on doubt, despair and the way the world should be -- The Berkshire 400K
(Note: this is for a ride I completed last month. I'm still in the middle of catching up on posting ride reports. A report for the 600 will be up later this week, I hope)
When I was in high school, I dreaded the autumn season less for the return of classes and more for the return of rugby practice. A summer of physical idleness, spent either in books or science camp, didn't do much for my fitness, and I suffered through those first few weeks of sprints, tackling drills and scrimmages. I was sore, sore, sore. I remember one particular morning, hobbling downstairs to the dining hall like a leper whose entire leg was about to fall off, I caught the eye of one of the housemasters; who just took in my pained posture and said, "Take heart, Cris. Your muscles are in pain because they've been torn up with all of that exercise. That allows them to grow denser and stronger than ever before."
I'm pretty sure that line was bullshit, but I was tempted to believe him when I got back on my bike, two days after the 300K and wound up riding to work ten minutes faster than usual. It usually takes me an hour to ride the 14-odd miles to work, and now I was getting there in 50 minutes. Even on the days when I made life hard for myself and went out of my way to do all of the hills between home and office, it all came faster and easier. It was like I went to bed and woke up with new bionic legs.
It was that sense of progress that gave me confidence with the 400K. This time, the ride was going to be in Westfield, in the heart of the Berkshires, and I wound up taking the day off work to take the train out there. I arrived in Springfield, MA at 1pm, rode 8 miles to the neighboring town of Westfield, checked into my motel by 3pm and met Chris, another randonneur from upstate New York, who was staying in the motel room two doors down from me.
He was a middle-aged fellow riding a classy Rivendell Rambouillet tricked out with the standard randonneur gear: lights powered by a dynamo attached to the front hub (so you don't have to worry about batteries), Carradice seatbag for holding all of your gear, GPS system for accurate route mapping. We talked briefly and he mentioned how this was his second attempt at completing a brevet series. He had digestion issues last year and had to abandon his 400 prematurely. While we could've probably talked a while longer, we both realized that we needed our rest, and we both tried to figure out polite ways to end our conversation, but pretty much just said, "so ... yeah ... 1AM start." "yeah, seriously." and went into our rooms and just crashed out. It's nice when a common acceptance of the conditions allows you to cut past social niceties.
I woke up at midnight, to the sound of rain pittering against my window. I looked out and saw that, yes indeed, it was raining. I turned on the TV as I got ready and saw that the forecast was for a day of rain and cold temperatures. I zipped up my jacket, checked my lights again, and told myself that this was better than scorching humidity. Once more unto the breach.
I arrived fifteen minutes before the start, got myself checked in, grabbed a copy of the cue sheets, and sort of shuffled about uncomfortably amongst the other randonneurs. There were roughly thirty of us and most of them were catching up with each other, swapping notes about the season thus far, being chums; all friends it seemed and I was the stranger in their midst. The non-competitive nature of randoneering makes it a welcome change from the normally cutthroat world of bike racing, but I still hadn't figured out the social rules of this crew. So, instead I fussed with my bike.
My saddle was showing its deficiencies over these long rides (it's significant that one of the more popular thread on the randonneuring mailing list discusses 'butt chafage') and I started to adjust the saddle angle to see if a higher angle would allow me to center more of my weight on my pelvis. And then Don Podolski, the volunteer ride coordinator, sent us on our way.
I hurried to tighten the bolt that fixed my saddle to my bike, jumped on and tried to catch up with the peloton. The ride was 20 miles of flatness before the first big climb out of the Pioneer Valley, and I hoped to use the paceline for a quick speed boost before the hills broke us up. I found, right off the start, that my headlamp wasn't working. It had been flaky for the past couple of weeks, with a crimped cable that only worked if it was bent in a certain way. I had jury-rigged a fastener with a couple of twist-ties that sort of held the cable together, but it had a habit of undoing itself when stressed. I also realized right away that my new angle on the saddle was wrong. Too steep, too low in the back. I felt like I was constantly in danger of sliding off, and while a part of me wanted to get off immediately and fix the problem, another part, a part that was obviously insane, thought that I could make it to the first checkpoint, 30 miles away, and adjust my bike there. I eventually put that thought aside and resolved to fix this as soon as possible, but had a problem in that we were riding on Rt. 20, a four-lane state highway that was poorly lit and, even at 1AM, relatively busy. Stopping would've meant working on this bike on a highway shoulder, in pitch darkness with a flaky headlamp in the rain.
