The 2009 Westfield 400k
It was 3 am, in the middle of a Saturday morning in May. I was alone, on an empty country highway somewhere in the Pioneer Valley. The night was humid and damp and dark. I had just crashed my bicycle. Again. This crash wasn't as bad as last year's. I still had all of my teeth. But my left forearm was scraped up and bleeding. My shins just above my ankle throbbed with a bit of pain. I was on a 250 mile bike ride, and had just done the first 20 miles.
I arrived at Don's shop at 12:30 earlier that evening. It was early, but I thought to myself that I'd rather not make the same mistake that I had made a few weeks ago of having insufficient time to prep. Don was inside, sprawled out on a beach chair in the middle of his shop, looking like he was trying to catch a bit of a nap before the riders arrived. He greeted me as I came in, pushing himself up slowly from his chair.
"Ah," he said as he struggled up, "age is catching up to me."
"One too many mistakes from one's youth?" I asked
"Boy, I tell ya, all of these little sprains and popped ligaments from back in the day. I used to wonder about people who said that they can feel the weather changing in their bones. That stuff? That stuff is real. You can feel changes in air pressure through scar tissue in your joints."
I quietly fingered the scars on my left hand that I had earned after crashing last year, "well, I guess I have something to look forward to with the scrapes on my knuckles."
"Oh," he said with a twinkle in his voice, "you want to trade scar stories?"
I knew better than to try that with Don, who had literally been riding bikes since I was in diapers. Instead, I went to sign my waiver, chatted a bit further then hustled back to my bike to make sure it was in working order. The rest of the crowd showed up in bits and pieces over the next hour. Jake had arrived earlier than I, but was sleeping in his rental car. There were other faces that seemed familiar, but whose names I did not know. In due time, the start rolled around and Don gave us another pre-ride briefing. The route was going to be similar to the ride that I had done three years ago, a 250-mile out and back to Saratoga Springs New York via Jacob's Ladder, Pittsfield, Stephenstown and the Hudson River Valley. Don was going to set up a small control just beyond the top of Jacob's Ladder and there was a volunteer manning a snack table at the turnaround in Saratoga Springs, but otherwise, we were foraging from convenience stores all along the way.
With the briefing concluded we were on our way. I started off well, sticking firmly within the middle of the pack for the initial exit from Westfield, but then had to stop because my lights started to get a little flaky. It seems that no matter how much time I give myself, I always need to stop and adjust something. In this case, the contacts between my generator and my lights had grown loose over time, and I needed to fiddle with them to ensure that they were seated properly and wouldn't disconnect on any big bumps. By the time, I had sorted this out, however, the rest of the field left me behind and I was last again.
Resigned to this fate, I kept going. The road was ridden with potholes, and while a part of me wanted to take my time on this section, another wanted to hustle, to catch up to the rest of the pack that had left me behind earlier that evening. So, I was up out of my saddle, climbing another small grade as I tried to keep my speed up on this little climb. Then, a car in the opposite lane appeared over the lip of the hill. Their high beams were on and the brilliance blinded me briefly. I couldn't see anything ahead, and couldn't avoid the deep pothole that opened up before me.
Standing as I was, my balance was off, and as the impact of the pothole jolted my wheel left, my hands overcorrected and I wound up tumbling forward, off my bike, crashing onto the road before. As I felt my helmet scrape into the asphalt, knew my forearms were being flayed by gravel, all I could think of was, "goddammit, not again."
I got up, walked over to the side of the road and leaned my bike against the guardrail before doing diagnostics. No sharp pain anywhere. Nothing seems to be broken. Legs have some scrapes, but nothing bad. Left arm is ... bloody. Lost skin on the forearm along three inches starting near the elbow. Right arm is fine. Head is fine. I think I can keep going. The bike threw its chain, but that was fixed rather easily. I was down one water bottle, as the crash had launched my spare somewhere into the night, and I couldn't find it with my headlamp.
