by jud » Tue Jun 30, 2009 4:02 am
I loved the ride. I hated it.
I laughed. I cried. (well, I wanted to cry)
I've never felt better. I've never suffered worse.
When we left the Quakertown hostel at 4 a.m. Friday morning, the ghosts of Paris-Brest-Paris 2007 wafted through my mind. My first PBP turned out to be a DNF after about 950 of the 1200k, as I dropped out with a bad case of Shermer neck. It was a bitter disappointment. If I am fortunate enough to get the chance to ride PBP in 2011, I would like to think I learned: 1. Don't go 44 hours before your first sleep. 2. Get enough rest when you do sleep. 3. Take care of that neck. 4. Take care of your hands (it took 7 months to clear the numbness in my fingertips after PBP).
The 1000k this weekend was my chance for some partial redemption. I worked my average cadence up about 10 rpm to save my legs and took my headlamp off my helmet during daylight hours to remove pressure from my head and neck muscles. I vowed to take 5 hours for each sleep stop, 3 of them asleep. Notwithstanding aerodynamics, I vowed to take a more upright riding position, to shift more weight on my rear end and less on my hands. This had the further advantage of requiring less work for my neck muscles to keep my head up. Surely, if I could survive PA RBA Tom Rosenbauer's most dreaded and hilliest ride (at least until the inaugural 1240k even in the fall), I would show myself something.
Day 1 (of hills and hailstones)
For the first 20 miles or so I rode with various other riders through dark but by now familiar roads from the earlier PA events. When I stopped to fix the electrical connection on one of my E6 generator lights, I lost my last riding companions and I never really rode with anyone for any extended period again, unlike my experiences in the 400k and 600k. I wanted to ride my own pace. Tom had warned us about the first day, noting there were at least four large climbs and countless smaller ones packed into its 208 miles to the hotel in Halstead.
I made decent progress up Blue Mountain, then Fox Gap, then headed into NJ for the long climb of Millbrook Road. I arrived at Raymondskill Falls back over the PA line knowing it was steep, though never having climbed it before. The sun was hot and I was almost out of water. Out of nowhere on Route 209 just before the climb appeared volunteer Jim Logan on his bike. He had set up a refreshment control on the climb, where I refilled by Camelbak. Jim was one of several outstanding volunteers on this ride. Seeing them made keeping a positive attitude easier. And there were some things that were hard to be positive about.
For instance, at mile 151, just as I turned onto OwegoTurnpike past Lake Wallenpaupack, I saw and heard what appeared to be a large thunderstorm headed my way. Though it wasn't raining yet, I could stop at a restaurant on the right and wait it out, and risk feeling foolish if the storm avoided me, or keep going and figure I could seek shelter later, if needed. I elected to continue. Within five minutes, the sky opened up and I knew I had to get off the road.
Owego Turnpike was shoulderless and filled with speeding dump trucks. I was passing through an isolated wooded area. Great. Which of these trees is the lightning rod? I leaned my bike on a tree trunk and stood under a canopy of leaves, figuring the stand of trees where I was standing were not the tallest around. Soon the rain turned to sleet and I mean, large gum ball sized chunks. They made a dull thudding sound as they hit my helmet. A car stopped at the edge of the road and a kind woman got out. "Let me give you a ride." she said. "I'm OK," i said, sort of believing it. I felt like a fool, actually. How could I explain randonneuring to her in a way that made sense? Did it make sense? She looked at me dubiously for a moment, then got back in her car.
The hail turned back into rain about 10 minutes later, then the rain eased up. I took off my shoes and poured out a shot glass worth of water from each. I put them on again, clipped into the pedals and proceeded slowly down Owego, grateful that the temperatures were in the 60s instead of the 40s. I probably took an hour or more before I started to feel drier and warmer. Survival Experience No. 1 completed.
