If only.  Those must be the two saddest words in the world." Thus says Mercedes Lackey, one of my children's favorite authors. I have no need for more "if onlys" in my life. And I am still struggling with the answer to Bill's question because suddenly I find myself desperately wanting to go to Paris once more without really being able to give birth to the words to say why.   Perhaps by giving myself permission not to do the ride, I freed myself to do the ride, if that makes any sense. Tied up in all the reasons is the understanding that I don't want to be left out when I hear Bill, Steve, and Dave sharing  their adventures afterwards. While I doubt I will ride much of the ride with any of them, I will still be part of the adventure and there will be a sharing between us that excludes non-participants in some elusive way.  I think that one day when I see them no more I will still have those memories, and perhaps the memories will color my dreams and make me smile.

At some point on this first day, Dave King, who had ridden ahead with Tim Carroll at the start of the ride, has joined us. Jeff and David have fallen behind.  It always interests me the groups that form at brevets and how porous they are.  Not so with the lead group so much, but then there are few that can ride at the pace that Alex Meade, Todd Williams, and Micah Fritzinger can maintain.

When we near the turn around, we begin to discuss what to eat.  Subway has been a big mistake every time we have eaten there soaking up precious time.  The control is crowded, but I take the time to get a sandwich there instead and we sit outside on the concrete and eat.  There is a  silent camaraderie and I feel content.  At this point in the ride, I always take stock of how I am feeling: legs, feet, knees, shoulders, neck, hands.  So far everything is good and I am cheered to have reached the turn around point.  The sun is actually shining so I trade my clear glasses for sunglasses.  All too quickly, we are back on the road resisting the ever-present temptation to loll a bit longer. It is beginning to get warm, and I think how long it has been since I really sweat on a bicycle from the sun.  Sweating feels differently during winter rides or on a trainer:  it lacks the cleansing power of a good sweat from a hot day on the bike, a sweat that is somehow cleansing.

I begin to climb the hill to leave Liberty when my chain comes off.  Being on a climb, I am unsuccessful at picking it back up without stopping.  My stopping forces Bill to stop, and we decide to walk that part of the hill rather than trying to restart on the slope.  I really don't mind walking and saving my legs for there are many miles to cover.  I think of how we discussed this earlier during the ride, the acceptance of the wisdom of occasionally walking a hill when the slope is steep and the distance to be covered is long.

We make the last control, Harrodsburg, well before dark, and I realize we should reach Lawrenceburg before dark leaving only 37 miles to cover before the control at the motel.   For some reason, I am having trouble clipping in and out on one side.  It is a scary feeling, feeling like you can't pull free, and I worry that I will hurt someone.  Steve suggests that I check my cleat to see if perhaps it is loose, but it isn't. I decide to forge forward anyway, being mindful to unclip well ahead of time.  At one point, we pass a half mile stretch that is filled with rabbits.  Dusk has drawn them out I suppose and they are cute as the dickens, but I worry that one will run in front  of my wheel and that would not be so cute.  Every time I think I have seen the last one, I see more, until suddenly they are all gone as suddenly as they appeared.

About this time, Steve begins to drop back, fighting his own personal demon:  the growing heat.  Almost everyone has some trouble adapting when the thermostat begins to rise, but he has more trouble than most.  I have been using the sample pack I got of Hammergel's Fizz endurolytes and they seem to be a good choice for me as the heat feels rather good to me. At one point, I turn around to go back and check on Steve,  but the look in his eye tells me to go on and so I do.  Bill also starts to cramp and one point and I give him the Endurolyte tablets that I have left having given Steve the majority.  I have been lucky and not cramped thus far, but I know how debilitating it can be, as if your muscles grow a mind of their own.  Losing control is never a comfortable feeling. I think how glad I am that I am female as it is not expected the we endure in stoic silence the way it seems to be expected of the men.

At Lawrenceburg, Steve catches us just a few minutes after we arrive.  Another rider also pulls up when we are about to depart.  I don't know him, but I ask him if he wants to tag along as it is safer having a larger group when it gets dark.  He says he does, but he does not prepare quickly enough and we are gone.  Everyone has put on their reflective gear for the coming dark so we should not have to stop these last 37 miles, and we don't.  We end for the night at Waffle House.  Bill, Dave, and I decide to have something to eat and to meet in the morning at 5:30 a.m. to take off again.  Steve goes to McDonald's thinking it will be quicker.  He is right about the speed as Waffle House is filled, but I don't want McDonald's. This should give us plenty of sleep as it is only 10:20 p.m.  We have cut an hour and one half or more off our previous 400K time.

