given enough time and distance, everything breaks down
Last year, I volunteered to help with managing a 300k brevet and spent a bit of time on a beautiful May day with Chuck, another randonneur who was organizing the 300k and brimming with ideas for the club. I had a great time volunteering and thought to myself that if Chuck kept on organizing brevets, I wouldn't mind being his volunteer. Then Chuck passed away on the Shenandoah 1200 and that sort of put paid to that particular dream. When the club was drafting up its 2011 schedule, a call had gone out for organizers and nobody picked up the 400k. I was hesitant, the job was busy ... the job was always busy and I wasn't sure if I could juggle the logistics. But then, I thought of Chuck and decided, after a week had passed without anyone picking up the 400, to step forward and say that I'd run it.
One of the duties of the ride organizer is to go out and scout the route and verify that the directions on the cue sheet were still accurate. Roads may be closed for repaving. Bridges may be shut down. Street signs may vanish. It is nominally acceptable to do this in a car, but a lot of folks just do it on their bike, because that's just the way of things. I opted to do the pre-ride last Saturday, and while the logistics of a pre-ride aren't much different from a normal brevet1 there is a different vibe when one sets out. Nobody is waiting for you out there. Nobody is keeping regular track on your progress. You can just disappear into the night.
I left the house a little after two in the morning. silentq was at a party when I left, and as I rode out on the quiet streets of Belmont towards Bedford, I was passed by the occasional car crammed with partygoers on a Friday night. Music was blaring out of one apartment complex on the Belmont\Waltham border and I thought to myself, not for the first time, why I was out here instead of someplace like in there. Somewhere around Lexington, a cab full of Bentley students asked me for directions back to their campus.
I arrived at Hanscom a little past 3, and if I were doing this 'officially' I'd wait until 4 to make sure that my time was accurate, but I wasn't planning on submitting this ride for credit. I just wanted to get the training, so I pressed on, into the dark, empty roads of Concord. Normally, when I do these rides, I'm in a pack of twenty or thirty other riders, and the trees and asphalt are lit up by our headlights, our shadows and silhouettes dancing before us. It's an entirely different experience to be on these roads alone. My earlier reluctance to start this ride had faded, as it usually does after I get to Bedford. My mind despairs when I get up and wonder why I keep signing up for this sort of thing, but by the time I get to Hanscom, I'm committed to it. The bed is too far away.
The roads stayed quiet until 4 or so, when I'd be passed by pickups and sedans bearing one passenger. The drunks were in bed, but early shift workers were getting up. One of them drops their highbeams as they approach, then the flick them back on as if they just wanted to be sure that they were seeing what they were seeing, then they drop the beams again after they confirm that I am not a dream.
There was a light below the horizon as I crossed the New Hampshire border and I rolled past quiet, pastoral farmhouses and apple orchards studded with the leaves of spring. Waking birds started to sing and their voices are not yet drowned out by traffic. I had hit the first big climb, the 5 mile grind up by New Boston and Mont Vernon, and it felt good, leaving my legs with a nice warmup. The sun had risen now and the streets were bathed in a nice golden light. I glided into the first checkpoint, 49 miles into the ride, 62 miles from my door and I sat on the porch of a country store, eating a breakfast sandwich and sipping on coffee. I texted silentq to let her know that I was doing ok. I thought about calling ahead to the Meredith and Hillsborough checkpoints, both at houses owned by friends of the club, to let them know that I was coming, but 7 am seemed a little early to call people on a Saturday morning.
The next stretch from New Boston to Lake Winnipesaukee started off nicely, following a few miles along the banks of a small stream. Fishermen were out and I was passed by a father and son in a pickup truck with mountain bikes stashed in the bed. Eventually, I climbed out of this river valley skirted the eastern borders of Concord, NH then continued north, alternating between quiet backroads and more congested numbered highways. I arrived at Canterybury Shaker Village near mid-morning. A museum village situated on a hill with a commanding view of the countryside, the Shaker Village cue tends to inspire a bit of trepidation for some of us who've been on the 400 before, since it's more associated with a steep, nearly endless climb rather than a quaint bit of history, but the road leading to the village was mellow and the view was rather lovely, so that distracted me somewhat from the fact that I was now well past 100 miles from my door and starting to get tired.
