When I resolved, in the new year, to complete a full brevet series, I tried to be realistic and amended that resolution to attempting the series. The longest bike ride that I had done to that date was 200 kilometres, and 200 kilometres was where the series started. The capstone was a 600 kilometre brevet, which was comparable to the 320 miles that I had covered in the New York - Boston AIDSride, but that was over the course of four days; with a support train of hot showers, mobile cafeterias and roaming support escorts. The 600k, by comparison, was to be completed over 40 hours, with no escorts and a single shower and sleep stop provided at the 220 mile mark. I wasn't expecting to wash out, but it has always been a haunting possibility in my mind. The intimidation only increased on the week before the 600k, when John McClellan, one of the Boston anciens, completed a recon of the 600k route,
posted his thoughts to the Boston randoneering list and advised first-timers to take their 400km speed and subtract 1 to 1.5 mph to account for additional fatigue on the 600k route. Divide course distance (381 miles) by that speed, subtract one hour of cushion for mechanical problems and the leftover time could be spent sleeping or relaxing. Assuming, of course, there was leftover time.
I completed my 400k in Westfield with an average speed of 10.75 mph. By John's math, I would complete my 600k in somewhere between 9.75 or 9.25 mph. At 9.75 mph, I would finish the course in 39 hours, 1 hour ahead of the 40 hour cutoff. I could not sleep if I wanted to complete the ride in time. If my average speed fell to 9.25, I would miss the cutoff by 40 minutes. I had prepared myself for failing because of mechanical or physical problems. Maybe my knees would give out after one hill too many at the 500 km mark. Maybe one of my wheel hubs would disintegrate after 7000 miles of riding. But I never figured on failing because I was just too damn slow.
Nonetheless, my plan was to get to bed by 7pm on the night before, rise by 2am, and make it to Hanscom half an hour before the 4am start. I slept a fitful, dreamless sleep that felt like an endless series of half-awake moments with lost time in between. Eventually, I heard the knock on my door as
silentq woke me and told me that it was 2am, already. She offered to drive me to the ride start at Hanscom Field and my first instinct was to say 'no'. I liked having the extra 10 miles to warm up and do a final shakedown of the bike. But she really wanted to see me off at least once in this series, and I felt like I owed her that much for all of the fantastic emotional support that she had given me this summer. I also realized that it was probably best to save my energy for the miles that actually counted.
So, we mounted the bike on the car rack, packed the bags into the trunk and promptly backed into our landlord's minivan. The damage was limited to paint, but the incident had jarred both of us; reinforcing the mistakes that can be made with sleep deprivation and anxiety. Nonetheless, we made it to Hanscom without further incident. The parking lot was abuzz with cyclists who were now starting to look familiar, decked out in yellow jackets and red reflectors that glowed under the field lights. I took the bike off the car, reattached my rack and handlebar bags, and bade
silentq a safe ride home, as she was starting to get too sleepy to wait until the 4am start.
After completing check in, I made one more inspection of my bike and discovered two things. One, my frame pump was missing. Two, I had forgotten the cable extension for my headlamp. After
my troubles on the 400k, I went to EMS to get the battery cable replaced on my old headlamp, and the whole rig was operating fine, but the default cable is only long enough to use when you've got the light mounted on a bike handlebar and have attached the battery pack to some part of your frame. The distance between your helmet and a backpack or jersey pocket is far longer, and the light came with a supplemental extension cable for this purpose. That cable was at home. I didn't quite know where the pump was. I think that I may have put in the trunk of the car, but sleep deprivation and general anxiety made me uncertain. I called
silentq, caught her on the highway return, apologized to her for my forgetfulness and asked her to drive back so I could check the car for the pump. The extension cable, I'd have to do without. One of these days, I'll do these rides without any equipment issues and it'll be bloody glorious.
While waiting, I went looking for Mike. Mike and I
met briefly on the Boston 300k, bonding as first timers on one of the climbs out of the second checkpoint, before he left me behind in my tired state. We'd run into each on the various mailing lists and internet fora where randoneers congregate online, and started a nascent online friendship. Remembering the morale benefits of riding with Anish on the 400, I hoped that riding with Mike would be equally helpful. I found him by his car, adjusting his headlights as the organizer called us to start. Then we were off, setting forth into the dark, suburban night. As we crested the first big rise out of Hanscom, I saw the familiar headlights of the car as
silentq came in, and I told Mike that I had to stop and look for my missing frame pump, and that he should go on. I could catch up later.
I couldn't find the pump in the car, and I feared that I had forgotten to remove it from the bike before we got on the highway, and that it may have popped out somewhere on Rt. 128, doubtlessly crushed by a night-driving semi. Ah well, I guess I should just avoid getting a flat tire on this ride. I kissed
silentq once more for good luck and took off to catch the rest of the pack who, by now had a five minute headstart on me.
Without my headlamp, I had to rely on the five-LED light that I had clamped to the front fork on my bike. With fresh batteries, the five-LED was a capable light, but five LEDs had a habit of quickly draining the three AAAs and I had forgotten to check the status before starting off. The light that it currently threw out was feeble, and I couldn't see more than five feet ahead, but I needed to catch up with the rest of the pack and so rode quickly and blindly into the darkened streets. I had done this road at least twice on training rides in the past month, and a few more times prior to then; and trusted in sleep-addled memory to replace details that illumination could not.