On Middle Creek Road shortly after mile 160, as I was beginning to think about the less than 50 miles to the sleep stop, I saw a detour sign. At a bridge, the road was blocked by a truck. Fortunately, there was a two-foot section left to walk over. I continued on toward Carbondale, which last year's riders warned would require nasty climbs both on the way in and the way out. Carbondale is a down on its luck coal town. The Dunkin Donuts where we had the controle was the nicest looking building I saw in the downtown. The roads looked like they all needed a good resurfacing. There was a large abandoned school right in the middle of the business district. It seemed to be surrounded by steep hills. You descended steeply to get there and ascended just as steeply to get out. Because of this, the town felt like it was underground.
The climb up the ridge just before Carbondale, Mt. Salem, was long and steep, but the effort helped dry me out. I also benefited enormously from my 30-34 lowest gear (to call it a granny would be disrespecting grandmothers, it's an uber-granny) and my loss of five pounds this summer. Without the extra gearing and lost weight, I would have been walking up some of those climbs. Finally, I made it to mile 208 and the first sleep stop. Jim Logan was there to check us in. It was 10 p.m. Given the 30-minute rain delay, I was right on my schedule.
Based upon my previous times on PBP and various 600k's, I figured I could do about 12 mph including stops the first day. That mean an arrival at the first of the two sleep stops at 9:30 p.m. After a 5-hour overnight break, I would then average 10 mph including stops on Day 2 and Day 3, when my legs would be sore and my speed, inevitably, would lag. I have learned from my many 600k rides and PBP that I have a hard time riding on the second and third day of tough rides. I need rest to recover and I don't recover that quickly even when rested. I guess many 52-year-olds are like that.
Day 2 (the endless sufferings)
The next day was every bit as tough as Day 1, probably worse. The first 70 miles were relatively flat, as we rode along the southern tier of New York, passing through the city of Binghamton. This was the only time since the first 20 miles that I had a riding companion, as John Fessendon and I shared some miles in the dark. When I stopped to eat breakfast at a McDonalds at mile 250 or so, he went ahead and I never saw him again. I rode alone the rest of the way.
This was likely the hardest day of my bicycling life. My legs were hurting with every pedal stroke. Again and again we encountered hills, large and small. The climb up Route 44 at mile 353 was six miles long, but it was endless rollers with their nearly 20 pecent pitches that really had me cursing Tom. If there was any bright side to all this suffering, it was that my idea of hilly gradually changed. A road with a moderate grade felt flat in comparison. The three hours sleep didn't seem enough, as I began yawning repeatedly. I took a page out of Laurent Chambard's book and got off the bike for a few short power naps. They did help.
The turning point of that day, and perhaps the ride, was a food stop I made at an ice cream and sandwich stop on Route 44 just before the long climb. My stomach was giving me unexpected problems and I finally traced it to some two-day old Accelerade in my Camelbak. When I rinsed it out and put fresh liquid in, the stomach problems vanished and I got new energy. I actually felt stronger as I continued up the climb. Of course, the climbing wasn't over when we reached the top of the Route 44 segment. We simply turned left for more climbing up Route 664. Tom must be smiling, I thought.
Finally I saw the "trucks on cheese" sign that signaled a long descent and what a descent it was. As I glided down into Lock Haven and the Susquehanna River valley, I was struck by the sharp colors of the fields and mountains. The river was in the middle, with the fields fanning out in all directions and then the mountains framing the background. My favorite spot of the entire ride was at mile 391 just after the controle at Lamar, where we turned right onto Heltman Road down a small hill toward the river. I felt like I was the focal point of long aerial pullout shot in a movie.
The view ahead was a line of road in a straight line down, with green farmlands on either side, spanning for miles and the mountains ahead. I had little doubt that one of those mountains had my name on it. And, this being one of Tom's rides, I found that mountain in short order. Up I climbed again as dusk arrived. It got dark just as I finished a long descent. There followed two hours of night riding on a busy road through a state forest. I made it to the Lewisburg sleep stop just before midnight, right on my schedule. After having a friendly chat with volunteers Ron and Barbara Anderson, to whom I bitterly complained about Tom's route and his seeming obsession with hills of every kind, I got my 3 hours of sleep.