Eventually, we rode past a 24 hour Cumberland Farms store, and I pulled off the paceline and, under the flourescents of the filling station, re-adjusted my saddle back to level. I couldn't figure out how to fix the light, though, and as I watched other riders pass me, the lamps on their bike shining into the darkness, I realized that I had to get on the road now or miss the ride altogether.
As I rode through that wet night, alone save for the red LEDs of a trio of cyclists a hundred metres ahead, the demons of doubt and despair started to creep into my mind. The equipment issues had dampened my initial enthusiasm for this event, making me dwell on my lack of preparation and my rookie inexperience. If I was having this many problems now, how would the rest of the day turn out? Why was I doing this? To what purpose? How far had I gone from the motel? How easy would it be to turn around now? Oh my god, why am I doing this?
Yet, I pedaled on, trying to catch up to the trio or at least keep them in sight. Without a working headlight, I couldn't read the directions on my cue sheet, and I could easily get lost if left on my own. So, I tried to keep up, my spirit lifting when I thought they looked closer, or dampening when I thought that they were pulling away.
I lost them as we rode through the town of Becket and began the 1200 ft. climb out of the Pioneer Valley. They vanished over the crest of a short hill, and as I climbed over the rise, they were gone. Now, utterly alone, in the rain, slogging up the side of a mountain in the dark, I really started to think about dropping the ride. My brain kept on reminding me that it would be easier to quit now, because quitting later meant that I'd have to climb back over this mountain to get to the motel. Maybe I was lost, taken the wrong turn because I couldn't read my sheet, and I was climbing up the wrong mountain. I turned my head back, and I could see the diffuse glow of a cyclist's headlamp somewhere behind me, and that was somewhat reassuring. He probably knew where he was going, and if he was behind me, that probably meant that I was ok or that we were both screwed. I convinced myself to forestall any decision on abandoning until after I got to the first checkpoint.
The cyclist behind me eventually caught up and rode with me for a part of the segment. He had done the ride before and given some quick advice. It was an 'out-and-back', basically going from Westfield to Saratoga Springs, with the second half being an almost exact mirror of the first. Most of the big climbs were near Westfield and before the second checkpoint, but the middle section was pretty flat. Conserve your energy in the middle, and spend it in the end.
We rolled into the first checkpoint together, and I stocked up on fig newtons, bananas and Gatorade while listening to the chatter. One of the riders had been pulled over by a cop who had been notified about "suspicious activities". I imagine that a nocturnal train of 30 cyclists, twinkling in red and yellow gear, would be an odd sight anywhere. I twiddled with my headlamp again and this time got it to work, shining it brightly by accident into the face of Don Podolski and blinding him temporarily. I was sorry but also ecstatic. The lamp was working! I could see. Suddenly everything seemed to be much better, and I went forth once more into the darkness, ready for whatever.
Ironically, while the halogen headlamp was more powerful than the dinky LED that I had installed on my bike, it was useless in the rain, as the droplets tended to reflect the light back into my face, so I only used the lamp when I needed to read the directions; but that didn't bother me. I had food. I had working equipment, and in the distance the western sky was starting to brighten. I almost forgot that it was raining.
Evntually, I caught up with another rider, a fellow named Anish, riding an orange Independent Fabrications Club Racer, a bike that almost seems custom designed for randoneering. He was another veteran of the series, a fellow who had done brevets before but still hadn't qualified for a super randonee. In order to qualify for rides like Paris-Brest-Paris or Boston-Montreal-Boston, one has to complete a 200km, 300km, 400km and 600km ride all within the same calendar year. As I talked to other riders, I was starting to run into a lot of people who had a 200 and 300 under their belt, but could not finish a 400 or 600 yet. A bad bit of indigestion, unexpected mechanical problems or just general bad luck could just kill your ride; and rookies completing a full qualification series in their first year seemed to be more the exception than the rule.
Anish had to bail on his 600 last year due to sickness, and was aiming to qualify for Boston-Montreal-Boston this year. His pace seemed to match mine, so we wound up riding together; chatting about bicycles, immigration and the steep standard of living in Massachusetts. The conversation made the miles disappear, and the next thing I knew, we had climbed over Jiminy Peak and entered upstate New York. After a brief stretch of rolling hills, we were at the second checkpoint, a gas station outside Sand Lake, NY.
Since brevets are volunteer-run events, a lot of the smaller operations use "unmanned checkpoints" where you're supposed to either get a timestamped receipt or have a cashier sign your brevet card to prove that you were following the route and arrived within a certain time window. You bought whatever food and water you needed. Compared to the AIDSride and MSrides, where there were rest stops at 12 or 15 mile intervals fully stocked with free water, Gatorade, food and ibuprofen, the 40 mile brevet checkpoints were only a step away from foraging for twigs and berries. We stopped long enough to buy a gallon of water and some chips, refill our water bottles and set off once more before we got too chilly. I tried to call silentq to let her know that I was ok, but couldn't get signal. It was still raining.