Eventually I saw a red taillight in the distance, and focused on catching it, tracking its turns and undulations to mark the curves and hills ahead. Within a mile, I had caught up and found myself mixed in with a pack of six riders who all had dynamo-powered headlights that collectively lit up the road more brightly than any car ever could. We pulled into a peloton of a dozen or so cyclists and together we glided out of Concord and into Acton, making good time and riding easily as we headed further and further west; towards New Hampshire and Vermont. Somehow, I found myself in the lead of a pack of mid-speed riders as we rode through Acton, and while my light was starting to fade, the sky had started to lighten around us, and I still knew the roads well enough to navigate by memory. For a moment, I had forgotten my worries about finishing the course or the challenges that lay ahead, and instead just revelled in the singular sensation of gliding down empty pre-dawn roads, past misty farmland and sleepy residences dreaming of a new day.
I caught up with Mike outside of Littleton, about 20 miles into the ride. He had spent some time with the lead pack before their pace proved to be too aggressive, and was happy to fall into our group. Together with Emily O'Brien, a strong fixed-gear rider who also happened to hold the women's fixed-gear record for
the Furnace Creek 508 a 48-hour, 500 mile ride through Death Valley, we swapped pulls as we hit the initial hills of Fitchburg and ascended 1000 feet to the first checkpoint in Gardner, MA, near the New Hampshire border. We had completed 45 miles and it was only 7 in the morning.
We were making good time and I was anxious not to lose momentum, so Mike and I left ahead of the group, riding on with a warning from Emily and her boyfriend, Jake, about the conditions on the next segment. They had done a bike tour through here last weekend and apparently Rt. 68 was an atrocious piece of pavement that couldn't have been over soon enough. True to their word, 68 was a rough and tumble 20 mile stretch, capped by a steep ascent up Warwick Road that had us down to 4 mph struggling up a wall of a climb. When we finally got to the top, we were detoured over to Bliss Hill Road, a one mile stretch of unpaved dirt that was littered with fist-sized rocks and loose gravel. I run my bike with wide 35mm tires (just a couple of steps down from mountain bike slicks, most conventional racing bikes use thin 23mm tires) and can deal with packed dirt and gravel, but the sheer number of large rocks and shale alternating with loose sand was still unnerving; and we were grateful for smooth rolling pavement at the end.
As we entered New Hampshire and Vermont, we began to encounter territory that was familiar to Mike and he started narrating the stretches from past rides of his. We rapidly made up lost time here, gliding down to the Connecticut River and riding past its banks for 15 miles before entering
Brattleboro, Vermont. There was a bike store here, and I pulled over to pick up a pump to replace the one that I had lost at the start. The exchange proved more complicated than I had planned, as the owner didn't have a pump that fit in my frame. It was a Goldilocks moment, of buying one pump, trying it on the bike to find it was too short, exchanging it for the next step up, which was too big, then deciding instead for a smaller pump that I could stow in my rack bag and having to negotiate cash for the difference rather than getting a credit charged to my card. I joked with Mike that I almost hoped to get a flat tire on the ride just to make this whole affair worthwhile.
The second checkpoint was at a Motel 6 on the northern fringes of Brattleboro. We arrived at 11am and had covered almost 92 miles so far. We were going to complete a century before noon, making excellent time and for the first time that day, I was actually starting to imagine being able to sleep on the ride. We stowed our night riding gear, filled up on Fig Newtons, bananas and water and pressed on.
The 600k thus far had been swift and gentle, and it almost had me worried. Each of my previous Boston brevets had been affairs of unmitigated brutality with punishing climbs and steep rolling terrain. While my fitness had certainly improved over the summer, I still felt like I was on the verge of letting my guard down and underestimating this trip. After all, the ride threatened nearly 20,000 feet of elevation gain, and our experience thus far was uncharacteristically easy. We guessed that the worst was yet to come. Unfortunately, we were correct.
The next segment, Brattleboro to Sandgate, was a 66 mile path that traversed Vermont from north to south, crossing over two mountains just as the summer sun reached its midday zenith and turned shade into a scarce commodity. Up to this point, Mike would occasionally joke about the irony of driving 300 miles south so that he could ride 6 miles past his home. Yet, as we climbed the one mile ascent up Black Mountain on East West road, I noticed that he had started to fall further and further behind. Climbing together is always tough because different cyclists have different styles that suit their physiology. Having someone hold back their progress can be just as exhausting as forcing someone else to ride harder on an ascent. In general, it was standard etiquette to climb a hill on your pace, then recollect your group at the top before continuing on. Yet, as we finished Black Mountain and crossed the Connecticut River at the Dummerston Covered Bridge, I noticed that Mike was falling behind even on the slight rollers that we were previously able to take together on our ride into Brattleboro, and he started mentioning how close his home was even more frequently. Later on, as we approached Newfane, he said to me that if I wanted to drop him and continue on, that it would be ok. I replied that we were making good time and it wasn't a big deal for me to hold back a bit. We could finish in a decent time, and it was better to do that with company than alone.