I stopped in Belmont, NH for a bit of lunch. Ordering a turkey sandwich was probably the first conversation that I've had since the previous night. From here it was a 12 mile stretch on a small highway. The flanks of Mount Cardigan and Mount Kearsarge were visible to the west, as were dark storm clouds. Forecasts had been for a 30% chance of thunderstorms, the randonneurs' conversion of which is: expect to get rain on 30% of the route.
The storm caught me on the third leg, starting with a sprinkle that turned into a torrent. I didn't stop to put on any rain layers, reasoning that the storm was headed east and I was heading south, so I'd just ride out of it. The rain was somewhat cold and after a few minutes of it, I felt somewhat foolish for not taking precautions. The climbing had gotten tougher again and my fatigue, combined with being cold and wet wasn't doing any favors for my attitude.
Part of me was thinking that, if the purpose for this pre-ride was to just check the cues, then I was well within my rights to hole up somewhere, call silentq and have her meet me with the car, then we'd drive the rest of the route. I was well past 150 miles so far, and most of the 'physical' benefits of training today had been gained. This was just pointless.
But, another part still reminded me that I said that I'd pre-ride the route and that part of mental training meant sticking with the plan, even when it wasn't being fun currently. Find something else to enjoy. Give yourself another reason to keep going another ten miles. Then find another reason after that.
"Besides," the stick-with-it part said, "your phone's dead."
Well, not really, but the phone was on the dregs of its battery and I had switched it off just to conserve it for when I really needed it. This little crisis of faith didn't really constitute an emergency, and if I did use it to call for a ride, I would've needed to keep it on in case my ride got lost trying to find me, and the battery wasn't strong enough for that. So, like many randonneurs who say that having support increases your likelihood of DNF'ing, I kept going because I convinced myself that I had no other choice.
The rain cleared up after I got to Franklin, but then picked up thirty miles later after I got to Henniker. This time, I stopped and put on a rain jacket, and while stopped called Peter White, who was offering his house as our third control. Peter's been a bit of an institution in the local scene, being the main importer for many bits of hyperspecialized bike gear for many years now.
He was waiting for me as I arrived, and over a bowl of warm split pea soup in his kitchen we talked about rides and logistics and lights. Peter likes to talk about lights, not just because he knows a lot but also because he's curious about how everyone uses theirs. I used to have a taillight mounted on the rear fender of my bike, but at some point last summer, a crack had developed in the fender. That crack spread and eventually the section holding the light snapped off completely.
"Yeah," he said, "you can expect that to happen with the sort of miles you guys do."
"With the sort of miles we do, Peter," I replied, "everything breaks down."
We are each an individual example of managed entropy.
I mentioned offhand that the spade connectors for my generator lights were getting loose after one too many incidents of disconnecting them to take care of a flat tire, and that I was thinking to buy a pair from him so that I could replace them when I got home. He did me one better and just did the replacement right in his workshop.
I left the Whites in twilight and it was full dark as I neared the New Hampshire border, crossing the dark desolation of Crotched Mountain and the emptiness of the Second New Hampshire turnpike. I was pretty slow on this segment, both from fatigue and from darkness, but eventually I made it back to the Massachusetts state line, where the ride would just rewind from its earlier start, and I thought about how the roads were as dark as they were when I had set out, nearly 24 hours ago, but they looked different after being so tired.
I've been doing these rides for 5 years now. Like these roads, the rides look different now than they did when I was just starting. In that time, I've had some amazing experiences. The PBP and the VanIsle 1000 were grand adventures, different in their own way. This sort of ride, without support or company or even any official record, was its own challenge, and had lessons to be gained from that challenge. I believe that the day that I feel like I've nothing to learn from these rides is the day that I'll stop. I don't know what day that will be.