The segment from Sand Lake to Saratoga Spring was gentle and gorgeous. We rode past forests in the Finger Lakes, where the combination of lush, verdant forestry and calm water made me briefly homesick for British Columbia. I was still feeling rather good; having learned from my lessons on the 300k about eating properly and watching my pace. I had learned to listen to my body, and knew that it sent certain signals when it needed calories, water or sodium. So, I was eating regularly, relying more on Clif Shots and other energy gels for a quick influx of carbohydrates that I could use over long segments of the ride. It was almost frightening how effective these substances were. littleayun used to describe Clif Shots as Clif Bars transmuted into liquid form so that you wouldn't have to spend precious calories on actually chewing the things. I started thinking of them like videogame power ups, because there's a certain point where one's body and metabolism is processing calories so efficiently that you can literally feel your body getting boosted with each packet that you'd ingest.
Unfortunately, I only had four Clif Shots on me, and had been hoping to get more from Don's shop, but he didn't stock any of the gels. So I was rationing the shots, and relying on a few Clif bars and convenience store fruit for the rest of my energy. That strategy worked up to the halfway point, then I ran out of food.
As scary as it is to experience the near immediate rush of energy that comes with ingesting a Clif Shot, it is nearly equally frightening to feel your body crash when you've suddenly exhausted all of your calorie reserves. I ran out about five miles from the midway point at Saratoga Springs. Anish and I were riding along a gorgeous lake that we had to circumavigate to get into Saratoga. There was a headwind and suddenly all of the strength just left my legs. Every mile was a struggle and every slight incline was an epic hill. I slowly watched Anish pull further and further away while I struggled behind him. I saw him pass a green ligtht and climb this short incline leading up to Saratoga. The light turned red as I got up to it. I unclipped and almost fell over as my leg gave out, feeling just as weak as it did on the 300K a week ago, except this time I wasn't 30 miles from the finish; I was only halfway. I dismounted from my bike and sat on the guardrail next to the highway. I watched the cars roll past me, took another swig of water, then walked my bike across the intersection and remounted it for the final approach to Saratoga. Anish was waiting for me at the top of the climb and he said that he was about to trying to figure out how to turn around in the middle of this highway so he could check on me. It was a small gesture, but it had once again made me grateful for his company.
We rode into Saratoga Springs together and checked in at the third control, which was a bike shop that was fortunately stocking Clif bars and energy gels. I replenished my stores, then rolled into the center of Saratoga to spend an hour in the Putnam Farm Deli, a generally well-to-do sandwich eatery in the middle of this resort town, eating lunch and taking time to replenish our energy reserves. Karl, an acerbic but entertaining German randonneur joined us a little later, complaining about the rain and wolfing down his soup before realizing that this wasn't the checkpoint and that he needed to go on a little further before getting signed in. I tried to call silentq again but when I took out the ziploc bag that had my phone, I realized that I hadn't closed it all the way, and now my phone was swimming in a small puddle of water. Ah well, that was one mechanical problem that I could live with for now.
We had a tailwind on the way back, and it made most of the segment to the next checkpoint a pleasure to ride through. We followed the Hudson before returning past the Tomhannock Reservoir, enjoying New York at its most scenic. At some point outside Mechanicville we were passed by a road cyclist obviously out on a fast weekend ride; his relative dryness an obvious sign of how recently he had gotten on the road. As we watched him vanish, Anish shouted up to me, "I want to see him do that with 150 miles on his legs."
As we returned to Sand Lake, we caught up with Dave Cramer, another second year rider who was still trying to get a 600k under his belt. We rode together for a bit until the rolling hills before Stephentown started to creep up ahead of us; and we wound up leaving Dave behind on one of the monster descents that had my bike screaming downhill at 50 mph. While I can never see myself owning and maintaining a motorcycle, I don't think I'll ever get tired of the feeling of riding my bike on a 50 mph descent, gliding like a bird on smooth tarmac between heaven and earth.
Eventually, we rode into a mom-and-pop grocery store that served as our last checkpoint before the finish. It was roughly seven in the evening, and the grocery would also serve as a dinner stop. We had been on the road for 18 hours at this point, and my body was starting to tire of the high-carb, high-sugar diet of energy gels and Clif bars. I was craving protein more than anything else, and ravenously tore into into a bowl of chili and half of an Italian cold cut sub. The store was managed by a really friendly couple who clearly weren't used to having people eat in their store, but tried their best to accomodate us by providing spare milk crates to use as stools and tables. Dave had caught up with us, and a little later on, we met up with Chris, the middle aged randonneur that I had seen at the motel, and another older fellow, John. We left the checkpoint a few minutes apart as we each finished our dinners and wanted to get in as many miles as possible while there was still daylight.
