Study in Lights and Darks: My 300K DNF

I know, the title rather takes the suspense out of it. Last Saturday I attempted the New England Randonneurs 300K brevet. Having done all the major climbs and passed all the controls, I abandoned the ride on the last leg - with 45 miles to go. A week later, I am still not sure how I feel about what happened. It is as if I remember two entirely different rides - one wonderful beyond words and the other to an equal degree awful. The contrast is so great, that my mind cannot process it into a unified experience. So this will be my attempt to.

Earlier this Spring, I completed four RUSA-sanctioned events with the New England Randonneurs: two 100K Permanents, the official 100K Populaire, and the 200K brevet. Initially I had no plans to attempt the 300K. But in the weeks that followed a gradual change of heart began to take place. Largely this was because I found the route so attractive. It was a new route this year - a tour of Massachusetts via rural back roads, and it looked simply too good to miss. As time passed, something also changed in me physically and I began to feel - in a very literal sense - that I had it in me to do the distance. That I had the strength, the willingness, the potential at least. As the date of the 300K approached, this feeling solidified. It was in the car heading home from DROVES (a weekend retreat in Vermont that focused on dirt roads and climbing) that I made the firm decision.

After DROVES I felt well rested, and as well-trained as I was going to get. I did not ride much in the following days, saving my strength for the 300K. I also gave a lot of thought to the logistics of the event. Aside from the added milage, there were several new challenges to consider. One was the elevation gain. Everyone who knew the route warned me about the huge amount of climbing, describing it as even more difficult than the climbs on the 200K. With this in mind, I decided to take my Rawland instead of my lighter and racier Seven, because the former has considerably lower gears. In preparation, I did a couple of paved 100K+ rides on the Rawland and timed myself. Though a bit slower, I was still fast enough to get through a brevet on time. Conveniently, this bike was also equipped with dynamo lights.

But what had even experienced randonneurs concerned about the 300K this year, was the weather. We've had a cold spring, and the previous weekend in particular was downright wintry. On the day of the brevet, the forecast promised temperatures in the mid-90s. To ride all day in such heat is difficult enough, but to do so without having a chance to acclimatise is even more so. I do not do well in hot weather, so I tried to prepare. I stayed off alcohol and started drinking loads of water days before the ride. I procured an ultra-lightweight white mesh jersey with SPF protection and "sun sleeves." I stocked up on electrolyte mix to last the entire ride. And in the hot days before the 300K I went out for brief rides in the sun at high noon, so that the weather would not be a complete shock the day of.

Packing my bike the evening before, I felt calm and looked forward to the ride. Taking advantage of the handlebar bag on my Rawland, I packed: an extra water bottle, snack foods, a spare jersey (wool, in case the high-tech SPF mesh didn't agree with me), extra lights, sunscreen, chamois cream, pain medication, bandaids, and an external battery for topping up my GPS and phone charge. In my saddle wedge I packed tools and 2 spare tubes.

The actual distance of the event would be 193.4 miles. I was able to get a ride to the start from another rider, which meant I would not need to add any extra miles riding to and from home. Barring unforeseen circumstances, it all seemed manageable.

Even at 5:30 in the morning, filling out forms in the concrete parking lot of the Hanscom Airbase, it was obvious that the day would be scorchingly hot. The sun was out already, casting dramatic shadows. I applied sunscreen and wandered around. It looked like 35 or so riders with the usual variety of bicycles - from modern road race to traditional rando, to everything in between. Unlike on previous rides, everyone had a good sized handlebar or saddle bag, or both, attached to their bike this time. I was teased a little for showing up at the 300K after having said "no more" last time. Yeah yeah yeah, I grumbled.

Setting off just after 6am, there was some shuffling around for the first mile, but soon we were all strung out a comfortable distance from one another, with me somewhere in the middle.

On the cue sheet and GPS files, the ride was separated into 6 Legs, with a control at the end of each. The first three would take us west, across northern Massachusetts. The third would bring us down south a bit. And the final two would return us home. Thinking of the ride in terms of these distinct, self-contained segments made it feel very manageable. First we ride 20 miles. Now we ride 35. Now another 30 miles. And so on.

