Yeah, but how many miles today?

Spring has finally arrived in Boston. It lasted some 30 seconds before we charged right on to one of the most beautiful summers I can remember. Ever since I stopped working about 2 weeks ago, the weather has been in the sixties, seventies, and even high eighties with beautiful, sunny blue skies. It's made it impossible to get anything done, including blogging, finding a job, or packing for my trip. (I leave tomorrow, eep!) What I have done, though, is ride my bike nearly every single day. Last week I rode over 425 miles all in one week, just because there was no reason not to.

On Monday I went out for a 45-mile ride with some of the bike shop groupies to watch the Boston Marathon. We took it easy, and rode up the course backwards to mile 10 to watch the wheelchair competitors, the elite men and women (wow, Kara Goucher is even hot when she's running!), and most of the qualified runners come by. Somehow I missed Cranky running by, which I was very disappointed about. This post is not about the Boston Marathon, but there is one thing I noticed while I was watching. I know that they say that elite men and elite women run at roughly the same cadence, but that's not what it looked like. The elite men looked like they were taking long, effortless, bounding strides. The women, on the other hand, were taking tiny, choppy strides. Their feet looked like they were moving about 6 inches per stride, and that they were able to maintain sub-6-minute-mile pace because they were taking about a thousand of those 6-inch strides in a minute. The Asian women, especially seemed to take short, choppy strides. It was all very interesting.

Volunteers setting up at about mile 22.

Riding down Heartbreak Hill.

The elite women. Do you recognize them?

The best picture I got of the Elite men. I'm a BAD photographer!

On Wednesday I took my Phyxie out for a training ride because I thought it might rain on me. I made it 55 miles before I gave up on the rain catching up to me and went home. It's amazing how having to pedal without a break for 3 hours really wore me out much more than riding a geared bike at the same speed. It took my crotch days to recover from sitting in that horrible saddle for so long.

On Friday it got up to almost 80 degrees, and I went out for a solo 130-mile ride. I rode out to the start of a local century about 15 miles away (Climb to the Clouds if you know the rides in the area), and rode the course by myself. The ride has TONS of climbing, but the weather was perfect, the roads were well paved, and it was the first day that the trees had started to bloom and the leaves were starting to spring out. I had a tailwind the whole way home. It was the kind of ride that reminds me why I love riding my bike. I didn't have a single low moment the whole ride. Here are more bad pictures of pretty things taken while riding:

I was very high up in the air. That's what this photo is supposed to show. It doesn't.

Pretty mountain in the background. Instead it looks like a picture of 2 dead trees.

These people must have been very rich because they had a huge house... but I'd passed it before the camera took the picture.

And this is what much of the road looked like. I'm so lucky! I think I peed in these woods, by the way.

Grease Monkey's butt.

On Saturday my Grease Monkey got her new Specialized S-Works Ruby, so I rode a whopping 4 miles with her to work, and 4 miles back. It was pretty intense.

And then on Sunday, I rode a 300K, or 190 miles: about 6 miles shorter than my longest-ever ride.

The ride started out in Schuylerville, NY (about 4 hours away) at 4:00 in the morning. To be there with enough time before the start, I had to leave my house at about 11:30 at night. I like driving through the night, and I was just thrilled with my life as I drove alone across MA and into NY, drinking coffee the whole time. The coffee probably explains why I was loving life so much, and also why once I got off the interstate somewhere near Troy, NY, I had to pee RIGHT THEN! No worries, it was about 2:45 in the morning and I was on a deserted state highway in cow country. I pulled over and began to relieve myself as nature intended. Of course, how could it have gone any other way, a pick-up full of rowdy men drove by right then. I tied it off, stood up, and tried to pull my pants up before they got too close... but what else would someone be doing standing with their pants open in front of their car on a deserted highway at this time of night? They all yelled and hooted and drove on. My day's humiliation over, I climbed back in the car and drove the rest of the way to John, the world's most generous race director's house.

I had never ridden at night before, not really. Sure, I'd ridden under street lights on busy roads for a mile or two, but never in night like this. Schuylerville is so rural that there are no street lights on its roads. There are no cities or buildings that have bright lights on through the night. The moon wasn't even out. It was DARK! We let John, the world's most generous race director lead the charge for the first 2 hours until the sun came up. We rode through an inky black vacuum where you couldn't see farther than 30 feet in front of you, or however far your light reached. I sat on the front next to John, because I didn't trust these other people in the dark. What if they turned into monsters or something?

We're riding along, 2-abreast, taking up the whole traffic lane with John, the world's most generous race director on the left and me on the right when suddenly a GIANT dark beast began moving on the side of the road, and moving FAST! I screamed and swerved. We all yelled and braked. It was Bigfoot! It was a grizzly bear! No, wait, never mind... it was... a horse that had gotten loose. It still scared the shit out of me, and I wasn't about to get too close to it and startle it in the dark. The horse galloped ahead of us for a few miles, and it kept looking back. I think that it realized what deep shit it was in trying to get away in the dark and it was using our lights. Finally it stopped running with us and we rolled along at a less cautious pace again.