We climbed Jiminy Peak again and re-entered Massachusetts, then Anish and I stopped briefly to reinstall our night riding gear. My headlamp wasn't working again, but rather than mess with it any longer, I relied on my memory being reliable enough to navigate this section in reverse. We continued on as the darkness began to descend once more. Eventually Anish, Dave, Chris, John and I formed up into an impromptu paceline, with John leading the way initially. Then, I took over as he started to tire.
It was an hour after dinner, and the protein in the chili had metabolised, and I suddenly felt like I had new legs again. I tucked in to the narrowest, most aerodynamic position that I could maintain and just pulled everyone in on the last 30 miles to Westfield, cruising up the monster climb into the Pioneer, then flying down the dark slope that I had contemplated abandoning twenty hours ago. By this point, sleep deprivation was starting to catch up to me, and I found myself nodding off as we descended into Becket. My fatigued brain remembered a bit of advice that Anish had given me earlier: that the best way to keep sleepiness at bay was to eat and keep your core temperature up. If you are warm and you have calories, staying awake becomes much easier. Unfortunately, my food was in my back pockets and I didn't feel confident enough to take my hands off my handlebars while flying down the side of this mountain, and the only way that I could get warmer was to start pedaling again and bring my heart rate up. Essentially, I had to accelerate on a night-time descent, where I could only see about fifty feet ahead or fall asleep and crash. So I sped up, and I wasn't sure if the higher body temperature or the additional boost of adrenaline did the trick, but I chased the sleepiness away and continued to lead the rest of our quintet into the finish.
The batteries on my front light were pretty much all of out juice, by this point, and I let John ride up next to me so that his paired dynamo lights could illuminate the rest of the way for us. We were back on Rt. 20, but this side was badly maintained and had turned into an obstacle course of bumps, loose gravel and potholes. Typically, in a peloton, you develop an etiquette were lead riders will point out road hazards and yell it out for the benefit of everyone else behind them. I had my right arm almost permanently stretched out as I called out a constant litany "Pothole, right! Pothole, left! Fissure, right! Hole, right!" before finally giving up and yelling in an exasperated, "You get the point, everyone. Sucky ass road, right left and ahead for forseeable future. Best back off from me and take your chances."
Our conversation was pretty much over at this point, as we were reduced to random expressions of pain, surprise and profanity as we were mauled by the Berkshire roads. I was relying on the headlights of the other riders to point out the hazards, but they had pulled back in order to manuever better, so I gave up hope on avoiding the worst of the bunch and just rode in a semi-standing position for the last 10 miles. At some point, I started looking at the shadows that we were casting on the road and realized that there were only three of us where there had been originally five.
"Hey, who did we lose?"
"I think Dave and Chris fell behind on the last big climb."
"Dammit... do you think they're ok?"
"I think so. They weren't saying anything."
I was conflicted, as we were only five or ten miles from the end, and I wanted to finish; but I felt bad for losing the guys, and they were probably doing ok. We chose to finish and then ride back if we didn't see them catch up to us. The finish checkpoint was Don's shop in Westfield, but since it was a little past midnight, we were instructed to ride on to the 24 hour Mobil Mart / Dunkin Donuts at the end of the road and have the cashier sign our brevet cards. The shop was manned by three guys, and the cashier happily signed our cards but also asked us what were doing that had us riding bicycles in the middle of the night. So we briefly gave the little background explanation about randonneuring and how it was essentially amature, non-competitive endurance cycling.
"So, do you guys have rankings or anything?"
"Nah, it's totally non-competitive. Everyone helps each other out, gives each other advice. Finishing first isn't important. It's good to just finish."
"So, it's like totally cooperative?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"Rock on, man! That's the way life should be. None of this dog-eat-dog business. People helping each other out, being kind to each other. That's the way it's meant to be."
"Totally. So do you want to give it a try?"
"No way, man! I'm not as crazy as you guys are."
I asked for an Apple Spice donut,and the guy gave me one but wouldn't take my money. Dave had rolled up a few minutes later, and Chris was right behind him. We made our good byes, I borrowed John's phone to call silentq who sounded utterly relieved and utterly drunk as she was at VI at the time. Then I pedaled the mile back to the motel, had the warmest, most amazing shower of my life, then ate the leftover Italian sub while stretching out my sore muscles, trying to imagine the torn up muscle fibers re-growing with new density and strength. I still thought that line was bullshit, but it was nice to try and believe in it anyway.