After drinking my milk and eating some biscuits and gravy, I head to the motel where I take a quick bath, brush my teeth, and retire.  The bed feels so soft and welcoming; I fall into its arms.  I briefly notice some stiffness in my shoulders before sleep claims me.   I do not stir until morning when I awaken to the sound of rain and thunder.  Part of me does not want to get out of bed.  After all, if I sleep a bit longer the rain may be gone and I am thoroughly weary of rain. Rain riding has lost its charm, at least momentarily.  Mother earth has cried enough at her birthing pains this spring and I am losing sympathy.  It is so hard to start rides in the rain, much harder than riding and getting caught out in the rain.  But my friends will be waiting, so I put on the coffee and begin to fix my bike to deal with the wet weather.  Once again I cover my tail lights with a plastic baggie held on by electric tape.  Even though I read that mounting the lights upside down will prevent the problems we had in the 400K, I am taking no chances.

When I head out to the front of the motel, bike in tow, Bill and Steve are waiting.  After seeing how they are dressed, I decide to don arm warmers underneath my jacket.  Later I am very glad I did. We brave the storm to ride over to get Dave and head out.  The lightening flashes in jagged streaks across the sky momentarily illuminating the world, a natural strobe light.   The sound of thunder fills my ears. We head toward Brashears's Creek, the first big climb of the day.  Despite the storm, I begin to enjoy myself as the dawn stealthily approaches and a misty grayness blankets the world.  It is beautiful, watching the world wake up.   It takes immense concentration to ride when there are worms and frogs and storm debris in the road that must be avoided. I am startled out of my reverie as a deer crosses the road in front of me, as graceful as a ballerina.  It seems she is close enough to reach out and touch and I briefly worry that she has a friend that will collide with me.  I later learn that her friend scampered between Dave and Bill.  Dave comments that he has never seen a deer scamper before.  And then begins the climb that is only a precursor to the other climbs.

My legs briefly protest the demands I am imposing upon them, muscles shrieking, before acquiescing and smoothing with my pedal stroke.  My breathing becomes ragged and I have a moment of fear.  The wind is so strong and the hills are so many, and the wind will not only persist but increase in intensity as we make our way to the turn around.  So much for the weather prediction on Friday for 6 mph. winds today. What if the wind conquers?  I comfort myself with the thought that it is only 63 miles to the turn around and there are others to share the pummeling. After that it should be a wonderful tail wind, pushing me toward completion and triumph.  During the brief periods of time when the wind is a cross wind rather than a head wind, I have to concentrate on not letting it grab my front wheel and dump me. It makes me think of Diesel and the century we rode during Hurricane Ike and how the wind blew me off the side of the road at one point. At one point, my brakes are wet and I glide right past a turn yelling to Steve not to turn in front of me.  I briefly ponder how it would be unthinkable to have hurt him, my friend,  and vow to be more alert. 

As we ride, we are passed by the fast guys.  Originally they are riding individually.  Todd passes first, then Alex, then Micah. The weather caused them to decide not to ride straight through yesterday evening. We later come upon Micah and Bill cracks me up when he tells Micah that he knew we would catch him if we only rode fast enough.  For me catching Micah is as unlikely as my beating Lance in the tour:  it ain't going to happen.  But Micah continues to have flats that slow him.  On one of the last climbs, Steve Rice has a flat, and before we crest that hill, I join him.  I rejoice that at least it is light, it is not raining, and it is a front tire.  Sharp shards of gravel have punctured both of our tires. While stopped with my flat, the man that owns the home in whose front yard we are ensconced comes out to see if we have what we need and tells us we are about 1.5 miles from the turn around.  It is nice to remind myself how kind most people are. 

At the turn around, we once again come upon the faster riders.  Tim Carroll on his fixed gear is there.  It is unbelievable to me that anyone can ride this course on a fixed gear bicycle. We take a bit more time at this control and Alex, Todd, and Micah leave before us.  Everyone seems to want to eat at Willisburg.  It is okay with me,  though I am not really that hungry.  I treat myself to a package of sugar waffle cookies, a pleasure I rarely allow myself.  When we are back on the bikes, I am amazed at the difference having the wind at our backs is making.  Suddenly I realize I am also finally all dried out and I glory at not being sopping wet.  Earlier in the ride Steve asked me why the birds weren't swarming the roads since there were so many worms on it.  I don't know where those worms went, but they are now gone.  Does that bird look a tad plumper than on my last pass?

The miles pass quickly and we reach Willisburg.  Dave has stopped, but Steve says he is going on.  I ask if I can join him and he says it is okay.  I will not see Dave and Bill again this ride.  I stop only long enough to take off my jacket.  When we reach Chaplin, the store is open and we stop briefly.  The fast group is there and talk about stopping to save turtles.  I tease them about how it isn't nice to call Steve and I turtles.  They take off and we sit for a few moments before once again throwing our legs over the bike.  I have reached the point where I know that barring a fall, I am going to complete the ride.  And I feel good.  I ponder this because I did not expect it and can't quite figure it out.  I think briefly of a conversation Greg Z. and I had once in the past when we were tired out from a century.  While talking of P-B-P we both found ourselves asking ourselves how in the heck we did it when a century can make you so very fatigued.  And here I am, near the end of the 600K, and I still don't know the answer.