Mike wanted to stop at Newfane and have a Coke and some lunch. I told him that was cool and I needed lunch as well. We stopped at the general store in Newfane center, which had somehow turned into an informal brevet checkpoint, as Emily and her peloton had stopped here as well. There were a half-dozen of us milling about in the shade, checking cellphones for text updates of the Tour, and passing about gallons of water to refill our bottles and hydration packs. I picked up an Italian sub and a bag of chips, ate half of it there and stowed the other half for later. In general, with endurance cycling, it's wiser to nibble frequently and give your body a steady stream of calories rather than gorge yourself infrequently and overload your stomach with massive installments of food that could you leave feeling bloated and nauseous. Mike sat by me with a bag of ice on his knee, and apologizing again for his slower pace. He didn't like riding in the heat, and after a cold, wet spring that would never seem to end, we had received a clear, hot day that was wearing on him. Our only option, of course, was just to head further uphill and hope that the higher elevation would keep us cool.
Fortunately, and unfortunately, getting to a higher elevation wasn't going to be a problem. We were at the feet of the Green Mountains, and could expect climbing for the next 20 miles, until we got to a 2000 ft. summit just outside the valley that held Manchester, Vermont. Once again, Mike fell behind, and even after I slowed down to let him catch up, every time that I looked behind, his form seemed to vanish further and further behind me. Finally, on the edge of Jamaica, I pulled over into the shade, finished the bag of chips and waited for him to catch up. Admittedly, at this point, a part of me was starting to get worried. Our pace on this segment was starting to fall below 10mph, and we were only 22 miles into the 65 that we had to complete between Brattleboro and Sandgate. I was tempted to drop him, but I kept on thinking about what Anish did in stopping for me on the 400 and the value that had in buoying up my spirits. I reminded myself that we bought a lot of time that morning, we still had a lot of slack to work with, and that so long as we finished within the 40 hour window, there was no point in doing it in 36 or 39 hours if the difference meant being a good friend or a selfish bastard. Eventually, Mike showed up, pedaling steadily, and as he finally came up even with me, I just smiled and said, "I got tired of talking to myself." He laughed at that and we carried on as before.
Still, as the climbing got steeper, it was impossible for us to stay together, and I resolved to just finish off this mountain, and wait for Mike in Manchester, on the other side of the descent. I had to stop anyway for, despite the elevation, the heat of the day was getting to me, and I could feel that my water was starting to run out. I was well into the climb up the Green Mountains by now, and was rationing water to myself. I passed signs for the Stratton ski resort and tried not to think about what that implied for how far we had climbed. My mood was darkening. I thought the route planners were sadists and individuals of the cruelest character. Surely, there had to be a way around this. Surely, climbing this mountain wasn't necessary. Surely, this was pointless. Of course, it didn't help that this course was another out-and-back and that I would have to climb this mountain again, after pedaling for another 100 miles.
Then I finally, triumphantly, crested the climb, reveled in the 5 mile glide down into Manchester, and almost forgot about the bitter feelings from a few minutes back. I soon saw a farmstand to my right, and figured that it was a good a place as any to stop. So, with visions of cool water and harvest ripe berries dancing in my head, I pulled over and walked inside, gathered about 1.5 litres of water in my arm and saw this small pile full of watermelons and cantaloupes. The melons glistened with juice and sugar, and I was immediately ravenous for one. Conveniently, there was a bowl with pre-cut chunks sitting right there, wrapped in plastic, and even though there was no price tag, I didn't care. I scooped it up and approached the counter.
The registrar looked at the bowl and said, "I'm sorry, sir, but this is our samples bowl. You can't buy this."
"Well can I get a bowl with some diced melon?"
"We have some cantaloupes that have been split in half. That's the only cut we do."
"Can you get me a plastic spoon?"
So, there I was, sitting by the roadside, with the flimsiest plastic spoon in the world, tearing into what had to be the juiciest cantaloupe ever produced from Vermont soil. It wasn't quite fully ripe and so the flesh was still a bit on the 'toothy' side of chew; so I wasn't so much scooping out the flesh as I was stabbing at it with my spoon then tearing out the chunks with my sweaty, desperate fingers.
Like, you know that scene in the Return of the King where they show Gollum digging into a live fish with his bare hands? Imagine Gollum as a vegetarian with a cantaloupe. The most precious, tastiest cantaloupe in the world.
I went back into the store to drop the dessicated husk of the melon in their garbage bin and rode on, thanking them for the produce. I didn't see any cyclists pass me, and thought that perhaps Mike would've blown past while I was sitting by the farmstand. I was 25 miles from the Sandgate checkpoint, and I figured that I could press on and just get to the checkpoint. If he was still ahead of me, I could try and catch up, but if he hadn't checked in yet, I could wait until he arrived. I rode up to the next turn at Manchester center, then heard someone yell, "Hey, Cris!"
Mike had stopped at a convenience store in the town center and as I turned around to meet up with him, he told me that he thought I had left him far behind and was probably relaxing in the swimming pool at Sandgate by now. I shook my head and said, "nope, better than that" and told him about the canteloupe.