When I was in high school, I dreaded the autumn season less for the return of classes and more for the return of rugby practice. A summer of physical idleness, spent either in books or science camp, didn't do much for my fitness, and I suffered through those first few weeks of sprints, tackling drills and scrimmages. I was sore, sore, sore. I remember one particular morning, hobbling downstairs to the dining hall like a leper whose entire leg was about to fall off, I caught the eye of one of the housemasters; who just took in my pained posture and said, "Take heart, Cris. Your muscles are in pain because they've been torn up with all of that exercise. That allows them to grow denser and stronger than ever before."
I'm pretty sure that line was bullshit, but I was tempted to believe him when I got back on my bike, two days after the 300K and wound up riding to work ten minutes faster than usual. It usually takes me an hour to ride the 14-odd miles to work, and now I was getting there in 50 minutes. Even on the days when I made life hard for myself and went out of my way to do all of the hills between home and office, it all came faster and easier. It was like I went to bed and woke up with new bionic legs.
It was that sense of progress that gave me confidence with the 400K. This time, the ride was going to be in Westfield, in the heart of the Berkshires, and I wound up taking the day off work to take the train out there. I arrived in Springfield, MA at 1pm, rode 8 miles to the neighboring town of Westfield, checked into my motel by 3pm and met Chris, another randonneur from upstate New York, who was staying in the motel room two doors down from me.
He was a middle-aged fellow riding a classy Rivendell Rambouillet tricked out with the standard randonneur gear: lights powered by a dynamo attached to the front hub (so you don't have to worry about batteries), Carradice seatbag for holding all of your gear, GPS system for accurate route mapping. We talked briefly and he mentioned how this was his second attempt at completing a brevet series. He had digestion issues last year and had to abandon his 400 prematurely. While we could've probably talked a while longer, we both realized that we needed our rest, and we both tried to figure out polite ways to end our conversation, but pretty much just said, "so ... yeah ... 1AM start." "yeah, seriously." and went into our rooms and just crashed out. It's nice when a common acceptance of the conditions allows you to cut past social niceties.
I woke up at midnight, to the sound of rain pittering against my window. I looked out and saw that, yes indeed, it was raining. I turned on the TV as I got ready and saw that the forecast was for a day of rain and cold temperatures. I zipped up my jacket, checked my lights again, and told myself that this was better than scorching humidity. Once more unto the breach.
I arrived fifteen minutes before the start, got myself checked in, grabbed a copy of the cue sheets, and sort of shuffled about uncomfortably amongst the other randonneurs. There were roughly thirty of us and most of them were catching up with each other, swapping notes about the season thus far, being chums; all friends it seemed and I was the stranger in their midst. The non-competitive nature of randoneering makes it a welcome change from the normally cutthroat world of bike racing, but I still hadn't figured out the social rules of this crew. So, instead I fussed with my bike.
My saddle was showing its deficiencies over these long rides (it's significant that one of the more popular thread on the randonneuring mailing list discusses 'butt chafage') and I started to adjust the saddle angle to see if a higher angle would allow me to center more of my weight on my pelvis. And then Don Podolski, the volunteer ride coordinator, sent us on our way.
I hurried to tighten the bolt that fixed my saddle to my bike, jumped on and tried to catch up with the peloton. The ride was 20 miles of flatness before the first big climb out of the Pioneer Valley, and I hoped to use the paceline for a quick speed boost before the hills broke us up. I found, right off the start, that my headlamp wasn't working. It had been flaky for the past couple of weeks, with a crimped cable that only worked if it was bent in a certain way. I had jury-rigged a fastener with a couple of twist-ties that sort of held the cable together, but it had a habit of undoing itself when stressed. I also realized right away that my new angle on the saddle was wrong. Too steep, too low in the back. I felt like I was constantly in danger of sliding off, and while a part of me wanted to get off immediately and fix the problem, another part, a part that was obviously insane, thought that I could make it to the first checkpoint, 30 miles away, and adjust my bike there. I eventually put that thought aside and resolved to fix this as soon as possible, but had a problem in that we were riding on Rt. 20, a four-lane state highway that was poorly lit and, even at 1AM, relatively busy. Stopping would've meant working on this bike on a highway shoulder, in pitch darkness with a flaky headlamp in the rain.
Eventually, we rode past a 24 hour Cumberland Farms store, and I pulled off the paceline and, under the flourescents of the filling station, re-adjusted my saddle back to level. I couldn't figure out how to fix the light, though, and as I watched other riders pass me, the lamps on their bike shining into the darkness, I realized that I had to get on the road now or miss the ride altogether.