In the blink of an eye those last few miles have passed and we are checking in at the host motel where we find Susan patiently waiting, her blue eyes shining and congratulatory.  Of the starters, only 13 will finish. A sense of accomplishment floods my veins and I find myself grinning and singing as I head to my car for the drive home.   I eagerly anticipate a small chocolate milk shake for the trip home.  54 different riders participated in the 2011 Louisville Bicycle Club Kentucky Brevet series. 8 riders completed the entire series:  Steve Rice, David King, Bill Pustow, Todd Williams, Alex Meade, Ken Lanteigue,  Tim Carroll, and myself.  Ken finished on a recumbent and  Tim on his fixed gear.  We have won our fight this time, and what a fight it was against wind and rain.  All in all, I think that if I consider all the 2011 rides combined, it has been the most difficult series I have yet completed.  As Edmund Hillary said about conquering Everest, "It is not the mountain we conquer but ourselves."

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.

Texas Hell Week 2011

Finally, it is Hell Week.  All year long I hunger for this week, but the longing grows particularly intense in the winter when I begin to yearn for color and warmth to dance in into the world once again, for my eyes and ears to be held hostage by the colors and the sounds of life. Winter seems even more cold and forbidding after Christmas is over.  Unlike most years, I see only a few people I know at registration, but then we are earlier than normal despite a stop in Austin to lust at a couple of bike stores.  I am already settled into my hotel room and have had a quick ride in shorts and short sleeved jersey to the local bike store. Bike stores always make me feel like a kid in a candy store window with my nose pressed against the glass but empty pockets.  Three is one day is really pushing it. The new Hell Week jersey is the best looking jersey there has been for a few years now, particularly as it does not have the nasty shade of green that has tragically beset the jersey the past few years, but there is nothing about it that screams Texas so I keep my money in my pocket.  I think how I wish Nick would go back to the previous designer.

Following dinner, we make plans to meet in the morning for one of my favorite Texas rides:  Windows on Doss.  Surprisingly, I sleep well even in the strange bed, maybe because I have brought my own pillow from home.  The morning dawns, cloudy and overcast, but warm enough to anticipate shorts and short sleeved jerseys later in the day.  My only extra is a wind vest that will be easy enough to take off and carry when the sun burns off the clouds.  Bill, Steve, Mike, Dave, and I head off into the morning air.  It seems that everyone has a grin on their face and my heart erupts with glee that ends in a giggle that is related to nothing except the exhilaration of being here yet one more time:  Fredericksburg, Texas.  "Hello, Fred," I shout, and nobody in the group looks at me strangely, one of the nice things about being with friends.  Work and home seem like another world, and as always I am glad that I married someone who allows me to pursue those things that make me happy when his health will not allow him to participate except vicariously.

I think about the meaning that Fred has had in my life.  Fred was the name of my brother's dog that I loved so.  For a moment in my mind his tongue is once again softly licking the tears off my cheek, tears from some teenage angst that seemed important then but now is as distant and painless as another life. For a moment I can feel that black silk of his ears and the curve of his jaw. Fred next became a pet name for my husband after he came home from work one evening yelling, "Wilma, I'm home."  And Fred has become the place of bicycles and vacation and a freedom from responsibility that sloughs cares and worries from me until I feel as unburdened as a child, the pack mule put out to pasture at the end of the work week.  I want to kick up my heels. I want to gallop and prance on my bicycle pretending I am young and wrinkles have not yet begun to etch my experiences on my face.

For quite some time, it seems as if we are the only riders on the road, as if we are the only people in the world surrounded by the gnarled Live Oaks with their short, stubby branches and hint of green that never seems to actually mature and free ranging cattle placidly lining the road.  It is nice when the first people we see are people that I know:  Steve Royse, Gay, Johnny B., and Steve Wyatt are ahead.  We chat for a brief bit.  When Steve W. asks how I am doing, I grin and tell him," I am in love", and indeed I am.   I am in love with these Texas roads and the hope of warmth and sunshine.  I am in love with vacation and the freedom it brings.  I am in love with my friends and the world.  I am in love with my bicycle.  I grow motherly towards this unmothered world.

Not too long after we run into that group, we begin to see other riders:  some from the shorter routes and some not.  Before long the pace is soaring.  For the first time in years I don't want to go for some reason, but Dave and Steve are off and the rest of us follow.  I grin to myself thinking of a few years ago when Bill told us, "You don't have to do this."  I find my breath coming in hard rasps that hurt my chest, but when the pace slows I find that despite my reluctance I feel good.  I know I don't do enough of these hard efforts, the price of riding alone so often. We slow down and stay together until the store stop where I have the same thing I had the year before:  chicken salad.

