All Trained Up and Nowhere to Go

Paradise Vineyards, Old York Road, Chesterfield

2 August 2014

5:33 a.m.  It's too dark for August.  I peer out the front window to the street. There's enough light to see puddles, and rain hitting them.  I send Neil an email.  "I wouldn't ride in these conditions," I tell him.  The radar shows a rainy mass moving north.  NOAA is predicting a 100% chance of rain all day. I stumble around a few minutes more, petting the cats and watching the rain, until Neil emails back.  We cancel our plans to ride the Event Century at 7:30 a.m., and we agree that going back to sleep is just the thing to do.  Before doing that, though, I email Jim to ask if the rest stop volunteers still have to show up.  "I have no desire to ride in this weather," I tell him. "Even my crazy has limits." He replies that the rest stops will be open for the few intrepid bikers.  I tell him we've canceled.  "Smart," he writes.  "I'll expect a blog post."

I guess I was more tired than I thought.  It's 8:00 a.m. when I finally muster the energy to get vertical.  A little rain is falling, but it seems to be petering out. I check the weather again.  The massive mass on the radar is pulling away.  NOAA's hourly forecast is down to a 30% chance of rain, even though the text version is sticking with 100%.  Weather Underground has it at 80%.  

I putter around some more, peeking outside every few minutes.  "I've never been rained out of an Event before," I muse to Jack, who couldn't care less. When it's time to decide what clothes to put on, the rain has stopped.  I dig out my most fluorescent jersey, the one that still bears mud stains from a very messy winter ride.  I find a dark pair of socks.  I check the Event page for registration hours.  It's 8:45 now; sign-in for the 50-mile route ends at 10:00 a.m.  If I stop puttering, I can make it.  I tell Jack, "I'm gonna go do the fifty.  Might as well.  I paid for it.  I'm not sure when I'll be back. It depends if I run into anyone." If I ride the 50, I'll get a metric in.

The roads are damp, but not damp enough to get me wet. I swerve around puddles. 

Registration is empty.  Ira is the first person I see.  "Can I still ride the fifty?" I ask him.  "You can ride whichever route you want," he smiles.  Today's numbers have been bleak.  Only a handful have signed up day-of.  I take one of each cue sheet over 50 miles, because, at this point, it's not a transgression.  

On my way out, I ask John S if I should follow the green arrows.  "Follow the black ones," he says.  Ha, ha.

At route 130, I wonder how obsessed would I have to have been to go for the century solo.  This is the first Event century I've missed since I started doing hundred-milers in 2004.  Oh well.

It's weird passing other bikers.  I'm usually the passee, not the passer.  These people are on hybrids, mostly.  It's hardly a fair comparison.  It's funny how the ride levels shake out by time.  I've gotta be the only B rider to have started at 10:00 a.m.  It's a hard-core thing.  Hard-core starts early, weather be damned. That, or hard-core is still in bed.

If I don't find anyone I know, this will be the longest solo ride I've ever done.

I watch my computer.  I'm keeping my century pace.  I'm pushing to keep it. There's nobody to draft behind, nobody to pull.

There's nobody, period.  I haven't seen a soul since the edge of Hamilton.  I wonder which rest stop I'm going to arrive at.  I wonder who will be there.  I wonder how people ride by themselves all the time.  This is where the real test of biking love comes in.  How much of my biking addiction is the result of my deep need to be around people?  What sort of hermit would I be?

OK.  White Pine Road.  Must be heading to the Pinelands Nursery.  I need water. If nobody's there, I'll double back to Columbus, to the general store.

It's a relief to see other bikes leaning against the nursery's barns.  Terry C is volunteering here.  Now I can say I ran into someone I know.  Bob S emerges. He's riding the 50 too.  I ask if I can join him.  He's amenable to that, but one of his companions -- someone I rode with a lot more in the past -- isn't.  He says something disparaging about my speed.  I send them on their way.  "I'll catch you guys later," I tell Bob.  But I spend so much time talking to Terry that I know there's no way I'll find those guys on the road.