With the rest, Mike seemed to have picked up his second wind and we were easily able to put away the next ten miles, meeting up with two other riders before being sent down Farm Road, our second unpaved stretched on this ride. However, unlike Bliss Hill, Farm Road was hardpacked dirt and a pretty easy ride. As the midafternoon sun cast the valley in a warm orange glow, we rode past horse and llama farms, following an undulating river populated by families tubing in the lazy afternoon heat. Even for an avowed city mouse as myself, it was bucolic terrain that made country life oh so beautiful and ever so tempting. I considered pulling over to wade into the stream, but I was afraid that if I did that, I'd never want to leave.
As it was we eventually made our way to Sandgate, Vermont, on the border with upstate New York. The cue sheet told us to make a right into Chunks Brook Road, and Mike made the snide remark that a chunk brook sounded ominous. Chunks Brook turned out to be the third dirt road segment of our trip, and it sat somewhere between Farm and Bliss Hill on the pleasantness scale. More loose gravel and large rocks, and a steady but low gradient just to make it interesting. We spent about a mile and a half negotiating this dirt path as the sun began to set, then followed our directions to turn left at a white mailbox, and looked up at a 300 foot climb over the same terrible, fist-sized rocks that we had encountered on Bliss Hill. The cue sheet called this a driveway. At the end of it was the Sandgate checkpoint. I called it a goat path.
Mike had gotten off to walk his bike up the hill, but I pressed on in my lowest gear, zig-zagging across the entire ascent to keep my footing and balance. About halfway up, another pair of randonneurs were walking their bikes down as they were leaving the checkpoint. One of them advised, "it's about two more miles and you've got two rivers to ford aftewards."
I replied, "I seem to have made a wrong turn somewhere. I was on the impression that I was on a road brevet, but I seem to have stumbled onto a cyclocross track."
We made it in eventually. The checkpoint was John McClellan's vacation home, a sprawling two floor affair with a swimming pool and empty rooms for cots and air mattresses. This was going to be our sleep stop, but before we could bed down, we had to finish a 64 mile loop to Bennington, Vermont and back. It was a little after five in the afternoon, but we would spend an hour at the checkpoint to regain our strength and refuel our legs. Tracey, one of the organizers, fed us ice cream while we swatted at bugs and checked over our bikes, trying our best to address 150 miles of fairly serious wear and tear. Night was approaching and we also began to reinstall all of our night riding equipment. I swapped the batteries on my head and tail light, then jury-rigged a mount for the battery pack on the back of my helmet using a couple of zip ties. The helmet felt heavy and bulky, but at least I had light.
Mike and I briefly discussed sleep strategies. I was planning on spending six hours in the Bennington loop; which meant getting back to Sandgate by midnight. I figured that we could sleep until 3am and then cover the remaining 160 miles in 16 hours, and be back in Hanscom at the 39 hour mark. All we had to do was polish off the Green Mountains and Black Mountain before midday on Sunday and the rest of it would be easy. Mike wanted to ride on without sleeping, and take advantage of as much of the cool night temperatures as he could. I wasn't sure if I could ride on without sleep, but resolved to wait and see how we did with the first hours of darkness in Bennington before deciding one way or the other.
We eventually set out a little after 6pm, negotiated the steep goat path descent, then finally got back on the road with fresh legs. John McClellan had reassured us that the Bennington stretch was pretty flat compared to what we had been through, and that gave us new optimism. About ten miles out, we intersected with the lead pack of randonneurs who were inbound from Bennington and returning to Sandgate for rest and refresment. They were, by our math, about fifty miles ahead of us and I envied them the long window that they could spend at the checkpoint.
Nonetheless we made excellent time to Bennington, flying along with a tail wind on a straight and level road. Yet, by this time, it was nearing 8 pm and sleepiness was starting to catch up to me. I found myself daydreaming and growing heavy-lidded. Mike pedaled up next to me and said, "hi" just by way of greeting, but his voice shocked me awake and nearly made me swerve off the road. A little later on, I almost rode past the turn for the Bennington checkpoint and would've missed it entirely if Mike hadn't called me back. Thoughts of riding straight through had vanished now. I needed my rest.
The Bennington checkpoint was manned by Bruce Ingle, Tracey's husband, and the other co-organizer for the series. As we restocked on food and checked our lights, it came up in conversation that Mike and I were both first-timers and he said that we should be proud about coming this far. Not many folks complete a series on their first try through. He asked me if I was going to do
Boston-Montreal-Boston and I shook my head and said that I had to work in New York on the weeks before and after B-M-B and couldn't take the time off. He said that I should consider at some point, though. "If you can finish this ride," he said, "you can do B-M-B."
It was a worthy reminder for us that, despite all of the sadism that we might have attached to Bruce's route selections on the 300 and 600K, all of these brevets were just supposed to be training for the ultimate riding trial, the 90-hour 1200km ride from Newton, MA to Huntingdon, Quebec. It's supposed to be hardest 1200km currently run, with epic climbs, long hours and harsh weather; and as tough as this ride currently was, it was only a rehearsal for something that was more daunting and challenging.
Still, we had to focus on finishing this ride, and so after calling our respective girlfriends to tell them that we were ok, Mike and I left the checkpoint and passed the halfway mark. The sun had dipped below the horizon and the light was quickly diminishing. Before we would head back to Sandgate, the route had us detour up to the Bennington Monument. As we began this 250' climb, Mike pulled up to me and said, "hey, just let me go. I'll see you later. I'm just hurting and need a little more time."