By the time we leave, the sun has broken through the clouds and the sky is blue.  I have needed sun and I turn my face skyward absorbing it as if it were a life-giving potion.  We will have all too little of it this Texas trip.  Dave and Steve dash ahead and I follow, but I am not able to keep up.  Bill and Mike are with me and when we finally regroup, Mike tugs at my heart strings when he says that he can't ride with us, that he is not in our class.  I try to explain that the first day is often like this, that I could not keep up this year either and the boys are playing, but I can tell from his voice that he does not believe me and we have lost his company. Indeed, he does not join us again, and I miss his gentle spirit.

Bill and I ride together and Mike trails behind.   Before you know it, we have made a wrong turn, at least Bill and I have.   It is a long downhill with a tail wind and I am loving it even as I think that I hope Bill was right about where we are going and that I should have turned my cue sheet over.  I am flying down the hill, the wind roaring in my ears rather than gently whispering.  Alas, we were not supposed to go down the hill and so we turn and climb.  I lag behind Bill on the climb fighting the wind that helped me soar like a bird on the downhill.  I tell Bill it is like sled riding:  the downhill is worth the climb, and even as I say it I think of being a child and Brian and I wishing there was a sled lift to the top of suicide hill, my childhood sledding hill.

Before long, we again make a wrong turn and decide to head back to the motel. We know that Steve and Dave are not doing the route, skipping Luckenbach, but neither of us know the short cut.  I am dismayed that we have lost Mike along the way.  When I call the guys to tell them we are back to the motel, Mike has found them and I feel much better.  I head off to complete my century since we had not gotten one hundred in due to getting off course.  By the time I get to the shower, my face has salt crusted on my cheeks from the unaccustomed heat and I delight in the warm water and soap that dissolves the salt and grease and leaves me clean, ready to fuel up.

The second day is the Camp Verde ride, not one of my favorites because of route 173.  The roads are rough and the traffic is heavy, but most of the drivers are patient.  There are a couple of delightful climbs on Stoneleigh and Center Point.  The air is cooler and except for a few brief moments, the clouds cover the sky.  Today it is just Bill, Steve, and I.  Dave's knee is bothering him again so he takes the day off.  One thing I do like on this ride is the lunch stop:  Vicki's Burger Barn, but since it is Sunday it is closed.  We eat at the gas station instead.

Monday's ride is Mountain Home and Away.  Once again it is just Bill, Steve, and I.  The first part of the ride is terrible as it is routed along 290, but after that it is a nice ride.  The brevet route also follows this course.  We see Johnny and Steve W. and wonder why Steve R. was not with them.  We later learn that he had a medical problem the previous evening so wasn't riding.

While we are at the first store stop, Dauhna's, a couple on a tandem riding the brevet come in.  The woman is quite small, shorter even than I am, interrupts our conversation to tell us the route sucks and ask if there is a way to get back to the start without going back the way they came.  Her partner comes in and asks her if he can get something to eat, and she tells him sure.  We are giggling at her abruptness and Bill explains it is a cultural thing and spends part of the ride telling me how different people are in other parts of the country.  I giggle at his story as he tells about moving to Louisville and people in the stores actually talking to you.  Another brevet rider has used all his tubes.  Steve gives him one and tells him just to pass the favor on to someone else and not to worry about replacing it. 

Further down the road, we come across a dead boar.  I stand and get my photo taken and various quips are made.  My personal favorite is, "Melissa 1, Boar 0."  Steve tells me that he has heard that rattle snakes in the area are learning not to rattle as the boars eat them and are able to locate them by their rattling.  While in Texas this time, I also learn that armadillos carry the leprosy bacteria. 

Before long we are the Mountain Home Post Office and I know that if we turn right we get to our favorite taco stand.  We bicycle by and I ask Bill if he smells it. "What," he says.  "The tacos," I answer.  I repeat the same to Steve and we decide to take a loop out of the course and to go to Hunt from Ingram instead and get tacos.  This is all planned with a vow of secrecy so that Dave does not find out as we know he will be terribly disappointed at missing it.  After all, Dave delights in food in a way that very few skinny people do.  It is entertaining to watch him. 

When we are back on course and at the store stop, we run into a cyclist that accosted me in a previous year demanding to know what route I was riding and what time I left.  He makes me nervous and I am glad we leave before him and get away.  But that is another story for another time.  Let's just say that Steve and Bill made me feel better and had me laughing for hours afterward.

And that is enough for tonight.  Hell Week 2011 part II to come.  I will conclude by saying we dined at Hill Top and were joined by Gay and Steve R. and it was delightful.  