As I rode through that wet night, alone save for the red LEDs of a trio of cyclists a hundred metres ahead, the demons of doubt and despair started to creep into my mind. The equipment issues had dampened my initial enthusiasm for this event, making me dwell on my lack of preparation and my rookie inexperience. If I was having this many problems now, how would the rest of the day turn out? Why was I doing this? To what purpose? How far had I gone from the motel? How easy would it be to turn around now? Oh my god, why am I doing this?
Yet, I pedaled on, trying to catch up to the trio or at least keep them in sight. Without a working headlight, I couldn't read the directions on my cue sheet, and I could easily get lost if left on my own. So, I tried to keep up, my spirit lifting when I thought they looked closer, or dampening when I thought that they were pulling away.
I lost them as we rode through the town of Becket and began the 1200 ft. climb out of the Pioneer Valley. They vanished over the crest of a short hill, and as I climbed over the rise, they were gone. Now, utterly alone, in the rain, slogging up the side of a mountain in the dark, I really started to think about dropping the ride. My brain kept on reminding me that it would be easier to quit now, because quitting later meant that I'd have to climb back over this mountain to get to the motel. Maybe I was lost, taken the wrong turn because I couldn't read my sheet, and I was climbing up the wrong mountain. I turned my head back, and I could see the diffuse glow of a cyclist's headlamp somewhere behind me, and that was somewhat reassuring. He probably knew where he was going, and if he was behind me, that probably meant that I was ok or that we were both screwed. I convinced myself to forestall any decision on abandoning until after I got to the first checkpoint.
The cyclist behind me eventually caught up and rode with me for a part of the segment. He had done the ride before and given some quick advice. It was an 'out-and-back', basically going from Westfield to Saratoga Springs, with the second half being an almost exact mirror of the first. Most of the big climbs were near Westfield and before the second checkpoint, but the middle section was pretty flat. Conserve your energy in the middle, and spend it in the end.
We rolled into the first checkpoint together, and I stocked up on fig newtons, bananas and Gatorade while listening to the chatter. One of the riders had been pulled over by a cop who had been notified about "suspicious activities". I imagine that a nocturnal train of 30 cyclists, twinkling in red and yellow gear, would be an odd sight anywhere. I twiddled with my headlamp again and this time got it to work, shining it brightly by accident into the face of Don Podolski and blinding him temporarily. I was sorry but also ecstatic. The lamp was working! I could see. Suddenly everything seemed to be much better, and I went forth once more into the darkness, ready for whatever.
Ironically, while the halogen headlamp was more powerful than the dinky LED that I had installed on my bike, it was useless in the rain, as the droplets tended to reflect the light back into my face, so I only used the lamp when I needed to read the directions; but that didn't bother me. I had food. I had working equipment, and in the distance the western sky was starting to brighten. I almost forgot that it was raining.
Evntually, I caught up with another rider, a fellow named Anish, riding an orange Independent Fabrications Club Racer, a bike that almost seems custom designed for randoneering. He was another veteran of the series, a fellow who had done brevets before but still hadn't qualified for a super randonee. In order to qualify for rides like Paris-Brest-Paris or Boston-Montreal-Boston, one has to complete a 200km, 300km, 400km and 600km ride all within the same calendar year. As I talked to other riders, I was starting to run into a lot of people who had a 200 and 300 under their belt, but could not finish a 400 or 600 yet. A bad bit of indigestion, unexpected mechanical problems or just general bad luck could just kill your ride; and rookies completing a full qualification series in their first year seemed to be more the exception than the rule.
Anish had to bail on his 600 last year due to sickness, and was aiming to qualify for Boston-Montreal-Boston this year. His pace seemed to match mine, so we wound up riding together; chatting about bicycles, immigration and the steep standard of living in Massachusetts. The conversation made the miles disappear, and the next thing I knew, we had climbed over Jiminy Peak and entered upstate New York. After a brief stretch of rolling hills, we were at the second checkpoint, a gas station outside Sand Lake, NY.
Since brevets are volunteer-run events, a lot of the smaller operations use "unmanned checkpoints" where you're supposed to either get a timestamped receipt or have a cashier sign your brevet card to prove that you were following the route and arrived within a certain time window. You bought whatever food and water you needed. Compared to the AIDSride and MSrides, where there were rest stops at 12 or 15 mile intervals fully stocked with free water, Gatorade, food and ibuprofen, the 40 mile brevet checkpoints were only a step away from foraging for twigs and berries. We stopped long enough to buy a gallon of water and some chips, refill our water bottles and set off once more before we got too chilly. I tried to call silentq to let her know that I was ok, but couldn't get signal. It was still raining.