"Knee hurting?"
"All over hurting."
And I just turned back to him and nodded. We were at a psychological fork in the road. There was no way that I could do this ride straight through, and I needed to sleep. That meant that I had to get back to Sandgate as soon as possible in order to make the most use of the sleep time. He wanted to ride non-stop and needed a slower pace to conserve his energy. So, I pulled away and left him behind. By the time I made it to the monument, I turned around and had lost sight of him.
Darkness fell quickly on the 36 miles back to Sandgate, and it was a long, lonely stretch, weaving between Vermont and upstate New York. There were few street lights, and an overcast sky kept moon and starlight at bay. Fortunately, my headlamp was now working, but even then, surrounded by the vastness of rural New York, it only served to make me feel more isolated and vulnerable. It didn't help that empty roads encouraged cars to speed past me at 70 mph, and there was a part of me that constantly worried about being visible and bright enough on this dark, empty highway. When I wasn't being buzzed by cars, I was beginning to nod off in the nocturnal solitude. The shadows cast by my light and the glowing pinpoints of fireflies merged into a hallucinated dreamstate of Oberon and Titania's court in A Midsummer's Night Dream. I'm pretty sure that there was some point in there where I had actually closed my eyes for a second or two, yanking them awake before I had drifted into a ditch. Then a dog appeared from the bush and barked at me, almost making me swerve into traffic, and eventhough the barking receded into the distance, my overactive imagination imagined ravenous wolves stalking me from roadside bushes. I wasn't going to fall asleep after that.
Eventually, I returned to Chunks Brook and navigated the mile and a half of dirt before returning once more to that treacherous goat path that pretended to be a driveway. I zigzagged on this steep climb by the light of my headlamp, trying to pick a path and repeating to myself, "it's all part of the adventure. It's all part of the adventure. It's all part of the -- oh shit!" My front wheel slipped on a large, loose stone just as my rear wheel caught a patch of loose sand. My entire bike fishtailed to perpendicular and I managed to unclip in time to save myself from tipping over and falling back down the slope.
"Fuck the adventure, I'm walking."
Fortunately, I was near the top and only had another fifty paces to push the bike before getting to the house. Tracey greeted me on my arrival, showed me to my drop bag, which had my sleeping bag, towel and a change of clothes and pointed out where dinner and the showers were. It was 11:30 pm. I stuffed myself on chili and pasta, while John, proved to be a graceful and insouciant host. He was a hardcore randonneur, multi-year veteran of Boston-Montreal-Boston and seemed to have an encouraging word for everyone, veteran and rookie alike. Unfortunately, while he had heaploads of inspiration, he also only had one shower, and the list for the facility was long. Instead, despite the cold night air, I opted to take a quick dip in his swimming pool; submerging myself briefly to slough off the sweat and stink of 220 miles on the road, then towelling off before hypothermia could wreak the havoc that dehydration and fatigue had failed to do.
In the spare washroom, I changed into tomorrow's clothes and asked John about sleep accomodations. He led me to a room that seemed like it would have been a sitting room but now looked like a makeshift hospital ward, lined with cots crowded with riders. Tracey asked me when I wanted to be woken up and I told her 2am. I connected the charger for my headlamp battery, unrolled my sleeping bag, did a quick series of stretches and promptly fell asleep.
I didn't even realize that I was asleep before I felt the tap of Tracey's fingers and her soft voice saying, "Cris, it's 2." They say that the human body has a 90 minute REM sleep cycle, and if you can keep to that schedule of either sleeping for 90 minutes, 3 hours or 6 hours, you should be ok. I woke up, not feeling fully rested, but I had to say that it was ok. I stumbled about for a few minutes as I tried to re-orient myself, packed my gear and stumbled back into the rest of the house. I had walked back into the kitchen when I was confronted, once more, with John McClellan with his tireless smile and a pan of eggs fresh off the stove.
"Breakfast?"
Jesus. At first, I was surprised by John's seemingly superhuman endurance, then I realized that he did 600k's regularly for fun, and he was probably no stranger to all-nighters. And, of course, he didn't have to pedal 200 miles to get here. Still, our initial conversation was almost like some rejected Laurel and Hardy script.
"Eggs? French Toast?"
"Either/or?"
"Or or both."
"Do I have to decide?"
"On or or both?"
"Either or everything?"
"You don't have to choose. You can just have everything."
"That sounds simplest."
Somehow I wound up with a plate of french toast and eggs, a cup of coffee and a cup of hot water for the ginseng tea that
silentq had packed for me. I ate my breakfast and tried to catalog everything that I needed to pack for the second day. I needed something to focus on, otherwise, my mind would just drift into lost time. I saw Tracey come in as she finished her rounds of wake-up calls.
I asked her if Mike rode through.
"Mike checked in a little after 1am. He was looking pretty beat and was talking about quitting, but I told him to get some sleep, eat a little and decide then. It's amazing what a little food and a little rest can do for your morale."
One of the other guys at the table chuckled and said, "Tracey's not letting any of us quit. I was already to throw in the towel last night, and she said that there was no room in the support wagon and I had to ride back to Hanscom to get my car anyway."
"Exactly. Never make a decision when tired and on an empty stomach."