Kentucky 300K 2011

The Kentucky 300K Brevet

It is the night before the brevet. All week I have been anxiously watching the weather forecast with a growing sense of doom as the probability of rain skyrockets from fifty percent to one hundred percent and the wind speed predictions increase in intensity with one source predicting a possible 20 mph wind. My heart sinks further when the weather man predicts that during the afternoon the temperature will begin to drop rapidly. My only consolation is that there is only a slight prediction for thunder storms. Don't get me wrong: I love a ride in a soft spring or summer rain when the world seems somehow cleaned, freshened, and transformed and every smell is intensified. I am called Puddle for a reason. But I know the difficulties that rain can cause on a long ride, particularly when combined with high winds, darkness, and cold. And while riding through a lightening storm can be exhilarating, it can also be quite scary when it is right overhead and striking all around you making you wonder if you said all your prayers the way you should and if the people who are important to you know that you love them. Perhaps I grow softer with age.

I receive an e-mail from Dave saying he is thinking of skipping tomorrow and just riding the 300K in Texas. I point out to him that there is no guarantee that the weather will be any better and it could be worse. I have seen winds in Texas, however infrequently, that almost took my bike from beneath me. Then to goad him and to emphasize my point, I call him a “wuss” and another not so nice word that actually is quite derogatory toward the female of the species now that I think about it. I grin thinking of how many things I did as a child that I should not have done just because someone dared me or called me “chicken.” Perhaps it was a legitimate way for my three older brothers to try to do away with me, the pest. I always will wonder if they “really” forgot to tell me about bikes having brakes when they put me on my sister's bike, wood on the pedals so I could reach them, and sent me on a first bike ride down a hill on a dead end street where the hill continued with trees and no road after the turn around;-) But back to my story. I have thrown down the gauntlet to Dave(easy for a female to do), but it also solidifies my own commitment to the ride. Meanwhile, Steve Rice and I e-mail back and forth with ideas on how best to dress for the weather. Normally this time of year you start a ride with clothing that you will discard during the day as the temperature rises, but nothing about the weather this year has been normal and tomorrow is no exception. I haven't heard from Bill so I have no idea if he intends to ride or to try to get his 300K somewhere else.

Soon it is time to prepare my bike. The first thing is to put on the clip-on fender that my husband was kind enough to go pick up from Bob down at Clarksville Schwinn. He tells me Bob put it up for me after my call yesterday as they only had one and I send Bob a mental thank you. Of course, I am not allowed to put it on myself, so I find myself directing the installation despite having absolutely no idea how the thing works. Meanwhile, I am praying that we should be doing this as I have learned that it is never wise to try something new on a 190 mile ride. Finally the fender is on, seems secure, and we find a way to fasten my seat bag. The only bad thing about the fender is that it will prevent my using my carradice, a large bag that allows me to carry an assortment of items. This means I must limit what I take and I make the decision to leave the folding tire I almost always carry on rides to be able to carry a spare pair of gloves and socks encased in plastic. I will also take an extra wool top. Some of this I will carry in my handlebar bag and some in the pockets of my jersey. I giggle thinking of the times I have left with my pockets stuffed and my husband telling me it does nothing to enhance the appearance of my derriere, like a hamster only I store myself in the behind region rather than in my jaws. While I have loaned my folding tire to others more than I have used it myself, I worry about leaving it behind, but there just is not any room. I think how hard it is having to ride such a small bike. I also think about how heavy my bike is when loaded, particularly when everything, including my clothing, is wet.

Through my rain rides, I have found that the Planet Bike tail lights are rather undependable when wet so I wrap mine in plastic baggies sealed with electrical tape. I decide that since it will not only be dark but wet, I will bring out the big gun in lights: my hub generator. One thing that my husband has urged me not to skimp on are good lights as he worries about me when I ride, and I have heeded his advice except for these darned tail lights. As it turns out, even with the plastic bag, only one of the lights will be dependable. But that comes later in the tale. For those of you who have these tail lights, following the ride it was suggested on the randon list that they work best if installed upside down as this offers more water protection.

I roll out of bed at 3:45 to drive to the ride start. It rains all the way to Shelbyville and I think how much harder it is to start a ride in the rain rather than starting a ride and then getting rained upon later. I ask what is wrong with me that I am not luxuriating in a warm bed, half asleep, listening to the rain singing on the roof. As usual, I don't have an answer to this question. It is warmer than I expected, however, and not so windy, so maybe it will all work out. When I arrive, the motel room where you sign in is full of people. I am surprised when I find that 22 of the 30 who registered are there. I am even more surprised to find that there are three other women, all on tandems. Jody and Steve are back for more and the two other tandems are from out of town. I think that Jody has a lot of guts. I know she is a strong rider. This is not a good “first” 300 K.