Day 3 (danger and redemption)
The final day started very promisingly. I felt less drowsy than on the morning of Day 2, perhaps because it was already daylight at 5 a.m. when I set out. Because I was more alert, I paid more attention to my surroundings. During a long climb out of the valley on Route 147 at about mile 440 I noticed what looked like thousands of worms wriggling along the highway. Though I tried not to run over them, I know I committed worm genocide. It was frankly, a little unnerving to realize that there were so many worms in the ground. A few miles later, I was treated to a barnyard serenade, as two barking dogs were joined first by a crowing rooster and then a mooing cow. I think the rooster and cow were just telling the dogs to shut up.
Another long climb (what else?) appeared on the way to Good Springs at about 480. Shortly after the top, volunteer Paul Searce appeared on his bike and showed me a refreshment controle he had set up. This was perfect, as I was running low on food and liquid again. More water for the Camelbak and a much needed peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
When i reached the controle at the Hess Station in Lickdale at mile 507, I was back on roads familiar from the earlier brevets. I knew there was plenty more climbing, but nothing as bad as the worst of Days 1 and 2. Tom had finally showed some mercy. Some confusion about the cue sheet (mine, not Tom's) at Middle Creek Road at mile 530 cost me about 20 minutes. As it turned dark, I was leaving the last intermediate control at the Wawa in Spring City at mile 588. It began to rain, at first lightly and then more steadily. I followed Tom's excellent cue sheet directions along busy Route 113 and then a climb up to Route 563, a very familiar sight.'
Just 15 miles from the finish, I knew I was physically in better shape than I could have expected, given the terrain of this ride and my experience of PBP. No neck problems at all. Only minor numbness in my right thumb. I knew this part of the route cold. What could go wrong?
The sound of squealing brakes suddenly began behind me. A car heading toward me. Would I be hit? Better sprint and hope he stops in time. The squealing ends. The car, a blue sedan whose driver I never saw, sped off. "You could have killed me!" I shouted. It had not been raining hard. This happened on a moderate climb with a limited shoulder, as I was riding to the right of the road with full reflective gear and a working rear headlight. Later, in speaking with Tom about it, I told him I thought the driver was either drunk or wasn't paying attention. Tom said it could have been a deliberate attempt to scare me.
As I continued more nervously up 563, the drivers of two pickup trucks (and it seems it's always a guy in a large pickup) yelled something I couldn't understand at me. Tom may be correct in his theory that this guy (I'm assuming it's a guy) did this on purpose. The next morning I drove back there and failed to find any serious skid marks, making me think he didn't break as hard as I might have thought. On the bright side, during that later stretch on 563 a man in a sedan did ask if I wanted a ride. I was more than a little tempted to say yes, but I wasn't giving up that easily. Anyway, there is no denying the danger we face on the roads, especially at night or even worse on a rainy night. Survival Experience No. 2.
I made it back to the hostel in Quakertown at 11:29 p.m., with a total time of 67:29, well under the 75-hour limit. The squealing brakes took a little of the joy out of my return. It got me thinking about the risks and rewards of randonneuring. We don't like to talk about safety, but we all think about it, I'm sure.
All in all, this was probably the hardest bicycle ride I've ever done. At 622 miles, it is also the second longest, after my cross country trip in 1977. I'm signed up for the Endless Mountains 1240 in the fall. If all goes well, I may be back at PBP in 2011, with more redemption in mind. But all I'm thinking about now is the medal I got from Tom for finishing, beautifully framed by his daughter. The frame also shows the route map and, of course, the elevation profile. I look at it sometimes and smile. I did that profile, I think to myself.
Thanks Tom and the volunteers Ron, Barbara, Jim, Paul (and a cameo at the end by Bill Olsen) for all your good work. I never knew how beautiful that part of Pennsylvania is. I never knew I could survive that many hills, or that much pain.
Jud Hand