I tried to take a picture of the horse, but this was all that came out. It's out there though, believe me.

Other animals I saw on my ride:
Skunk - dead
Beaver - living
Cows and goats - living
Porcupine - splat!
Wild turkeys - both living and dead
Lots and lots and lots of frog pancakes, many with one lone leg sticking up in the air - dead
Dear - deceased

When the sun came up, everyone was still together. Of the roughly 10 riders, there were two kinds: There were the experienced Brevet riders who spent the whole time talking to each other about how "Last year the Catskills 1200k was the only Brevet I did all year, and I don't recommend doing it that way..." and "Well the last time I went to PBP (Paris-Brest-Paris, the Kona, Boston Marathon, or Western States of ultracycling)..." These guys had all the attachments for the geeky reflective night gear, lacked just enough social skills to be into this kind of thing, and wore RUSA (Randonneurs USA) jerseys. The other riders were the ones whose lights hung limply off their snappy racing kits and no handlebar bags with handy plastic windows on top to put their cue sheets in. There were 11 checkpoints along the course, and by the third the two groups had sifted themselves out. I was surprised to find that the people who did most of their training by themselves and couldn't pronounce Randonneur to save our lives were the ones who wound up ahead. The experienced riders scratched together whole meals at each gas station checkpoint and sat around to take their time and eat them. Those of us who were used to riding alone grabbed whatever we could shove into pockets or bottles and got back to our bikes as soon as possible. At least for me, it was out of habit. Not only do I hate wasting time getting cold at rest stops (it just makes you stiffer and more sore), but when I stop on my own long rides, if I spend too long in a convenience store my bike could get stolen.

Mine and Lance's bikes in front of one of the checkpoints.

By about mile 50, John, the world's most generous race director and I were riding with a French-Canadian girl we'll call Canadian Spice (because she had the same name as 2 of the spice girls... sorta), and a guy we'll call Lance (because he was wearing a yellow jersey and resembled Lance Armstrong in that they're both white men on bicycles). As we rode the next 140 miles together, I got to know both their stories, and was impressed by both of their grit, and also their humility. It's important to respect someone if you're going to be staring at their ass or letting them stare at yours for over 12 hours.

Canadian Spice was from Montreal and rode a 13-pound (including pedals and bottle cages) beautiful Cervélo with Zipp wheels. "I didn't always ride such a nice bike," she said in her cute French accent. "A few years ago I rode across Canada on a big metal frame that weighed over 20 lb." She rode solo, completely unsupported, for 10 to 12 hours a day from one side of Canada to the other in a few weeks. "But then last year I was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and I thought that I deserved to spoil myself. Why save money on a bike when biking is my passion? Life is too short!" And why did she ride a Cervélo, of all the nice bikes out there? "Because Cervélo means brain," she said. And they're Canadian. That bike WAS sexy... it even SOUNDED fast.

Lance was the quiet type. We hardly spoke until after the 100th mile when we finally began exchanging life stories. He had no idea what a brevet was, or Randonneuring, or PBP. He just loved the challenge of riding his bike long distances, and usually did so alone. He would just set out by himself before dawn and ride 200 miles or more, until it started to get dark again, then he would go home to his wife and kids. He hoped to get to 300 solo miles this year... and finish the whole thing before sunset.

In the beginning of the ride, my ass was dragging. I was still sore from the 130 hilly miles 2 days before. But later in the ride, I started to feel great! In fact, I felt better at mile 150 than I had at mile 50. Not everyone was quite so lucky in staving off fatigue. John, the world's most generous race director, kept cramping and getting dropped off the back. After the century mark he was dropping off the back more and more quickly, and at the rest stops he was getting grouchy. After a grouchy conversation with Lance about which side of the lake was the north side, he let himself get dropped for good. I was still on cloud nine. I had packed 2 nutella and almond butter sandwiches; 3 bags of a mix of spice drops, almond M&Ms, charleston chews, and banana chips; and 3 Kind bars. At every control point (gas station) I filled up my bottles with a different kind of drink. I started with Accelerade, but then moved on to Gatorade, root beer, orange juice, Mountain Dew, and the mother of all energy drinks: Red Bull. Lance and Canadian Spice were sharing ham sandwiches, and Canadian spice was stocking up on the best that the Land of the Free has to offer: Nature Valley Sweet & Salty Nut granola bars.
"We don't have these in Canada!" she said through a full mouth. "These are great!" she gushed, as she shoved one in her mouth and the other five from the pack in her pockets.

My pockets were so stuffed with food that I had to put my sandwiches in a backpack that I wore until about 130 miles when I finally had enough space in my pockets to take it off.

"How is that Red Bull?" Lance asked. "Does it taste good?"
"It tastes like jelly beans that someone's spit back into the can with some Lysol," I said, "but the sugar and caffeine help."
"It's kind of a funny color..." he made a face as I poured it into my water bottle. It reminded me of that scene in House where House is standing in front of a urinal with a can of energy drink in his hand and he says to Wilson, "Funny, it's the same color coming out as going in. Do you think they do that on purpose?"