Despite my early start, I get there just in time to sign in and get everything ready. There is a hesitancy in the air while people wonder what they are doing and if they should be doing it. In our heart of hearts, many of us are hoping against hope that Steve will cancel the ride; but that does not happen in brevet riding unless there is significant danger. I know I am not the only one second guessing my sanity heading out into this weather for this distance, particularly since I don't feel 100 per cent committed to PBP. I do, however, decide to keep the door to that ride open. I think of a letter a newer but already cherished friend, Greg Smith, e-mailed to me talking about the meaning of fun on rides. He knows that I am struggling with my decision as far as whether to commit to PBP, and he e-mailed his thoughts on the matter. He worried that I would take offense at his advise, but I treasure it. I can accept advice when it is given with the right intention. It is a cherished e-mail, one of those that you save knowing you will re-read it throughout the years. His point is that there are different types of “fun” from rides. At one point, while listing the types of fun found in rides, he says: “The fun of making it through a tough day.  I believe Yvonne Choinard (the founder of Patagonia) said "it's not an adventure until something goes wrong".  For better or worse, these are the rides that stick in our memories - where the wind is howling, it's cold, we don't feel good but we manage to keep going.  I don't know about you but I remember these a lot longer than I remember the first kind and can usually rattle them off right off the top of my head.” (Greg, I certainly hope you don't mind that I shared some of the wisdom you shared with me. It helped me make the final decision to commit to the ride today if not to PBP.) For Greg is right: some of the rides I remember most vividly are those that were the greatest struggle to complete. There is a satisfaction in overcoming adversity to obtain a goal. I hug this thought to me as Steve gives his ride speech.

The bikes glide into the wet Stygian darkness and over the rolling terrain of Zaring Mill. I know from experience that this road will seem to last an eternity upon the return trip. The rollers will seem like mountains blocking my path home. Steve has cautioned us about the slickness of the metal bridges we will encounter on Oregon Road, but I am just as cautious on the railroad tracks on Zaring Mill having gone down on tracks twice before. I console myself with the thought that it is a light drizzle and not a hard, driving rain, the kind that makes you feel like needles are piercing your skin and severely limits your ability to see and be seen. I am not sure who, if anyone, I will ride with today. I am not sure of anything.

The first control seems to come rather quickly. By that time I am riding with Steve, Dave, and Bill. As usual, we gulp down a drink and some food and get on our way without lollygagging, all that is except Dave who does not do anything in a rush. This haste through controls will become more important throughout the day as we become sodden with rain and stopping means chilling. Funny how rain makes you appreciate a good hill.

By mile 82, I believe I have made my decision. I will finish the ride today barring something unforeseen, but I will not go back to Paris. The wind has battered me and my spirits are low. I know I have not been drinking properly and am dehydrated. I have a hard time drinking on rides when it is not hot, and I have an even harder time when my bottles are covered with grit and road debris. “So what,” I think as I force myself to take a swig; there is already grit in my mouth from the water being thrown from the road. Still I will finish the ride having drank less than ¼ of my bottle. I think that I need to work on this as I am sure it impacts my strength. I begin thinking of food and hoping that perhaps it will help to revive my morale. Alas, when we get to the turn around control, the lady working the control informs us that the woman who fixes the food had decided nobody was going to show and left. The only thing hot I can find is a “ham and cheese” puff. This turned out to be melted American Cheese and ham inside fried dough. “Only in America,” I think as I force myself to down this mess. While it does not satisfy, it does give me strength and I feel better as we depart. Once again Dave does not leave with us and I wonder if he gets tired of chasing, but chilling convinces me that I have to keep moving if I am going to complete this ride. He never really stays with us the rest of the ride, catching us just as we are leaving controls.

For a short while there is a tail wind and the course is relatively easy. All of us delight in this change. Steve counts the riders as they head toward the turn around. He has already gotten a call that a tandem had brake problems and DNF'd. Despite the continuing rain, I see some grins and hear an occasional laugh. I think that despite the rain, this 300K is not as difficult as that of 2007. By the end, I will not be sure if I still feel this way. I begin to rethink my decision about PBP this year arguing with myself that it may be the last time I am physically capable of completing the course and that many of my friends are going. I think of how lucky I am to have a husband who not only tolerates this unusual activity, but supports and encourages me. At one point, the rain ceases for a half hour to one hour, the only time the entire day without consistent rain. I remark to the others that my clothing is beginning to dry. As if to taunt me, the rain resumes and the temperature begins to plummet. My core is warm so long as I keep moving. Indeed, I have a dry shirt I could add; then I remember what I forgot to bring: dry clothing for the end.

At the next to last control, Bill, Steve, and I remain together. When we arrive Tim Carroll is there having waited for company in the dark. Despite the fact he is riding a fixed gear, I know there is no way I can keep up with Tim, but he is welcome to ride with us. He makes a comment about being able to complete the 36 miles left in two hours and I manage a laugh. In good weather in the light perhaps, but in this weather with a wind that has kicked up and is right in my face there is not a chance. We leave the control before Dave arrives. I worry as at the last control he said that he had a mechanical that prevented him from getting into his big wheel, but I am chilling and can't wait. At times rides become about survival. I am beginning to be cold even on the bike, particularly my hands. A few miles out from the control, Steve says he is going to stop and put on another pair of gloves. At this point it strikes me that I have a nice, dry pair of gloves. Manna from heaven. When we stop, I get them out of their plastic cover looking forward to being dry. I almost cry when I find that I am having trouble getting the last one on. The glove I have on is preventing me from pulling on the glove that needs to go on. Steve pulls with me and it finally slips on. I spend the next fifteen minutes thinking how nice it is to have warm hands. I also remember having to help Larry “Gizmo” put on gloves one time when like me he tried an expensive but useless brand.