1you know, tools for repairs, lights when the ride is +12 hours, extra layers for the weather, food, first aid kit ... if you aren't in the habit of bringing a pen on a ride, you might want to do that, but I always bring a pen so, yeah ...
One of the duties of the ride organizer is to go out and scout the route and verify that the directions on the cue sheet were still accurate. Roads may be closed for repaving. Bridges may be shut down. Street signs may vanish. It is nominally acceptable to do this in a car, but a lot of folks just do it on their bike, because that's just the way of things. I opted to do the pre-ride last Saturday, and while the logistics of a pre-ride aren't much different from a normal brevet1 there is a different vibe when one sets out. Nobody is waiting for you out there. Nobody is keeping regular track on your progress. You can just disappear into the night.
I left the house a little after two in the morning. silentq was at a party when I left, and as I rode out on the quiet streets of Belmont towards Bedford, I was passed by the occasional car crammed with partygoers on a Friday night. Music was blaring out of one apartment complex on the Belmont\Waltham border and I thought to myself, not for the first time, why I was out here instead of someplace like in there. Somewhere around Lexington, a cab full of Bentley students asked me for directions back to their campus.
I arrived at Hanscom a little past 3, and if I were doing this 'officially' I'd wait until 4 to make sure that my time was accurate, but I wasn't planning on submitting this ride for credit. I just wanted to get the training, so I pressed on, into the dark, empty roads of Concord. Normally, when I do these rides, I'm in a pack of twenty or thirty other riders, and the trees and asphalt are lit up by our headlights, our shadows and silhouettes dancing before us. It's an entirely different experience to be on these roads alone. My earlier reluctance to start this ride had faded, as it usually does after I get to Bedford. My mind despairs when I get up and wonder why I keep signing up for this sort of thing, but by the time I get to Hanscom, I'm committed to it. The bed is too far away.
The roads stayed quiet until 4 or so, when I'd be passed by pickups and sedans bearing one passenger. The drunks were in bed, but early shift workers were getting up. One of them drops their highbeams as they approach, then the flick them back on as if they just wanted to be sure that they were seeing what they were seeing, then they drop the beams again after they confirm that I am not a dream.
There was a light below the horizon as I crossed the New Hampshire border and I rolled past quiet, pastoral farmhouses and apple orchards studded with the leaves of spring. Waking birds started to sing and their voices are not yet drowned out by traffic. I had hit the first big climb, the 5 mile grind up by New Boston and Mont Vernon, and it felt good, leaving my legs with a nice warmup. The sun had risen now and the streets were bathed in a nice golden light. I glided into the first checkpoint, 49 miles into the ride, 62 miles from my door and I sat on the porch of a country store, eating a breakfast sandwich and sipping on coffee. I texted silentq to let her know that I was doing ok. I thought about calling ahead to the Meredith and Hillsborough checkpoints, both at houses owned by friends of the club, to let them know that I was coming, but 7 am seemed a little early to call people on a Saturday morning.
The next stretch from New Boston to Lake Winnipesaukee started off nicely, following a few miles along the banks of a small stream. Fishermen were out and I was passed by a father and son in a pickup truck with mountain bikes stashed in the bed. Eventually, I climbed out of this river valley skirted the eastern borders of Concord, NH then continued north, alternating between quiet backroads and more congested numbered highways. I arrived at Canterybury Shaker Village near mid-morning. A museum village situated on a hill with a commanding view of the countryside, the Shaker Village cue tends to inspire a bit of trepidation for some of us who've been on the 400 before, since it's more associated with a steep, nearly endless climb rather than a quaint bit of history, but the road leading to the village was mellow and the view was rather lovely, so that distracted me somewhat from the fact that I was now well past 100 miles from my door and starting to get tired.