I pulled a lightweight first aid kit out of my saddlebag, and sitting on this guardrail, working by the light of my headlamp, in the middle of the night, I took an antiseptic towelette and cleaned the blood off most of my forearm, then taped a small surgical gauze pad to the wound. I didn't have scissors, so had to use the rusty, serrated knife on my multitool. It wasn't a great job but good enough to get me another ten miles to the next control.
As I rode to the checkpoint, I kept wondering if this was a bad sign, and if I should quit now while quitting was easy. I had just started climbing Jacob's Ladder, and I was trying to be aware of any deterioration in the state of my arm as shock and endorphins wore off. I could feel my arm stiffening up, which made braking and shifting a little delicate, but otherwise it still seemed usable.
The dressing had started to go by the time I arrived at the checkpoint, so I figured it would be a good time to fix this wound properly, hopefully with another pair of hands. Don was still there, along with a couple of other riders. I showed him my wound and asked for his opinion.
"Well," he said, "let's get that cleaned up first. You don't want that to get infected, or have any bits of gravel left in it when it starts to heal."
As he poured a bit of peroxide onto a cotton swab and used it to dab at my wound, I asked, "so, do you think you could use another volunteer at Saratoga? The arm's feeling a bit stiff from the trauma. I was thinking maybe I should turn around, get in my car and drive out there."
"Don't be silly," he said, "this isn't that bad. Wayne (the volunteer at Saratoga) has his truck. Why don't you ride out to Saratoga and if you feel worse by the time you get there, he can give you a ride back. At least that way you can still get half a ride in."
Aside from the fact that Saratoga was still nearly 100 miles and six hours away, the advice made some sense, and was encouragement enough for me. With a fresh dressing and a replacement water bottle from Don, I was on my way again. Dawn had started its inexorable approach, and by the time I had passed Pittsfield and entered the Berkshires, the sun had started to break over the horizon. There's a section of the ride, just south of Mt. Greylock State Park, where one passes a small pastoral collection of houses and small farms, and one can fill water bottles from a community spring, that's probably one of my favorites and it's a pleasure to hit this section at sunrise, rather than earlier, when the light is too dark to unveil the area's beauty.
Past the Berkshires, it was a quick climb over Brodie Mountain Road and the Jiminy Peak Ski Resort. When I had done this ride a few years ago, Brodie Mountain felt like the tallest, most challenging climb that I had ever done up to that point, but now it was barely a blip on my consciousness, having been long supplanted by the gaps and White Mountains of Vermont. Still, it was neat riding through here again, if only to note my progress over the years.
Once past Brodie Mountain Road, it wasn't long before I entered New York State itself, and had arrived at the next control at a gas station in Sand Lake. I had caught up to a few more riders at this point, including Ferdinand, the Acadian accented Vermonter that I met on the 200k earlier this year. He was riding with two other friends and they readily accepted me into their group as we munched on breakfast sandwiches and topped up our supplies of water and bike snacks.
From the Sand Lake, the four of us fell into a pace line as we cruised through the Finger Lakes, on our way towards the Hudson River and Saratoga Springs. My arm had stabilized itself, still a bit painful but not getting any worse. My shins also throbbed slightly, but seemed manageable. I took a couple of turns pulling everyone in the paceline, just to share the burden, but tried not to overdo it. Most of the time, the leader of our pack was a dark haired fellow around my age, who wore a nice light blue Rapha jersey. He later introduced himself as Patrick and asked if I was Cris. I said that I was and wondered how he guessed. He said that knew Mike, whom I had seen since the 2006 600k. This world is still a small place.
Mike and I had maintained an online correspondence since we parted ways in Sandgate on the fateful middle night of the 600k. He had to take some time off, to raise a family and sort out his goals with his bike, while I kept going. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if he finished with me, and I was glad to see that he was still keeping at it. I knew that he had done a fleche earlier that year and that Patrick was on his team, I asked them about how that ride went and we chatted about riding our bikes through the gauntlet that is the New England spring.
The company was a good way to get the rest of the miles to pass rather quickly, but it wouldn't last as we arrived at a fork and couldn't agree on which turn we had to make. A few of the guys went left, and I went right. I had chosen poorly and realized my mistake about a mile down the road, but by the time I had turned around and retraced my steps, the others had left me behind.