The wind continues to strengthen and slap us around at times taking my breath away. I begin praying that I don't have a flat tire as I worry that I will not be able to fix it. As I age and my hands lose strength, I find that I am having more and more trouble with changing a flats even in the best of conditions. I have no trouble getting the tire off and changing the tube, but putting the tire back on the rim is increasingly demanding. I know that with hands that once again are chilled, I will not be successful. I have learned not to lie to God telling him that if he just gets me back to the damned motel room safely I will never do this again because I know and he knows I am lying. So I just ride on and ask him to please protect me from flats. I begin to use all the mental tricks I know to pass the time repeating to myself over and over, “courage.” I think of Buddha's quote, “Endurance is one of the most difficult disciplines, but it is to the one who endures that the final victory comes.”

Tim has left us, but we catch up with him on the long climb to Southville. I hate this climb even in the best of times, and tonight I am whipped. My thighs protest at these continuing demands and threaten to fail me, but I know mental fatigue is as or more dangerous than physical fatigue. By this time, I am the only one other than Tim who has a consistently working tail light and I am grateful I took the time to wrap it in plastic. Prior to this, Steve gave Bill one of his lights and I pulled, but now I get relegated to the back of the line. When Bill and Steve get a bit ahead of me they are not discernible from behind. With the wind, I am not sorry to know I will have the draft the rest of the way home and I worry if I will be able to hold them on the climbs.

After an eternity the lights of Shelbyville cause the sky to change colors from black to gray, and we once again cross the railroad tracks that always signal to me the end of the brevet. Tim has dropped us and it is just Bill, Steve, and me. I have never been so glad to see a rather shabby hotel room and Susan's welcoming smile. Tim makes a comment about my snot icycle hanging from my nose. I had long ago given up wiping my nose as there was not a dry stitch on me with which to wipe. I smile knowing that I need to get warm quickly now that I have stopped moving or I will chill. While still there, Scott Howes came in saying that a group had gotten a taxi and decided to DNF. He had been nice enough to stop and help. I later find that of the 22 that started the ride, 9 did not finish.

While I had forgotten warm, dry clothes to change into following the ride, I do have my wool top I did not use during the ride and I always keep a sweat shirt in the car. I also have a pair of dry socks I took on the ride and did not use. If someone had offered me a hundred dollars for these clothing articles, I would have declined. I decide to change in the car as there are others needing to use the motel room. I change and bundle my lower half in the blanket that I keep in the car greatly bemoaning my thoughtlessness in not bringing a pair of sweat pants.

On the way home, despite having the heater on high, I periodically have a bout of shivering. I also am dreadfully tired and force myself to stop and walk around twice during the hour long drive to make sure I don't fall asleep in the wheel. Like a siren, the thought of lolling in a tub full of hot scented water, a warm hug from my husband, and a soft bed lures me onward. I wonder if most people really appreciate these things in the way a randonneur does?

A Cold and Icy Winter

January has been a challenge this year, mentally and physically.
I am used to getting regular exercise and soaking up the
outdoors to carry me through the sometimes dreary work day. I
am used to some sun, however muted and infrequent, in the
midst of winter rather than an oppressive gray sky that will not
yield. I am used to spending time on the road with a few, close
friends that know the “riding” me rather than those that don't
understand the love of the bike and the road and the freedom
that it not only promises but delivers. When Brian Borgman
was helping me put together my fixed gear (something that I
often think of when I begin to feel there is no kindness left in
the world), he let me pick a saying to put on my bike. It reads:
“My bike takes me places that school never could.” I have
found this to be true.

While there was a day befitting a century the first week-end of
the month allowing me to get my January century in, there have
been few days fit for even a short ride since. This has not been
because of the cold. I can deal with cold and freezing gears; it
was because of the ice and snow that covered the roads
claiming them as their own. Every time the roads would clear,
Old Man Winter would strike back, tatting furiously to lace the
world with white, panting his hoary breath in ragged gasps that
chilled to the bone. At one point, I contemplated joining the
SIW rides at Deem Lake, but trips to Cincinnati to deal with an
aging parent who had fallen always seemed to interfere when
Old Man Winter did not. My poor husband dealt with my sour
mood as I tried to temper it by slipping on running shoes to
travel the roads on foot that were not easily traversable by
wheel. Yes, I have an appreciation for running and the blessed
relief it can bring, the sound of my feet on the pavement, my
breath steaming warmly into the cold air, the chance to soak up
scenery in a way that riding does not allow, but it is no longer
my first love.