Yes, Red Bull looks disgusting, tastes disgusting, and has so many questionable substances in it that I wouldn't be surprised if it's outlawed in 10 years, but it works. While Lance had been doing much of the pulling for the first part of the ride, I was now riding in front more and more. I guess it was noticeable enough for Canadian Spice and Lance to share a Red Bull at the next checkpoint. They each got paper cups, and split up a 16 oz can. "It doesn't taste nearly as bad as it smells," Lance said.
"Oh my goodness! I really like it!" Canadian Spice giggled with her accent that just kept getting more and more endearing. "I've never tried it. I eat all organic, all natural, but this tastes really good!"
"Really?!" I asked. I hate Red Bull. I'd moved on to Mountain Dew.
"Oh my God, yeah! I love it! I'm going to get another one before we head out!" And that she did.

We were now rolling through about 200K (125 miles) into our 300K, and Lance and Canadian Spice had their first Red Bull wings. "Wow! I can't believe how much better I feel!" Lance kept saying.
"I'm going to buy a whole case of the stuff!" Canadian Spice went on. At the next stop, which was at a pizza shop, they walked right over to the cooler together to look for more Red Bull while I got our cards stamped.

Meanwhile, while Canadian Spice and Lance were high on Red Bull, we were riding through the Adirondack National Park, and I was high on life. I should have been getting cranky at this point, but I wasn't. As cheesy as it sounds, all I could think about was how lucky I was that my body let me do this. I know I should have taken pictures, but I knew they wouldn't come out. We rode for about 25 miles along one road that rolled up and down like a roller coaster, each downhill would give you just enough momentum to get to the top of the next one. The scenery was beautiful, the pavement was perfect, there were almost no cars, and the riders I was with were of similar riding styles. My body even felt good.

At the next rest stop (you'll notice that this isn't exactly sequential... it was a long day, just bear with me) one of the ruddy-faced townies that looked like he spent his mornings drinking coffee at the convenience store and evenings drinking Budweiser at the local bar asked, "How many miles have you ladies ridden?"
Canadian Spice paused, trying to do the conversion from metric in her head. "One thirty," I told him.
"And how many of those have you ridden today?" he asked, with "little ladies" implicit in his tone.
"Those were all today!" Canadian Spice beamed.
He took a moment, trying to figure out if we were lying. "It would take me a week to ride that far!" he said, now genuinely impressed. Damned right it would! I thought. It was still only lunch time.

The rest of the day continued in much the same way. We would ride for an hour or two, and then stop at a gas station checkpoint and Canadian Spice would get more Red Bull. I had the cue sheet, so I lead more and more because my math skills were getting a bit fuzzy so I kept giving the wrong instructions to Lance. We would make a turn at mile 169.5 and the next turn wouldn't be until mile 174.9 and I would say, "Okay, now keep your eye out because it's going to be a quick right on bluebird lane in half a mile." That sort of thing. Canadian Spice never lead, but she was just so damned cute, it was impossible to care.

Finally, we hit the 24-hour course with about 17 miles to go, and a big tailwind picked up. I lead a paceline next to the Hudson river riding 23 miles per hour with 180 miles already on our odometers. We were cooking! We were going to be the first riders in to the finish by hours. "Now no sprint finishes when we get back!" Lance joked.
"No way! I'm too tired!" I lied. I kind of wanted to be the first one in, even though it was a non-competitive ride and the other two would be right behind me.
"A sprint?! Forget it!" said Canadian Spice.

We came down the final hill towards John's house and all tucked into aerodynamic crouches. And then suddenly my cue sheet and brevet card which had been obediently clipped to my handlebars for 189.5 miles flew off. "Nooooooooooooooo!" I screamed. If you don't have your Brevet card at the end, you don't get credit for finishing. I turned around up the hill, and my companions were kind enough to wait for me. "C'mon!" I called as I zoomed by them a minute later, touching my brakes, but just barely. I made the final right and started sprinting down Pearl St. towards John, the world's most generous race director's house. Just then Canadian Spice came around me and zoomed past to the house in the last 30 feet. "Nooooooooooooooo!" I yelled again for the second time in 2 minutes. I didn't really care, and we all laughed about it later as they accused me of dropping my cue sheet on purpose, but the coolest part was that 2 women were among the first three to finish. "I've never been in a group ride before where women were the strongest riders!" Lance said. "This brevet stuff is pretty cool."

I really look like a tool on the left. Am I sticking my butt out?!

After that I shoved some sandwiches in my mouth and hit the road. I got home almost 24 hours after leaving, stinky and sweaty and dog tired, but STILL in a good mood.

Okay, that's it for awhile. I'm off to Europe tomorrow night, so stay tuned to the twitter feed at the top of the sidebar. Have a great month, everyone. Happy trails!