This wasn't terrible, as I reminded myself that I needed to focus on riding solo anyway. I crossed the Hudson at Mechanicsville, stopping briefly for an orange soda at a Stewart's before continuing on to the old revolutionary war battleground of Saratoga and then the short, steep descent into Saratoga Springs. The approach to the town of Saratoga Springs is also rather picturesque, with Saratoga Lake scrolling by on the left, followed by the stately 19th century grandeur of the Saratoga Racetrack. Past this, it's quick tour through downtown Saratoga before stopping at a bike shop just outside the town center.
Ferdinand, Patrick and a few others were still here, and seemed to imply that they'd wait for me if I could hurry. I told them that I appreciated the company, but I needed to change my bandage and my first aid kit was out of surgical pads, so I needed to find a CVS and restock on medical supplies. I chatted briefly with Wayne, who had been notified by Don to expect me, though I told him that I wouldn't need a ride back as I was fine for finishing on my own. This was all for the best, as he was already giving a ride to another rider who had broken a spoke on a fancy racing wheel that couldn't be field repaired.
With that, I meandered back into Saratoga and stopped by the farmer's market, picking up some bread, cheese and apples to have for lunch. I stopped at an old pharmacy to pick up some gauze pads, and changed my dressing while sitting on the curb as some families walked by, enjoying their weekend. It was turning out to be a rather nice day and I was glad that Don talked me into pressing on.
In due time, I set out, but had to stop at another Stewart's when I realized that I had forgotten to refill on water. While stopped, a husband and wife couple had asked me about my bike and the lights on it.
"Oh yeah, I need those for riding late at night. Like this morning, I just started on this ride from Westfield."
"Westfield? Where's that?"
"In Massachusetts. About 120 miles from here."
"Oh ... so are you stopping here then?"
"No. Riding back. Hoping to finish tonight."
"Oh ... well, I guess our little 15 mile ride around the lake doesn't seem like a big deal, then."
"You know, I still remember the first time that I rode 15 miles anywhere and how far that felt. We've all got our own accomplishments that we can feel proud about."
We talked a little more with them asking me, like everyone else trying to make sense of this weird hobby, why we do these things and put ourselves through such trials. I've long since given up on trying to justify the specific obsession, but I try to, at least, highlight some of the more common virtues -- of non-competitiveness and challenging one's self and self-reliance -- that are exercised by the sport and at least hint that one can aspire to such goals without riding 250 miles. Though, perhaps, it does help.
From Saratoga Springs, it was a quiet, solitary ride back to Sand Lake and Stephenstown. As I returned to Mechanicsville, I rode past a fundraiser cookout for the local library, and not one to pass up a chance to support a library, especially if there are tasty hamburgers and hot dogs involved, I turned around and stopped briefly. The sausages were served by twelve year olds who kept on dropping Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles references to each other and looked at me like I was a hopelessly out-of-it adult. I was more surprised that TMNT still had any sort of currency in the youth of today. I just thanked them for my hot dog and kept going.
At Stephenstown, I stopped at the same grocery where I had dined three years ago, and had the same dinner of a bowl of chili and half of an Italian cold cut sub, which I remembered as being excellent fuel for the climb over Jiminy Peak. Sometimes, past performance does predict future returns. I managed to climb ably over Brodie Mountain Road, and had a nice speedy return into Massachusetts, crossing back through the Berkshires and Pittsfield while the sun had begun to set.
It was probably six or seven in the evening when I had started on Jacob's Ladder, and I knew that I was running out of daylight. Luckily, I managed to get through all of the really steep and fast descents while there was still some light to navigate by, and by the time night had plunged over us, the only segment that I had left to complete was the flat and pothole ridden section along Rt 20.
Fortunately, there would be no mishaps with oncoming cars on this time around, and I managed to get back to Westfield in a little more than 21 hours, setting a new personal best for that distance. If not for the crash, I might've come in at around 20 hours, which would have been fantastic, but 21 hours wasn't bad either. That gave me some reassurance that I could handle the 1000k with time to spare, and even opened up the tantalising possibility of being able to do the ride with 6 hours of sleep on each night. Two full nights' sleep on a 1000k! Such luxurious temptation. We'll have to wait and see if that's reasonable expectation; but for now, despite the ignominous start (or perhaps because of it), I was feeling good for my chances and optimistic about finishing.
