100, M-F***er!

So yesterday was my first-ever century ride, a prerequisite to next year's little cross-country excursion. It was the Beautiful Backroads Century in north Georgia, and certainly lived up to its name, featuring some stunningly beautiful scenery. It also became a test of my will, determination, and sense of humor . . . .

Mile 0: Ran into Marsha and Steve, and their friends Herb and Kathy at registration. They were doing the metric century (66 mi.) and invited me to ride with them. Hopefully this bit of serendipity will be an indicator of how the rest of the day will go.

Miles 0-55: Riding with Marsha, Steve, and the gang helps the time go quickly. The conversation is varied and interesting, and it's fun to get to know Kathy and Herb. I realize it takes me an extraordinarily long time to get up the hills, but I fly down the descents and manage to keep an average speed near theirs. I appreciate the moments of sheer joy riding down hills, through country with incredible vistas, past the local wildlife: horses, llamas, and the biggest cows I've ever seen. Must be some nuclear feed they've got up here.

Mile 50: It is strangely NOT comforting to reach the halfway point. Although I should be pleased because every inch brings me closer to home, I can only think that there are 50 more miles to go. Parts of my body that I've never met before are suddenly screaming for attention.

Mile 55: The last rest stop. The century route will split off before the next rest stop, so I say goodbye to my buddies as they carry on. I slam more carbs (were those peanut M&Ms? they sure taste like sawdust) and climb back on the bike.

Mile 58-ish: Marsha later says she hit the wall here and could only think about how I had more than 40 miles to go. It's somewhere around here that the century route splits off from the metric century. Point of no return: Should I do it? The route is a loop; the only choice would be to finish. I make the turn and don't let myself think about it.

Mile 62: It's strangely quiet on this part of the course. Before, we were seeing the occasional cyclist. Now, no one. Suddenly 2 guys appear from the other direction. "We're all going the wrong way," they say. I turn around and follow them a mile to the last intersection. After a few minutes of consultation we determine that, no, THEY were going the wrong way; trying to do the metric century, they were way off course. Damn. Again I turn around, and continue the course. I know I should find something funny in this, but I can't.

Mile 70: Wow, THAT'S a hill. My general rule of thumb: if I can't go fast enough up a hill to stay upright on the bike, I walk. Smart, huh? Small irritation -- one of the race volunteers chooses this moment to appear and ask if I'm ok. Nice to be taken care of, but embarrassing. Why can't he show up when I'm at least sitting on the bike? Oh well, at least there's a rest stop coming up soon.

Mile 71: The race volunteer shows up again. Um, they're closing the remaining rest stops and the course monitoring. He gives me all the water he has left and offers snacks (declined; I pull gluten-free pretzels out of my bag). We chat for a minute and he warns me that the rest of the course is hilly and not that pretty (very true), and that most people cramp up somewhere near mile 85 or 90. Great. Something to look forward to. I wonder if this means there'll be no food, free beer, and massages at the finish.

Mile 80: Walked up one other monster hill, but otherwise stayed on the bike. Ok, damn it, if there are no more rest stops I'll make my own. Note to self: ask for part of my registration fee back. I'm starting to feel better about finishing, but sometimes have to fight through panic. If they've closed the course, there's no SAG wagon if I just can't go any further. The only choice is to keep going.

Mile 85: This was to be the last rest stop and I'm slightly off course because there's not a rest stop. Some sort of family picnic in the park. I briefly consider stopping to beg a hot dog but get back on course. Only 15 miles to go. Now I know I can do this. And hey, those hills seem to have gotten a little smaller.

Mile 90: The last self-supported rest stop. I briefly consider skipping it, but force myself to do it. The last thing I need is to bonk in the last 5 miles. I didn't think it was possible, but those peanut M&Ms taste even worse than before. I may never eat them again. And I've run out of water. When it's time to get back on the bike I am close to tears. At least I haven't cramped up. But cramps could show up any minute.

Mile 92: Two miles extra, thanks to the jokers at mile 62, so now I have 10 to go. I count down the miles, and yell to keep from crying: "10, m-f***er! I'm gonna kick your ass!" "9, m-f***er! You can't beat me!" You get the picture.