It gives me something to push against the wind for, though.  If I can find them, we can share in the drafting.  The wind is coming from whichever direction I turn into.  Out here the cornfields are no help.  I watch my pace drop; then I stop watching.  I pass one rider, and gripe about the wind as I go by.  Then it's empty again.

40.0 miles:  I see my shadow. 40.1 miles: it's gone.  43.7 miles: I see my shadow. 43.8 miles: it's gone.

I'm tired.  I shouldn't be this tired.  I'm supposed to be going 100 miles today. Dodged a bullet.  100 woulda sucked.  

On Old York Road, northbound out of Allentown, John and Jane are going south. They work at registration early each year, then head out later.  I wonder if they're going 60 miles.  We wave at each other.

Around 50 miles, the yellow and green arrows merge.  At 52 miles, on Sharon Road, the yellow ones point to a rest stop; there is no green.  I start to pedal past, then change my mind. I don't need any food or water right now, but I'd like to see who's hanging out here.

Everybody's hanging out here.  I see Plain Jim first, then Mary, then TEW, and Don S, and Herb, all working the rest stop.  They're surprised to see me.  "I thought you'd be doing the century!"  I explain the rain.  "Who are you riding with?"  The voices in my head, I tell them.

While I'm talking to TEW, digging out a photo on my phone for her, I see that Cheryl, working a different rest stop, has texted.  "R u riding today?"  I explain the rain, and tell her where I am.

A woman on a handsome, white Colnago (carbon, though) recognizes me, and I her, and we figure out that we've been in Spinning classes together for years.

Jim calls me over to admire a vintage Tommasini.  Why he does this is the subject of another post.  (She keeps saying that.  Make with the post already.  We've pretty much got it figured out at this point.  Ah, but you haven't seen it, have you?)

George D pulls in, finishing up the 65-miler solo.  Joe and Dave arrive, with Gary (who found the other two at registration at 10:30).  We'd all done the same thing this morning.  None but Dave and Joe had the presence of mind to contact anyone else.  So we hang out for a while before the last 8 miles home.

Which we take at a reasonable pace, not pushing, just talking.  Amicitia quam celeritate.

We pull to a stop together at Route 130.  George says, "I love this crazy thing that we do."

"This crazy thing?" I ask, gesturing towards our bikes.

"Yep.  I love it."

"Green up!"

"Can I put that in my blog?"

"Yep."

We pick up another solo rider less than a mile from the end of the ride.  We're the first he's seen on the road.

Things are more lively at the college than they were this morning.  There's music and food.  I scan the picnic tables for a familiar face, but see none.  John S is still there, cutting watermelon (I keep taking slices).  Ira puts the pieces on a board, carts them off, and returns.  He tells me that the rider total is half of what they'd planned for.  No surprise.  "We lost money today," he laments.  Over his shoulder, I can see a pile of watermelons.  We could each take one home and they'd still have leftovers.

Chris pulls on my braid.  In the role of sag, as he always is on Event day, it's been uneventful.

John and Jane emerge.  They'd gone to visit some of the rest stops.  "It was lots of fun!" Jane exclaims.

Chris tries to stuff a bag of oranges into my jersey pocket.

"You never caught us," says the Pinelands Nursery rider whom I never caught. "Yeah," I reply, "I spend a long time at Pinelands, and then I wound up hanging out on Sharon Road."  He's loading himself up with boxes of extra food, for which Ira seems grateful. 

I'm trying not to eat too much watermelon, remembering one Event century where I ate too much watermelon.  As if on cue, Ira says, "The last century I did was with you."

"And Preben," I add. "I was jet-lagged.  You guys pulled me home."

"I remember that," he says.  "You were hurtin'."

"And I ate too much watermelon," I add, reaching for a final piece.

Finally, I mosey back towards Kermit, John S following me with ideas for long routes through New York State.  "I'm not likely to do those any time soon," I remind him, "If ever."  But that's not how his mind works; such is the worldview of a randonneur.

The wind has died down for my ride home.  The voices in my head are quiet.

I'd make a lousy hermit.  How much of my biking obsession is fueled by a need to be around people?  A lot.

UPDATE:

Among the many pictures that Jim took at the Sharon Road rest stop is this one.  I like it because it shows off Kermit's colors, and, in the background, watermelons.