The segment from Sand Lake to Saratoga Spring was gentle and gorgeous. We rode past forests in the Finger Lakes, where the combination of lush, verdant forestry and calm water made me briefly homesick for British Columbia. I was still feeling rather good; having learned from my lessons on the 300k about eating properly and watching my pace. I had learned to listen to my body, and knew that it sent certain signals when it needed calories, water or sodium. So, I was eating regularly, relying more on Clif Shots and other energy gels for a quick influx of carbohydrates that I could use over long segments of the ride. It was almost frightening how effective these substances were. littleayun used to describe Clif Shots as Clif Bars transmuted into liquid form so that you wouldn't have to spend precious calories on actually chewing the things. I started thinking of them like videogame power ups, because there's a certain point where one's body and metabolism is processing calories so efficiently that you can literally feel your body getting boosted with each packet that you'd ingest.
Unfortunately, I only had four Clif Shots on me, and had been hoping to get more from Don's shop, but he didn't stock any of the gels. So I was rationing the shots, and relying on a few Clif bars and convenience store fruit for the rest of my energy. That strategy worked up to the halfway point, then I ran out of food.
As scary as it is to experience the near immediate rush of energy that comes with ingesting a Clif Shot, it is nearly equally frightening to feel your body crash when you've suddenly exhausted all of your calorie reserves. I ran out about five miles from the midway point at Saratoga Springs. Anish and I were riding along a gorgeous lake that we had to circumavigate to get into Saratoga. There was a headwind and suddenly all of the strength just left my legs. Every mile was a struggle and every slight incline was an epic hill. I slowly watched Anish pull further and further away while I struggled behind him. I saw him pass a green ligtht and climb this short incline leading up to Saratoga. The light turned red as I got up to it. I unclipped and almost fell over as my leg gave out, feeling just as weak as it did on the 300K a week ago, except this time I wasn't 30 miles from the finish; I was only halfway. I dismounted from my bike and sat on the guardrail next to the highway. I watched the cars roll past me, took another swig of water, then walked my bike across the intersection and remounted it for the final approach to Saratoga. Anish was waiting for me at the top of the climb and he said that he was about to trying to figure out how to turn around in the middle of this highway so he could check on me. It was a small gesture, but it had once again made me grateful for his company.
We rode into Saratoga Springs together and checked in at the third control, which was a bike shop that was fortunately stocking Clif bars and energy gels. I replenished my stores, then rolled into the center of Saratoga to spend an hour in the Putnam Farm Deli, a generally well-to-do sandwich eatery in the middle of this resort town, eating lunch and taking time to replenish our energy reserves. Karl, an acerbic but entertaining German randonneur joined us a little later, complaining about the rain and wolfing down his soup before realizing that this wasn't the checkpoint and that he needed to go on a little further before getting signed in. I tried to call silentq again but when I took out the ziploc bag that had my phone, I realized that I hadn't closed it all the way, and now my phone was swimming in a small puddle of water. Ah well, that was one mechanical problem that I could live with for now.
We had a tailwind on the way back, and it made most of the segment to the next checkpoint a pleasure to ride through. We followed the Hudson before returning past the Tomhannock Reservoir, enjoying New York at its most scenic. At some point outside Mechanicville we were passed by a road cyclist obviously out on a fast weekend ride; his relative dryness an obvious sign of how recently he had gotten on the road. As we watched him vanish, Anish shouted up to me, "I want to see him do that with 150 miles on his legs."
As we returned to Sand Lake, we caught up with Dave Cramer, another second year rider who was still trying to get a 600k under his belt. We rode together for a bit until the rolling hills before Stephentown started to creep up ahead of us; and we wound up leaving Dave behind on one of the monster descents that had my bike screaming downhill at 50 mph. While I can never see myself owning and maintaining a motorcycle, I don't think I'll ever get tired of the feeling of riding my bike on a 50 mph descent, gliding like a bird on smooth tarmac between heaven and earth.
Eventually, we rode into a mom-and-pop grocery store that served as our last checkpoint before the finish. It was roughly seven in the evening, and the grocery would also serve as a dinner stop. We had been on the road for 18 hours at this point, and my body was starting to tire of the high-carb, high-sugar diet of energy gels and Clif bars. I was craving protein more than anything else, and ravenously tore into into a bowl of chili and half of an Italian cold cut sub. The store was managed by a really friendly couple who clearly weren't used to having people eat in their store, but tried their best to accomodate us by providing spare milk crates to use as stools and tables. Dave had caught up with us, and a little later on, we met up with Chris, the middle aged randonneur that I had seen at the motel, and another older fellow, John. We left the checkpoint a few minutes apart as we each finished our dinners and wanted to get in as many miles as possible while there was still daylight.
