I should have known that it was going to be a bad race when I missed a turn 150 yards after the start...
It was a little after five o'clock in the morning in Dublin, Ohio on the last Saturday in September. A couple weeks earlier, I decided to try one more long distance cycling race in 2012, the Race Across America Ohio Cycling Challenge 200, so here I was. Unlike most long distance races, this race was an attempt to simulate the actual RAAM, so the courses for both the 200 and 400 mile races were one big loop, which were 206.8 and 407.1 miles, respectively. (Yes, there was also a 400 mile race, a RAAM qualifier that the Mr. Sissy Boy Editor didn't even think about entering.) A support crew was required for the 400 mile racers and recommended for the 200 mile racers, so of course I didn't have a crew. The course was unmarked, but we did have a cue sheet that I encased in a zipper sandwich bag and attached to a butterfly clip that I had taped to the handlebar stem of my bicycle. Still, I did not fancy my chances of staying on course for the entire race. However, I did think that I was perfectly capable of staying on course for the first eighth of a mile and, not unlike a Greek tragedy, I paid for my hubris. (Yes, Mr. Pedal Press Editor, that's exactly what it was like. Geez ......)
The turnout for the Cycling Challenge wasn't huge. Go figure. There were five 400 mile racers and five 200 mile racers, four individuals and a team. Since we were to ride this race as a time trial, we started 30 seconds apart. I went changing out of the gate, my adrenalin flowing as much as could be expected, given the time of day, and a quarter mile later, I came to a dead end. After consulting my cue sheet a little sooner than expected, I corrected myself and got back on course in last place. It was a place that I would become very familiar with as the day unfolded.
I had actually worked in Dublin for 5 years in the early 1990s and I had ridden my bicycle on the roads that were included on the first and last 25 miles of the course. So, I didn't study the cue sheet in detail, because I knew these roads like the back of my hand. About 15 miles later, I realized that I actually knew these roads like the back of my neck, as I discovered that I had gone off course 5 miles earlier.
If a man screams unpleasantries in a rural area in the pre-dawn darkness and there's no one to hear him, does he actually make a sound? I now had something to ponder during the next 195 miles or so of the race. The only positive was that it was light by the time I finally got to Delaware, the first town that we would ride through, enabling me to navigate through the city streets a little easier.
So onward I went, heading northeast, and about a mile south of Cardington, I felt that oh-no familiar spongy sensation from my rear tire. I had a flat. However, this was not a problem; this was an opportunity, an opportunity to use a CO2 cartridge for the first time. Actually, it became an opportunity, because my not-so-reliable frame pump bent the tip of the new tube that I had placed in the tire. So, I replaced the second tube with yet another tube and decided that it was the time to find out if I could actually use a cartridge without releasing CO2 uselessly into the air; triggering a climatic tipping point that would instantaneously increase the temperature 100 degrees, completely melt the polar ice caps, and flood coastal cities throughout the world. Fortunately for the sake of the planet, I could. The tire was a little soft, but rideable and I knew that there was a bike shop 50 miles away where I could buy some more tubes and cartridges. But first, I had to get there. It was now over 3 hours since I had started, and I had ridden 38 official miles. The race was not going well.
In a futile effort to make up for lost time, I rode the next 30 miles hard, and just after traveling though Lexington, I hit the hills; hills that I became very familiar with during the next 40 miles. They were long rollers of about a quarter mile, one after another; at least it seemed that way, and I soon realized that I didn't have my A Legs with me. I thought that I had put them on that morning, but it was early, the motel room was unfamiliar, and I must have put on my B Legs by mistake. Or they could have been my C+ Legs. I only knew that while I pride myself on being able to ride up hills in a reasonably quick manner, there was nothing for me to be proud about that day.
After 91 official miles, I reached Loudonville, the town of the aforementioned bicycle shop, where the owner pumped up my tire and I stocked up on my supply of tubes and cartridges. I told him that I had ridden up plenty of hills since Lexington and he warned me that there were more bad hills during the next 8 miles between Loudonville and Nashville. He was right and I sunk to the occasion.
