The Double

The week of August 15 involved two big rides for me: a double century and Ole Bull Midnight Madness solo. Here's a bit of the story of the double:

August 15, 5:05 a.m., Mansfield

It was spitting rain when Tom, Francis, and I met at the bike shop for our double century. Tom fired up the computer, looked at the weather, and proclaimed that it didn't look great. But we deceived ourselves and decided to ride to the top of Bloss Mountain to check the weather there. If it was nasty, we'd go home with 30 miles in the saddle. If it looked ok, we'd continue the descent toward State College. (If I had planned to ride alone, I would have gone home to bed.)

An hour later, we pissed under the 15 overpass at the top of Bloss Mountain and started down toward Liberty. So far, the weather had been right good. Then below Sebring, it started raining. I noticed road spray running down my legs toward my comfy, dry, and warm wool socks. Shit. By the time we hit Liberty, we were riding in a full-on downpour, and my feet felt like large goldfish stuffed into tiny fish bowls of gritty water. But turning around never entered our minds. (As far as I know, anyway.) We were committed, State College or bust. The rain was on, too, falling on us until we were south of Lock Haven.

Nothing says commitment like wet socks, a chamois full of road grit and 80 or so miles to the halfway point.

We reached our first stop in the aptly named Waterville. We ate and drank, refilled our bottles, wrung out our socks and gloves. We hopped back on the bikes and cruised down the bike path for about seven miles, seeing several deer along the way. The riding along our route to that point was fabulous--we had the roads and bike path completely to ourselves (excepting, of course, the wildlife). I wouldn't let myself think about the people curled in their dry, warm beds as we splashed past. I just looked around at the trees, the river, the houses, and let my mind wander away from the being soaked on a bike.

One of the reasons I like doing long rides that challenge me is because of the escape such rides often provide. My mind goes blank, so to speak, and drifts with the changing scenery, forgetting about unanswered emails, undone projects, or unmade phone calls. We talked about random stuff during the ride--one of my favorite parts of any ride--but we also pedaled our bikes and just looked around. (We can talk a lot, especially me, but 15 hours of talking is too much.) I didn't think about the enormity of the ride at all, didn't think about whether I have the juice to get back. It was a weird head space, calming at the time and, looking back, disconcerting. Disconcerting, because I lost of lot of what happened. My memory is mostly impressionistic--wet socks, a field full of tomatoes, the way rain sprays off Francis's or Tom's tires as I try to find a draft that doesn't saturate me.

But I also have the tangible memories: the fear while riding through Lock Haven in heavy rain and heavy traffic, replete with a couple of assholes in SUVs. (None of us looked forward to riding back through Lock Haven, but it turned out to be safer than our initial impression. Risk perception is a funky thing.) The Cream of Tomato soup in Bellefonte, followed by a turkey sandwich, potato chips, and several cups of coffee with cream. Drying my socks under the hand dryer in one of Bellefonte's public restrooms. Telling Francis that, yeah, he should go back inside the Sheetz to buy some chain lube and then using it first. (Heh, heh.) The top of Bloss Mountain on the return trip and the joy of having a tailwind from Bloss to Mansfield at the end of 180 miles. Trying to get grit out of my left eye while trying to stay in the draft through Covington as darkness settled and Francis threw some watts down. Tricky, that. I did not want to be dropped. The bonk that settled over me at the Kwik Fill below Canoe Camp, less than three miles from home. The problem: Francis was trying (again!) to rip Tom's and my legs off with a monster pull. Fortunately, we sat up at the Mansfield Borough sign, and I could eat a Snickers in order to make it back to the shop. Watching the odometer click over 200 miles as we soft-pedaled between Miller and Mansfield High School in the dark, talking of dry clothes and beer.

That pitcher of Magic Hat #9 was good.


Some stats: 200.5 miles, 16.7 average, 12 hours riding time, 15 hours overall, 10-11,000 calories burned (for me, anyway)

#1 stat: A kick-ass day on the bike with the boys.