I arrived at Don's shop at 12:30 earlier that evening. It was early, but I thought to myself that I'd rather not make the same mistake that I had made a few weeks ago of having insufficient time to prep. Don was inside, sprawled out on a beach chair in the middle of his shop, looking like he was trying to catch a bit of a nap before the riders arrived. He greeted me as I came in, pushing himself up slowly from his chair.
"Ah," he said as he struggled up, "age is catching up to me."
"One too many mistakes from one's youth?" I asked
"Boy, I tell ya, all of these little sprains and popped ligaments from back in the day. I used to wonder about people who said that they can feel the weather changing in their bones. That stuff? That stuff is real. You can feel changes in air pressure through scar tissue in your joints."
I quietly fingered the scars on my left hand that I had earned after crashing last year, "well, I guess I have something to look forward to with the scrapes on my knuckles."
"Oh," he said with a twinkle in his voice, "you want to trade scar stories?"
I knew better than to try that with Don, who had literally been riding bikes since I was in diapers. Instead, I went to sign my waiver, chatted a bit further then hustled back to my bike to make sure it was in working order. The rest of the crowd showed up in bits and pieces over the next hour. Jake had arrived earlier than I, but was sleeping in his rental car. There were other faces that seemed familiar, but whose names I did not know. In due time, the start rolled around and Don gave us another pre-ride briefing. The route was going to be similar to the ride that I had done three years ago, a 250-mile out and back to Saratoga Springs New York via Jacob's Ladder, Pittsfield, Stephenstown and the Hudson River Valley. Don was going to set up a small control just beyond the top of Jacob's Ladder and there was a volunteer manning a snack table at the turnaround in Saratoga Springs, but otherwise, we were foraging from convenience stores all along the way.
With the briefing concluded we were on our way. I started off well, sticking firmly within the middle of the pack for the initial exit from Westfield, but then had to stop because my lights started to get a little flaky. It seems that no matter how much time I give myself, I always need to stop and adjust something. In this case, the contacts between my generator and my lights had grown loose over time, and I needed to fiddle with them to ensure that they were seated properly and wouldn't disconnect on any big bumps. By the time, I had sorted this out, however, the rest of the field left me behind and I was last again.
Resigned to this fate, I kept going. The road was ridden with potholes, and while a part of me wanted to take my time on this section, another wanted to hustle, to catch up to the rest of the pack that had left me behind earlier that evening. So, I was up out of my saddle, climbing another small grade as I tried to keep my speed up on this little climb. Then, a car in the opposite lane appeared over the lip of the hill. Their high beams were on and the brilliance blinded me briefly. I couldn't see anything ahead, and couldn't avoid the deep pothole that opened up before me.
Standing as I was, my balance was off, and as the impact of the pothole jolted my wheel left, my hands overcorrected and I wound up tumbling forward, off my bike, crashing onto the road before. As I felt my helmet scrape into the asphalt, knew my forearms were being flayed by gravel, all I could think of was, "goddammit, not again."
I got up, walked over to the side of the road and leaned my bike against the guardrail before doing diagnostics. No sharp pain anywhere. Nothing seems to be broken. Legs have some scrapes, but nothing bad. Left arm is ... bloody. Lost skin on the forearm along three inches starting near the elbow. Right arm is fine. Head is fine. I think I can keep going. The bike threw its chain, but that was fixed rather easily. I was down one water bottle, as the crash had launched my spare somewhere into the night, and I couldn't find it with my headlamp.
I pulled a lightweight first aid kit out of my saddlebag, and sitting on this guardrail, working by the light of my headlamp, in the middle of the night, I took an antiseptic towelette and cleaned the blood off most of my forearm, then taped a small surgical gauze pad to the wound. I didn't have scissors, so had to use the rusty, serrated knife on my multitool. It wasn't a great job but good enough to get me another ten miles to the next control.