Finally, after 110 official miles and 120 actual miles, I reached Millersburg, the town where the 200 and 400 mile courses diverged, and the place where I would start riding southwest back to Dublin. At a convenience store, in another futile effort, this one to revive my flagging appetite, I took stock. I wasn't feeling all that good and I wasn't going to be able to refuel very well. In addition, I was going to finish the race well after dark, even if I were capable of pushing the pace, which I wasn't. It was time to stop "racing" and just finish, a race that I had no choice but to finish, since my car was 96 miles away. And after that inspiring internal pep talk, onward I went.
Much of the next 40 miles of the course were on US 62 and 36, and while US 62 was pleasantly free of traffic, US 36 wasn't. Any time I encountered a hill, and there were still several major hills during this part of the course, I almost immediately got into my lowest 39-27 gear and impressed myself with my 7 mph pedaling prowess. I was also making frequent stops to consult the cue sheet, since it was difficult to read the cue sheet while riding, but even so, I made another wrong turn a few miles west of Mt. Vernon after 157 official miles. This one only cost me a couple miles and I was actually pretty blasé about it. Of course, I was pretty blasé about everything at that point; if one of my legs had suddenly fallen off, I probably would have thought "Eh, I still have another one." I just assumed I would get back to my car one way or another eventually and whatever happens happens.
I rode the last 25 miles in the dark. Here is when I realized the wisdom of having a support crew in a car following me, to help light my way and, more importantly, to let motorists know that there was a cyclist ahead. Some of the roads were too busy, particularly the potentially terrifying quarter-mile on the four lane US 23, where there was no shoulder due to road construction. Fortunately, with a well timed light and a well timed sprint, relatively speaking, I lived to type the tale.
Also fortunately, despite my lack of energy and dashed dreams (my, aren't we the Drama Queen, Mr. Pedal Press Editor), the weather was beautiful; partly sunny with a high temperature in the low 70s, and little wind, along with some nice fall foliage as background. The full moon was also nice. During the last few miles, I started feeling a little chilled and wished that I had the tights that I no longer had. At the start of the race, I had filled my jersey pockets with food that ultimately remained mostly uneaten, which left me no room for clothing to stash. So, I wore worn out tights, with the intention of throwing them out sometime during the race. And if there is someone in Nashville walking around with tights that he fished out of a trash barrel, I say "You're welcome."
And eventually, I did make it back to the finish line at 9:20 P.M., 16 hours 7 minutes and 218.5 miles after I started, and in last place, over one hour slower than my pre-race worst case scenario. I chatted a bit with the race officials, thanked them for a well run race (hey, it wasn't their fault I went off course, got a flat, lost my appetite, and left my A Legs back at the motel), chatted a little bit with the other unsupported 200 mile racer who finished about 25 minutes before me (he also went off course, but didn't get a flat), and received my Finisher's Medal, soon to be worn proudly at a disco near you. Then I drove back to my motel. Boy, that hot shower felt great. I then slept for 10 hours.
Two weeks later, I rode in slightly different weather. It was in the low 40s and drizzling slightly, but I took a chance that it wouldn't get worse, gambled, and lost. After a few miles, it started to pour and it did so for the next 45 minutes, while the temperature dropped into the 30s. Twenty miles later, by the time I got home, my fingers and toes were like blocks of ice, which made it a challenge to open the side door to my garage with my house key. Fortunately, I was able to maneuver the key out of my jersey pocket and open the door, avoiding Plan B, which was to writhe on my lawn like a snake shedding his skin in an effort to slither out of my cycling jersey without using my hands, and then using my teeth to fish the key out of the pocket and to open the door. I was miserable, but at least I still had my dignity and, boy, that hot shower felt great.
The point is of all this is that you get up in the morning and you take a hot shower and it's nice, but there's nothing exceptional about it. To really appreciate a hot shower, there needs to be at least a little bit of suffering involved beforehand. I'm not advocating that we all should sleep on a bed of nails or that we all become masochists, but I do know that there can be rewards that accrue with a hard effort, regardless of the outcome, or even a foolish effort; rewards that include the satisfaction of just making the effort, as well as a great hot shower. And I think that is one of the reasons why we ride.
Rick Whaley, KBC Newsletter Editor