I stopped in Belmont, NH for a bit of lunch. Ordering a turkey sandwich was probably the first conversation that I've had since the previous night. From here it was a 12 mile stretch on a small highway. The flanks of Mount Cardigan and Mount Kearsarge were visible to the west, as were dark storm clouds. Forecasts had been for a 30% chance of thunderstorms, the randonneurs' conversion of which is: expect to get rain on 30% of the route.
The storm caught me on the third leg, starting with a sprinkle that turned into a torrent. I didn't stop to put on any rain layers, reasoning that the storm was headed east and I was heading south, so I'd just ride out of it. The rain was somewhat cold and after a few minutes of it, I felt somewhat foolish for not taking precautions. The climbing had gotten tougher again and my fatigue, combined with being cold and wet wasn't doing any favors for my attitude.
Part of me was thinking that, if the purpose for this pre-ride was to just check the cues, then I was well within my rights to hole up somewhere, call silentq and have her meet me with the car, then we'd drive the rest of the route. I was well past 150 miles so far, and most of the 'physical' benefits of training today had been gained. This was just pointless.
But, another part still reminded me that I said that I'd pre-ride the route and that part of mental training meant sticking with the plan, even when it wasn't being fun currently. Find something else to enjoy. Give yourself another reason to keep going another ten miles. Then find another reason after that.
"Besides," the stick-with-it part said, "your phone's dead."
Well, not really, but the phone was on the dregs of its battery and I had switched it off just to conserve it for when I really needed it. This little crisis of faith didn't really constitute an emergency, and if I did use it to call for a ride, I would've needed to keep it on in case my ride got lost trying to find me, and the battery wasn't strong enough for that. So, like many randonneurs who say that having support increases your likelihood of DNF'ing, I kept going because I convinced myself that I had no other choice.
The rain cleared up after I got to Franklin, but then picked up thirty miles later after I got to Henniker. This time, I stopped and put on a rain jacket, and while stopped called Peter White, who was offering his house as our third control. Peter's been a bit of an institution in the local scene, being the main importer for many bits of hyperspecialized bike gear for many years now.
He was waiting for me as I arrived, and over a bowl of warm split pea soup in his kitchen we talked about rides and logistics and lights. Peter likes to talk about lights, not just because he knows a lot but also because he's curious about how everyone uses theirs. I used to have a taillight mounted on the rear fender of my bike, but at some point last summer, a crack had developed in the fender. That crack spread and eventually the section holding the light snapped off completely.
"Yeah," he said, "you can expect that to happen with the sort of miles you guys do."
"With the sort of miles we do, Peter," I replied, "everything breaks down."
We are each an individual example of managed entropy.
I mentioned offhand that the spade connectors for my generator lights were getting loose after one too many incidents of disconnecting them to take care of a flat tire, and that I was thinking to buy a pair from him so that I could replace them when I got home. He did me one better and just did the replacement right in his workshop.
I left the Whites in twilight and it was full dark as I neared the New Hampshire border, crossing the dark desolation of Crotched Mountain and the emptiness of the Second New Hampshire turnpike. I was pretty slow on this segment, both from fatigue and from darkness, but eventually I made it back to the Massachusetts state line, where the ride would just rewind from its earlier start, and I thought about how the roads were as dark as they were when I had set out, nearly 24 hours ago, but they looked different after being so tired.
I've been doing these rides for 5 years now. Like these roads, the rides look different now than they did when I was just starting. In that time, I've had some amazing experiences. The PBP and the VanIsle 1000 were grand adventures, different in their own way. This sort of ride, without support or company or even any official record, was its own challenge, and had lessons to be gained from that challenge. I believe that the day that I feel like I've nothing to learn from these rides is the day that I'll stop. I don't know what day that will be.
1you know, tools for repairs, lights when the ride is +12 hours, extra layers for the weather, food, first aid kit ... if you aren't in the habit of bringing a pen on a ride, you might want to do that, but I always bring a pen so, yeah ...