As I rode to the checkpoint, I kept wondering if this was a bad sign, and if I should quit now while quitting was easy. I had just started climbing Jacob's Ladder, and I was trying to be aware of any deterioration in the state of my arm as shock and endorphins wore off. I could feel my arm stiffening up, which made braking and shifting a little delicate, but otherwise it still seemed usable.
The dressing had started to go by the time I arrived at the checkpoint, so I figured it would be a good time to fix this wound properly, hopefully with another pair of hands. Don was still there, along with a couple of other riders. I showed him my wound and asked for his opinion.
"Well," he said, "let's get that cleaned up first. You don't want that to get infected, or have any bits of gravel left in it when it starts to heal."
As he poured a bit of peroxide onto a cotton swab and used it to dab at my wound, I asked, "so, do you think you could use another volunteer at Saratoga? The arm's feeling a bit stiff from the trauma. I was thinking maybe I should turn around, get in my car and drive out there."
"Don't be silly," he said, "this isn't that bad. Wayne (the volunteer at Saratoga) has his truck. Why don't you ride out to Saratoga and if you feel worse by the time you get there, he can give you a ride back. At least that way you can still get half a ride in."
Aside from the fact that Saratoga was still nearly 100 miles and six hours away, the advice made some sense, and was encouragement enough for me. With a fresh dressing and a replacement water bottle from Don, I was on my way again. Dawn had started its inexorable approach, and by the time I had passed Pittsfield and entered the Berkshires, the sun had started to break over the horizon. There's a section of the ride, just south of Mt. Greylock State Park, where one passes a small pastoral collection of houses and small farms, and one can fill water bottles from a community spring, that's probably one of my favorites and it's a pleasure to hit this section at sunrise, rather than earlier, when the light is too dark to unveil the area's beauty.
Past the Berkshires, it was a quick climb over Brodie Mountain Road and the Jiminy Peak Ski Resort. When I had done this ride a few years ago, Brodie Mountain felt like the tallest, most challenging climb that I had ever done up to that point, but now it was barely a blip on my consciousness, having been long supplanted by the gaps and White Mountains of Vermont. Still, it was neat riding through here again, if only to note my progress over the years.
Once past Brodie Mountain Road, it wasn't long before I entered New York State itself, and had arrived at the next control at a gas station in Sand Lake. I had caught up to a few more riders at this point, including Ferdinand, the Acadian accented Vermonter that I met on the 200k earlier this year. He was riding with two other friends and they readily accepted me into their group as we munched on breakfast sandwiches and topped up our supplies of water and bike snacks.
From the Sand Lake, the four of us fell into a pace line as we cruised through the Finger Lakes, on our way towards the Hudson River and Saratoga Springs. My arm had stabilized itself, still a bit painful but not getting any worse. My shins also throbbed slightly, but seemed manageable. I took a couple of turns pulling everyone in the paceline, just to share the burden, but tried not to overdo it. Most of the time, the leader of our pack was a dark haired fellow around my age, who wore a nice light blue Rapha jersey. He later introduced himself as Patrick and asked if I was Cris. I said that I was and wondered how he guessed. He said that knew Mike, whom I had seen since the 2006 600k. This world is still a small place.
Mike and I had maintained an online correspondence since we parted ways in Sandgate on the fateful middle night of the 600k. He had to take some time off, to raise a family and sort out his goals with his bike, while I kept going. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if he finished with me, and I was glad to see that he was still keeping at it. I knew that he had done a fleche earlier that year and that Patrick was on his team, I asked them about how that ride went and we chatted about riding our bikes through the gauntlet that is the New England spring.
The company was a good way to get the rest of the miles to pass rather quickly, but it wouldn't last as we arrived at a fork and couldn't agree on which turn we had to make. A few of the guys went left, and I went right. I had chosen poorly and realized my mistake about a mile down the road, but by the time I had turned around and retraced my steps, the others had left me behind.