We climbed Jiminy Peak again and re-entered Massachusetts, then Anish and I stopped briefly to reinstall our night riding gear. My headlamp wasn't working again, but rather than mess with it any longer, I relied on my memory being reliable enough to navigate this section in reverse. We continued on as the darkness began to descend once more. Eventually Anish, Dave, Chris, John and I formed up into an impromptu paceline, with John leading the way initially. Then, I took over as he started to tire.
It was an hour after dinner, and the protein in the chili had metabolised, and I suddenly felt like I had new legs again. I tucked in to the narrowest, most aerodynamic position that I could maintain and just pulled everyone in on the last 30 miles to Westfield, cruising up the monster climb into the Pioneer, then flying down the dark slope that I had contemplated abandoning twenty hours ago. By this point, sleep deprivation was starting to catch up to me, and I found myself nodding off as we descended into Becket. My fatigued brain remembered a bit of advice that Anish had given me earlier: that the best way to keep sleepiness at bay was to eat and keep your core temperature up. If you are warm and you have calories, staying awake becomes much easier. Unfortunately, my food was in my back pockets and I didn't feel confident enough to take my hands off my handlebars while flying down the side of this mountain, and the only way that I could get warmer was to start pedaling again and bring my heart rate up. Essentially, I had to accelerate on a night-time descent, where I could only see about fifty feet ahead or fall asleep and crash. So I sped up, and I wasn't sure if the higher body temperature or the additional boost of adrenaline did the trick, but I chased the sleepiness away and continued to lead the rest of our quintet into the finish.
The batteries on my front light were pretty much all of out juice, by this point, and I let John ride up next to me so that his paired dynamo lights could illuminate the rest of the way for us. We were back on Rt. 20, but this side was badly maintained and had turned into an obstacle course of bumps, loose gravel and potholes. Typically, in a peloton, you develop an etiquette were lead riders will point out road hazards and yell it out for the benefit of everyone else behind them. I had my right arm almost permanently stretched out as I called out a constant litany "Pothole, right! Pothole, left! Fissure, right! Hole, right!" before finally giving up and yelling in an exasperated, "You get the point, everyone. Sucky ass road, right left and ahead for forseeable future. Best back off from me and take your chances."
Our conversation was pretty much over at this point, as we were reduced to random expressions of pain, surprise and profanity as we were mauled by the Berkshire roads. I was relying on the headlights of the other riders to point out the hazards, but they had pulled back in order to manuever better, so I gave up hope on avoiding the worst of the bunch and just rode in a semi-standing position for the last 10 miles. At some point, I started looking at the shadows that we were casting on the road and realized that there were only three of us where there had been originally five.
"Hey, who did we lose?"
"I think Dave and Chris fell behind on the last big climb."
"Dammit... do you think they're ok?"
"I think so. They weren't saying anything."
I was conflicted, as we were only five or ten miles from the end, and I wanted to finish; but I felt bad for losing the guys, and they were probably doing ok. We chose to finish and then ride back if we didn't see them catch up to us. The finish checkpoint was Don's shop in Westfield, but since it was a little past midnight, we were instructed to ride on to the 24 hour Mobil Mart / Dunkin Donuts at the end of the road and have the cashier sign our brevet cards. The shop was manned by three guys, and the cashier happily signed our cards but also asked us what were doing that had us riding bicycles in the middle of the night. So we briefly gave the little background explanation about randonneuring and how it was essentially amature, non-competitive endurance cycling.
"So, do you guys have rankings or anything?"
"Nah, it's totally non-competitive. Everyone helps each other out, gives each other advice. Finishing first isn't important. It's good to just finish."
"So, it's like totally cooperative?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"Rock on, man! That's the way life should be. None of this dog-eat-dog business. People helping each other out, being kind to each other. That's the way it's meant to be."
"Totally. So do you want to give it a try?"
"No way, man! I'm not as crazy as you guys are."
I asked for an Apple Spice donut,and the guy gave me one but wouldn't take my money. Dave had rolled up a few minutes later, and Chris was right behind him. We made our good byes, I borrowed John's phone to call silentq who sounded utterly relieved and utterly drunk as she was at VI at the time. Then I pedaled the mile back to the motel, had the warmest, most amazing shower of my life, then ate the leftover Italian sub while stretching out my sore muscles, trying to imagine the torn up muscle fibers re-growing with new density and strength. I still thought that line was bullshit, but it was nice to try and believe in it anyway.