I finished my breakfast and transferred the reserve food and energy drinks that I had in my drop bag to my water bottles and jersey pockets. Then I went back outside and swapped out my batteries, as I had foolishly left my headlight on before I arrived in Sandgate and after five hours of running, it was now back down to a feeble dimness. I sat on the bench, checking my gear in the shadows of the house lamps as a couple of other riders set out ahead of me. We all looked at each other with this sort of grim determination, and one by one, I saw them disappear down the goat path, their red taillights vanishing behind the trees and mist. Back in the house, I could hear John telling some others, "Look, it's 150 miles and you have 17 hours to finish. Even if you could only manage 10 mph the rest of the way ..."
It was 3am, and there were still a lot of bikes at Sandgate. I topped off my water bottles and was about to get my bike on the road, when I saw Mike come out from the kitchen. His face looked ashen and lost. He had a massive ice pack on his knee. He said that he was ready to quit. I tried to be consoling, but I wasn't sure how well I did with 2 hours of sleep. Before we started this ride, online, we had both confessed how we were worried about riding too slow of a pace, and he told me then, "first one in buys the Ben & Jerry's." Before I rode off alone, into the night, I told him that I still owed him an ice cream; and I'd be happy to pay up either at Hanscom or sometime later. He waved me off as I departed.
Later on,
in his ride report, Mike mentioned that his knee pretty much gave out on his approach to Sandgate. It was a horrible stabbing pain that made the last 10 miles nearly torturous for him. Knowing that, it absolutely made sense for him to abandon the ride when he did. At least he was in a safe spot with food and beds and could arrange for transportation later on. But, I didn't really know this as I headed out, and a part of me still felt vaguely rotten for leaving him behind
The ascent on the goat path was tough in the darkness. The corresponding descent was terrifying, but I stayed on my bike as I figured that it would help wake me up. I made it to the end without tipping over, and while I was grateful for John and his hospitality, I was equally happy to leave his driveway behind me. That elation seemed to carry on through the first 20 miles as the few hours of sleep had given my body time to convert dinner into glycogen; and now my legs had the reserves it needed for a fresh start and a new day. It really was amazing what sort of difference a little rest and food could do. With energy, the night had lost its menace and felt peaceful and sheltering. I raced through the empty streets, passing a trio of randonneurs that had left a few minutes before me. Then I was alone again, flying past the river valley that we had originally passed on Farm Road. In the distance, I could smell strawberries ripening in the breeze. A small part of me missed the peaceful unpaved stretch that we had ridden through 12 hours before, but I also realized that it would have been difficult to navigate in the middle of the night. As it was, I could see the sky lightening on the horizon and all I wanted to do was get through Manchester and over the Green Mountains before dawn broke and the summer heat returned.
The sky was a dark blue as I cleared Manchester and I didn't need my light to see clearly. Nor did I need to to see the long ridgeline of the Green Mountains, looming before me as a single inexorable barrier. 5 miles, 2000 ft. Might as well go and just get it over with.
It is sometimes difficult to relate the physical exertion of hill climbing, as the task is inherently unexciting. It's a long, slow grind that is just as much a test of patience as it is strength. It is perhaps sufficient to say that one's speed usually drops to a fast jog - 4 or 5 mph. And that if you had to climb for 5 miles, that meant that you were going to spend an hour grinding out this climb. Take the Empire State Building and imagine having to get to the top by staircase. Now imagine having to do this after 100 miles on a bicycle. Then imagine after your finish walking up to the top, you get to parachute down. Then you have to ride another 100 miles on a bicycle. Then you have to climb the Empire State again. Then you have to do another 100 miles to get home.
Yeah. Seriously, you guys.
I admit that I had screamed in victory when I got to the top of that. I knew that there were at least two more vicious climbs awaiting me after this, but I knew that while they were both steeper, neither of them would be as long as this one was. I also knew that the next 20 miles were all downhill, and I couldn't even begin to describe how many versions of awesome that was. The only problem was that as I coasted down, my pulse slowed and this combined with the chill dawn air was starting to make me drowsy once more. I tried to pedal faster to get my core up, but it was still a difficult struggle. Eventually, I managed to ride up to a 24 hour 7-11, where a couple of other randonneurs had stopped;
one of whom was riding
a beautiful Rivendell Quickbeam fixed gear. I was destined to spend the rest of the ride playing tag with these guys, arriving at convenience stores and checkpoints just as they were leaving. I picked up a coffee and some more hot water for Ginseng, which I sipped as another rider came up. We passed the time swapping memories and making predictions of when we'd get home.
"When do you think you'll be home?"
"I'm aiming for dinner time."
"When's dinner?"
"Whenever I get home."
I got on the road again, but couldn't last for an hour before the sleepiness started to return. I had hoped to ride on until the Brattleboro checkpoint, but as I weaved dangerously close to the shoulder, I realized that getting to Brattleboro a little late was better than getting there a little dead. I decided to stop at the next store that happened to be open. By coincidence it was the same grocery store that Mike and I had stopped at in Newfane. The owner was still behind the counter, and when he saw me walk up, he asked, "going for another ride?"
"No," I said, relishing his puzzled look, "still on the same one. Just on my way back now."
He laughed and just waved my money away as I tried to pay for my coffee.