This wasn't terrible, as I reminded myself that I needed to focus on riding solo anyway. I crossed the Hudson at Mechanicsville, stopping briefly for an orange soda at a Stewart's before continuing on to the old revolutionary war battleground of Saratoga and then the short, steep descent into Saratoga Springs. The approach to the town of Saratoga Springs is also rather picturesque, with Saratoga Lake scrolling by on the left, followed by the stately 19th century grandeur of the Saratoga Racetrack. Past this, it's quick tour through downtown Saratoga before stopping at a bike shop just outside the town center.
Ferdinand, Patrick and a few others were still here, and seemed to imply that they'd wait for me if I could hurry. I told them that I appreciated the company, but I needed to change my bandage and my first aid kit was out of surgical pads, so I needed to find a CVS and restock on medical supplies. I chatted briefly with Wayne, who had been notified by Don to expect me, though I told him that I wouldn't need a ride back as I was fine for finishing on my own. This was all for the best, as he was already giving a ride to another rider who had broken a spoke on a fancy racing wheel that couldn't be field repaired.
With that, I meandered back into Saratoga and stopped by the farmer's market, picking up some bread, cheese and apples to have for lunch. I stopped at an old pharmacy to pick up some gauze pads, and changed my dressing while sitting on the curb as some families walked by, enjoying their weekend. It was turning out to be a rather nice day and I was glad that Don talked me into pressing on.
In due time, I set out, but had to stop at another Stewart's when I realized that I had forgotten to refill on water. While stopped, a husband and wife couple had asked me about my bike and the lights on it.
"Oh yeah, I need those for riding late at night. Like this morning, I just started on this ride from Westfield."
"Westfield? Where's that?"
"In Massachusetts. About 120 miles from here."
"Oh ... so are you stopping here then?"
"No. Riding back. Hoping to finish tonight."
"Oh ... well, I guess our little 15 mile ride around the lake doesn't seem like a big deal, then."
"You know, I still remember the first time that I rode 15 miles anywhere and how far that felt. We've all got our own accomplishments that we can feel proud about."
We talked a little more with them asking me, like everyone else trying to make sense of this weird hobby, why we do these things and put ourselves through such trials. I've long since given up on trying to justify the specific obsession, but I try to, at least, highlight some of the more common virtues -- of non-competitiveness and challenging one's self and self-reliance -- that are exercised by the sport and at least hint that one can aspire to such goals without riding 250 miles. Though, perhaps, it does help.
From Saratoga Springs, it was a quiet, solitary ride back to Sand Lake and Stephenstown. As I returned to Mechanicsville, I rode past a fundraiser cookout for the local library, and not one to pass up a chance to support a library, especially if there are tasty hamburgers and hot dogs involved, I turned around and stopped briefly. The sausages were served by twelve year olds who kept on dropping Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles references to each other and looked at me like I was a hopelessly out-of-it adult. I was more surprised that TMNT still had any sort of currency in the youth of today. I just thanked them for my hot dog and kept going.
At Stephenstown, I stopped at the same grocery where I had dined three years ago, and had the same dinner of a bowl of chili and half of an Italian cold cut sub, which I remembered as being excellent fuel for the climb over Jiminy Peak. Sometimes, past performance does predict future returns. I managed to climb ably over Brodie Mountain Road, and had a nice speedy return into Massachusetts, crossing back through the Berkshires and Pittsfield while the sun had begun to set.
It was probably six or seven in the evening when I had started on Jacob's Ladder, and I knew that I was running out of daylight. Luckily, I managed to get through all of the really steep and fast descents while there was still some light to navigate by, and by the time night had plunged over us, the only segment that I had left to complete was the flat and pothole ridden section along Rt 20.
Fortunately, there would be no mishaps with oncoming cars on this time around, and I managed to get back to Westfield in a little more than 21 hours, setting a new personal best for that distance. If not for the crash, I might've come in at around 20 hours, which would have been fantastic, but 21 hours wasn't bad either. That gave me some reassurance that I could handle the 1000k with time to spare, and even opened up the tantalising possibility of being able to do the ride with 6 hours of sleep on each night. Two full nights' sleep on a 1000k! Such luxurious temptation. We'll have to wait and see if that's reasonable expectation; but for now, despite the ignominous start (or perhaps because of it), I was feeling good for my chances and optimistic about finishing.