This week-end promises temperatures in the 40's and mostly
clear roads, however, and I am elated. There are no available
club rides that tempt, but a small group of friends intend to ride.
These are my favorite rides anyway, the ones where I am totally
comfortable with all the riders and don't have to worry about
stilted conversation and the other things that go along with new
relationships. I have traveled so many miles with these men and
spent so many hours with them that they are like family.
Because of this I know they will be patient with me on the
steeper climbs when I tend to lag despite my best efforts. I
worry about my ability to keep up with so few miles in my legs.
I know the route and I know that it is going to hurt. Larry
“Gizmo” Preble, when speaking of hills, once stated to me that
pain is “an acquired taste.” And indeed, part of me relishes the
thought of the ache in my thighs and the rasping in my lungs
that I am anticipating as a surety for this is a course that is
demanding even when it is midsummer and the legs are strong
and hardened by endless miles and challenges.

We meet at the ride start and as always I am surprised at the
ease of conversation despite the lapse in time since we have
met. I giggle to myself when Dave “Bam Bam” is late and
many times during the ride I think how nice it is that some
things never change, of how sometimes the foibles that define
individuals become part of their personalities and somehow
endearing rather than annoying, particularly and maybe because
of being tempered by absence. These are good friends, and I
never cease to wonder that they are my friends. I love the sound
of their voices, their laughter, and their jokes that cause laughter
to gush out of the deepest part of me, wholesome and real. I
know I will remember this and draw upon it to get me through
the rest of this winter, or at least until Hell Week where there
will be shorts, short sleeved jerseys, and friends.

Carl's Maple Syrup Ride

Despite a cloudy sky and nippy weather, thirteen (not counting me) showed for today's Maple Syrup ride.  On the way to the ride and periodically throughout the day I thought about when I first put this route together.  Once that was completed, Grasshopper always co-captained it with me until a few years ago.  Everything changes I suppose, but there are those moments that remain in the memory so long as you are alive.  It is the moments we remember, pieces of rides and days.  And it is the people in many of those moments that tend to make them special, something to treasure when you are feeling alone and overwhelmed as we all do from time to time.  Such a shame that some of them drift away when we should cherish them more, but that is the way life is.  And just as we remember that they have meant something to us, I suppose they remember that we meant something to them.

As usual this time of year, I was unsure what to wear.  It was thirty two at the start, but the prediction was for a partially clearing sky and fifties.  I decide to go with my short sleeve base layer.  This would have been fine if it had actually gotten to fifty rather than staying overcast and cold the entire ride.  For once, I was not overdressed.  I can't really say I was cold except when we stopped, but I wished for my soft wool shirt that keeps me toasty even when wet. 

I am so glad to see new friends and old.  Some of them ride with me all years while others are harbingers of spring as much as the daffodils, crocuses, and snowdrops.  I think how I just noticed the daffodil leaves working their way up through the soil getting ready to decorate my yard, delighting my eyes with their brilliant yellows and whites.  I don't have as much luck here as I used to have as the soil is so poor, but I still manage to coax the daffodils and grow enough vegetables to put some away for the cold winter months.

Soon into the ride the front group is riding toward me:  the way is flooded by the recent rains.  This will make for a faster, easier day as we can go down State Road 31, but it will also mean more traffic, less scenery, and less chance to talk.  It is a strong group that has showed today.  Someone mentions that my post on the list serve scared people away.  That was not my intent, but I also wanted to be in before dark. 

I giggle as I hear Dave and Steve planning what beers they intend to take to Texas, but I am forced to admit I have bought wine to take along.  All year long, as much as I detest the drive, I look forward to a week of having nothing to do except ride my bicycle.  All year long I look forward to seeing those friends I see so rarely, normally only in Texas or on TOKYO. 

After the first store stop, Mark tells me it is colder.  I have not imagined it.  Not only is it not going to get into the fifties, but the temperature is dropping.  We are able to get back on course and soon the hills take care of any temperature problems.  Part of me wishes I had brought my fixed gear, but I could not have held the pace we ride this day. 

When we near the festival,  the smell of the cooking tree sap wafts through the forest on the downhill and my appetite sharpens.  I think that is one thing that I love about riding; it makes me hungry, really hungry.  It is not the hunger I have those days when I don't do much of anything but clean house or go to work.  It is hunger that signals the body really needs the food to do the work there is to be done.  We laugh as a van passes us and the children inside begin screaming as John's new nickname is the Vaccinator. 

I think of when I first found the festival on a solitary ride through the countryside.  I remember feeling blue and alone when I caught a faint hint of a melody on the air that was tinged with faint but enticing smell that I could not quite put my finger on.  Then I saw the sign and followed the arrow, finally arriving at what looked to be a homestead from the past.  Now I look forward to it every year.

Soon the pancakes are eaten and we are back on the road, the miles passing quickly.  We are done early, before 4:00.  Guess there will be some time to do some of the dreaded housework.