By the time I had left Newfane, the sun was over the horizon and the day was bright. I had no trouble with sleepiness after then. The climb over Black Mountain wasn't nearly as terrible as I had feared, and as I rolled into Brattleboro at about 9:15 in the morning I had this palpable feeling that the worst was behind me and that I was home free. I found the checkpoint was manned by this fellow named Eric, who had staffed many of the other checkpoints on the 200k and 300k. The checkpoint was in the parking lot of the Motel 6 on the outer fringes, and was set up just outside his room. I asked if he would let me use his bathroom, but he said that someone else was there already. "So," I said, "might as well get the other business finished" and went to get my brevet card for him to sign.
The brevet card is a piece of paper that we're supposed to bring to each checkpoint, to have a volunteer sign and verify that we had kept to the route and stayed on schedule. The cards are sent to Randonneurs USA for certification, and once certified, we can use our results to qualify for the longer 1200km rides, like Boston-Montreal-Boston or Paris-Brest-Paris. I was supposed to give Eric my brevet card, but suddenly I couldn't find it. It wasn't in any of my bags, nor was it in my rain jacket or my hydration pack. I kept it in a ziploc bag with my spare direction sheets, and the entire pouch was gone. I was afraid that I had lost it at the 7-11 or the grocery store, when I had unpacked my rain jacket to deal with the chilly temperatures in the Green Mountains, then stowed the jacket again when my descent into Newfane had completed. I didn't have any plans to ride a 1200 this year, and in real terms, losing the card would mean that I wouldn't qualify for a 600k medal or a Super-Randonneur award; which is paltry in the grand scheme of things. But it was still strangely distressing. Not knowing exactly what to do in this situation, Eric pulled out a spare brevet card and signed that instead, then enouraged me not to lose it. He also mentioned something about a long climb back into MA.
I spent the rest of that morning in the reflection of the Saturday morning approach that Mike and I had done through New Hampshire and Vermont. The ride along the Connecticut River was a steady but gentle climb and I just took an easy gear and cruised along the banks at a relatively leisurely rate. I didn't quite know where this climb was, but as the morning wore on and as the sun ascended further higher, I grew anxious about finding it before the day got too far. Then, 15 miles in at about 11 in the morning, as the sun had once again reached its zenith, I followed a road as it banked, turned and then deposited me a hundred yards away from a 400 foot high wall of a climb. Off in the distance, I could see one of the randonneurs ahead of me. He was off his bike and walking. There was no shade and the summer heat was on.
I just gritted my teeth and switched into my climbing gears once more, and tried my best to spin up the hill. As I passed the other cyclist, he said to me, "I'm saving up my energy for the next one." Sure enough, just ahead of me, the hill levelled out and then ascended again; this time longer and steeper than before. Freaking staircase climbs. It's like getting sucker punched by topography.
Eventually we both made it to the top, and conveniently, less than a mile away from the top of the hill, there was another grocery store. The fixed gear rider and his other riding companion were here, cooling off in the shade of the store, passing a gallon jug of water between them. We nodded to each other as I walked in.
"Fucking hills."
"Fucking no shade."
"Yeah."
Once inside the store, my nose was assaulted by the amazingly savory aroma. I looked about as I grabbed my own gallon jug of water and saw that, in the back by the deli counter, there was a rotisserie of chickens slowly basting on a Sunday morning. At that moment, I was seized with a blinding hunger and tempted to buy an entire chicken and just devour it all by the roadside. However, remembering the cantaloupe from yesterday, I realized that I had probably done enough damage to the reputation of randonneurs as gentlemen adventurer cyclists and refrained; paying for my gallon of water then resolving to finish the leftover sandwich that I had bought in Newfane the day before. The fixed gear and his friend left shortly afterwards, but when I recounted the story to them later on, he would tell me that if I had suggested splitting a chicken, he would have easily ravished the other half.
I still regret not getting that chicken.
The rider who had walked up the hill sat with me for a while longer and we chatted about bikes and rides. He told me that he envied my ride, which I found surprising. The Trek was a solid touring bike, good for hauling cargo, but unladen all of its overbuilt toughness felt like a liability on these hill climbing rides.
"But," he said, "you've got that huge mountain bike cassette with those big hill gears. At least you've got the option to spin up the climb. I need to hammer or walk. And I'm not too proud to walk. No hill is worth saving one's pride."
It was still odd to hear this coming from one of the riders. I had gotten used to seeing these gorgeous craftsman bikes on all of the brevets and feeling like the threadbare cousin; but in the end, it really wasn't about flash or expense but about having the best tool for a situation. Arduous circumstances can sometimes be a great leveller that way. We talked for a bit longer before I started to get anxious about hitting the road. My companion, who introduced himself as Phil, shook my hand and said that he'd rest a little longer, but we were sure to see each other at the next checkpoint if not later.
There was one last climb to conquer, a 10 to 15% ascent on Jacob's Hill that was an intense 900 foot climb. As I approached, I finished the last of my Clif Shot gels and Gatorade. This was the last really arduous challenge in the ride, and I might as well use everything that I had. It was another wall, taller and steeper than anything I had hit before, and while I was used to just sitting in my largest gears and spinning my way slowly up a climb, this was a struggle even on my highest ones. Eventually, I succumbed to Phil's advice and dismounted 50' before the end and walked to the top. I just wanted to get home. There was no prize for finishing the entire course without walking.