Mile 99: "3, m-f***er! Take that, asshole!" Oops, that was in front of the Baptist church. And there were people outside. I also develop an Elvis twitch in my lip that refuses to go away. I start giggling uncontrollably. It must be a real sight: some nutcase riding . . . really slowly . . . on a bicycle, probably drooling, and certainly twitching and cursing like a sailor.

Mile 102: It's so close I can feel it. I come around the bend and there's the parking lot. Have you ever watched a marathon or some other endurance contests and felt sorry for the poor bastard who comes in last? Well . . . that's me. Dead-ass last. There was my car, all alone in the parking lot. No bands playing, no crowds cheering, no beer, no massage, not another human being in sight, not even leftover food. Just my car, waiting. I've never been so happy to see it in my life.

So . . . what now? I'm going to try not to think about it. I'm going to take a lot of aspirin in the next few days. And I'm going to remember that sometimes you just have to put your head down and get through it. Sometimes when the rest of the world has given up and gone home, you just have to keep doing what you know is right. Sometimes you have to laugh. Sometimes you have to scream obscenities. Sometimes finishing dead-ass last feels as good as finishing first, because you finished. Lance Armstrong was right: it's not about the bike.

100, M-F***er!

Anticipation and trepidation

Tomorrow's the big day: my first century ride. 105 miles through the hills (mountains?) around Cartersville, GA. I'm approaching the ride with anticipation and trepidation. Certainly I know I can do it -- they say if you've ridden 65 or 70 miles you can do a century, no problem. But lately I've been dreading the long rides. Not because they're long, but 5 or 6 hours on a bike just gets boring when you're riding alone. Of course that makes me nervous about the 80 mile per day average we're going to do on the big trip, but surely there will be enough people to talk to . . . won't there?

What If It All Goes Right?

Today I did an easy recovery ride, to work the soreness out of my body from yesterday's long, HOT 60-miler. Anyone who knows me well, however, knows that it's difficult for me to just enjoy a slow ride to nowhere, even if it has a specific training purpose. So I used the time and relatively slow speed to work on things that I never practice: bike handling skills, evasive maneuvers, cornering techniques, inducing spinouts to see if I could recover. In other words: training for When Something Goes Wrong.

It got me to thinking. We spend an extraordinary amount of time in our lives preparing for When Something Goes Wrong. We save for a rainy day. We stock up on canned goods, bottled water, and batteries. We keep up our professional network. We wait for the other shoe to drop. And yet for all our preparation, sometimes things go wrong despite our best efforts. Some things, like Elyse's cancer, happen regardless of how prepared we are for When Something Goes Wrong.

It seems strange that we spend all of our time obsessing about what to do When Something Goes Wrong and don't spend nearly as much time preparing for When Something Goes Right. We don't dare to imagine what our lives will be like then, When Something Goes Right. We don't prepare ourselves for our own successes, and for the lives that success brings us.

This bike trip is no exception. I have spent time training and preparing my body in case Something Goes Wrong and no time preparing for When Something Goes Right. I need to ask the questions: Am I prepared to embrace the life-changing experience of cycling across the country? After I've successfully done something few others have dared, am I prepared to delete the words "I can't" from my vocabulary? Permanently? Am I prepared to move on with my life as it was before, knowing that with a little more effort I can change the world? Scary questions. Scarier answers. Guess I'll find out.

There's a song called "What If It All Goes Right" by Melissa Lawson. It's becoming my own personal theme for the Team Dream 2009 ride:

What if it all goes right

What if it all works out

What if the stars line up

And good luck rains down

What if you chase your dreams

And it changes your whole life?

Yeah, what if it all goes right

What if you climb to the mountaintop and touch the sky

Grab a cloud as it passes by

You might fall, you might fall

But then again you might fly

What if it all goes right?

Part of trying to change the world is accepting the possibility that it might all Go Right. It's reaching up to grab the cloud, knowing that you could just as easily fly as fall, and knowing where you want to go when you fly.

Cheers.