I was now back in Massachusetts and as I pedaled the last 10 miles into the Gardner checkpoint, it had dawned on me that I was 50 miles away from the finish. I was exhausted, nearing the end of my reserves on everything. Even my mouth felt tired, oversaturated on a diet of maltodextrine energy drinks and Clif bars. I couldn't eat another bar without vomiting and my energy drinks started to smell rotten after sitting in my bottle for the better part of a day. As I entered the outskirts of Gardner, I just opened my water bottles and emptied their synthetic contents into the street, relying solely on the water in my hydration pack to see me to the checkpoint. Slowly afterwards, a car had passed me and pulled over into the shoulder. As I moved around it to pass, the driver's side window rolled down and I saw Eric waving at me.
"We found your brevet card!" he exclaimed. "We'll see you in Gardner."
By this point, I had resigned myself to finishing the ride unofficially, but hearing the news that the card had been found was excellent and served to buoy my spirits into the last checkpoint. At the checkpoint, I stocked up on fruit, Fig Newtons and V-8. My body was craving real food at this point, and I hoped that it was enough to see me through. With my recovered brevet card in hand, and with words of encouragement from Eric and Bruce, I called
silentq to tell her that I'd be finishing around 6pm, and then pushed on for the final leg into Hanscom.
If the Brattleboro to Gardner section was an ambush of climbing, Gardner to Hanscom was a victory lap. It was a 1000' foot descent into familiar suburbs, and as I passed over the orbit of I-495, home felt very close and near. I could still remember when riding beyond 495 was a big deal, but riding within 495 was just the first and last hour of the 38 hour ordeal that I would do on this bike. The inner 'burbs of Littleton, Acton and Concord were a blur, as all I wanted to do was finish. As I approached Concord, I started to see other cyclists appear, blowing past me on their speedy little Sunday club rides. I was feeling tired and hungry, but not miserable, and as I took that final turn onto Virginia Road, the penultimate stretch of road before turning into Hanscom my body experienced a mix of feelings. Relief for being almost done. Regret that there was no more road to conquer. Anticipation for seeing
silentq again. Desperation at running on the last of my reserves and having no food. Pride for not only finishing but also finishing with a better speed than I had done on my 400k. If you just took the time that I spent on the road, and subtracted the four hours spent at Sandgate, I was finishing with an average speed well above 11 mph; which was much faster than the 10.75 on my 400k time.
"Hey, does this road go past Hanscom Air Force base?"
A lean guy with a windswept beard on an old weatherbeaten Pinarello had caught up to me.
"Yeah, take this road to the end and if you go left, you'll go over to Hanscom."
"Thanks, man. How are you doing?"
"Ok, for having finished a quad century."
There was a moment of silence before he turned back and asked, "did you say a quarter century?"
"No, I said quad. 400 miles. Well, actually more like 381 miles."
"Oh, well in that case, that's not so impressive. Ha! only kidding! Well, shit, man. That's amazing! Congratulations. I'm just coming around the corner from Walden Pond."
"Thanks, and, hey, on a day like today, Walden doesn't sound bad, either."
And so we pedaled that final mile together. While I was feeling tired and spent, somehow the company gave me just enough of a boost, and while this guy would occasionally offer to ride ahead so I could draft him, I practically insisted on just keeping pace, doing 18 or 20 mph on some of the gentler ascents around Hanscom. Meanwhile, I told someone for the umpteenth time that summer about the sport of randonneuring and the challenging, collaborative nature of the sport. He listened, nodded and smiled, and said that it sounded cool and maybe he'd like to try it next year if the series starts up again. Then we approached the stop sign. I was going to turn left, and he was going to turn right, but before either of us stopped, he just came up next to me and said, "ok, man, take care. And once again, well done." We shook hands while riding before I pulled away and turned north, to return to that parking lot and the cheers and applause that erupted as I coasted in and got my brevet card signed for one last time.
silentq had arrived a few minutes before and because she is the most awesome girlfriend in the world, had a chilled sushi dinner waiting for me in the car. Yet before I would partake of that, I picked up my gear and gave one last word of thanks to Tracey and Bruce, who had almost singlehandedly organized every aspect of this brutal, but memorable series. As I left, Bruce asked me again if I wanted to do Boston-Montreal-Boston, and once more I said that I probably couldn't make it.
"But we'll see you next year?"
"Maybe."
"You'd better be here next year," someone else said. "Next year is Paris."
Ah, yes,
Paris-Brest-Paris. 1200 kilometres from Paris to the westernmost tip of France and back. Endless hills, Atlantic headwinds, 90 hours. At 115 years in age, PBP was the oldest bicycling ride in the world. Older than the Tour. Older than the Giro and Paris-Roubaix. To ride PBP was like being a golfer at St. Andrew's or a tennis player on the courts of Wimbledon. It was a chance to become a part of the history of the sport. PBP is run once every four years, and the next ride was in 2007. It seemed that I had no sooner finished one New Year's resolution that another opened itself before me. New horizons unfolded and new forms of possibility blossomed.
My god, I love this stuff.