The first leg was easy, pleasant, and immediately scenic. It made for an excellent warm-up: starting out flat and rolling, building up to a 2-mile climb at the end. Briefly I rode with another Ride Studio Cafe cyclist, Henry. He is Dutch, very strong, with beautiful pedal strokes. We wished each other good luck, and soon he was off like a slingshot. Later I was caught by some other riders I knew from previous brevets. They passed me uphill, I passed them downhill, they passed me uphill again. After that I passed two riders on the side of the road, one of whom was having a mechanical issue. At the first control, I ate a hot breakfast quickly and moved on right away.

On paper, the second leg was all climbing. But in practice I did not experience it that way. Except for a short very steep stretch toward the end where I had to walk briefly, it all felt fine. I was making good time, with plenty of cushion room. The scenery was beautiful, with lots of shade to shield riders from the intensifying sun. I was going through my water at a rate of one bottle per 10-15 miles and feeling good. Part of the way, I rode with another rider and we arrived at the second control together: a country store at mile 52. Here I refilled my 3 bottles (two in the cages, one in the handlebar bag) and tried to force myself to eat. It was getting very hot now and I had no appetite. Others at the control seemed to feel the same, hanging out in the shade until they felt cooled down enough to eat. It was very comfortable at the little country store, with its picnic benches surrounded by pine trees. I tried not to stay too long and was soon on my way again.

Leg 3 took us to the westernmost point of the route and over beautiful stretches such as Tully Lake and Mt. Grace. I was feeling so good and elated at this point, that I did not realise I was climbing over an actual mountain until I saw it on the map later. At the 65 mile point I checked my time and saw I was just over 6 hours into the ride. I passed a few riders somewhere along the way, which I took as a sign I was doing okay. If I kept going at this rate, I would finish in 18 hours - with 2 hours to spare before the 20 hour cutoff. By the time I arrived at the next control at mile 85 I lost some of that cushion on the final climb, but was still doing well. I was also feeling hungry now, which was timely as this was the food stop: a BBQ place with outdoor seating. 

At the food stop, there were many other riders, and some of them did not look good - suffering from the heat. Some sat in front of their food staring at it absently. Others were lying down on the grass with their eyes closed. I heard one rider making a phone call to announce he was abandoning. And I learned that at least two others had abandoned already as well.

But the biggest surprise was seeing Emily at this control. Emily is a much, much stronger rider than me, and at timed events I would not normally see her for the entire ride. To catch up to her on a control meant something was wrong. And it was: She couldn't eat; she didn't feel well in the heat. Leaving most of her food behind, she finally left shortly before I did. Even her dill pickle remained half-eaten.

As I set off to leave, I asked where the bathroom was and learned it was out of order. The owner tried to give me directions to the bathrooms in the town center, but I did not want to waste time on a detour and continued without a pee break.

The 4th Leg should have been comparatively easy, without much climbing. But it was made difficult by the almost complete lack of shade. For a stretch we cycled along an open country highway, with nowhere to hide from the 95F heat and the blazing sun. Later it was farmlands, with an equal lack of tree shade. It was mid-afternoon by now, but the sun and temperature were not waning. Wearing all-white and guzzling water, I did not get sick from the heat as some of the others did. But I could feel it slowing me down, sapping my energy as I neared mile 100.

Shortly after we passed Deerfield - the home of the famous D2R2 event - something uncanny happened. I remembered that Richard Sachs lived somewhere in the area. And no sooner did this thought cross my mind, that I saw a lone dark figure on a bicycle on the opposite side of the country highway. "No way," I thought. "No way." But as we neared each other, I could clearly make out the red bike and the all-black kit, and finally the face - across which a look of what seemed like surprised recognition flashed just as we crossed paths for that split second. The "was it or wasn't it?!" question plagued me for the rest of the ride. When Mr. Sachs himself confirmed it later that weekend, I was immensely relieved it was not a heatstroke-induced hallucination.

All throughout this leg I tried to ride faster, but the sun and heat felt like a harness holding me back. By the time I reached the next control, my cushion time had dwindled to 45 minutes. I ran to use the bathroom, then went to fill my water bottles at the rest stop. To my surprise some riders were hanging out here - in a seemingly leisurely fashion, some with their shoes off. Maybe I was needlessly worried about the time? I had some watermelon and stretched my upper body as we chatted briefly. One of the riders - an NEBC racer - had just passed me an hour earlier. She had started late, having cracked a chainstay on her main bike and switching to another at the last moment. Emily was also there, still not feeling great. When I set off she stayed behind, telling me she'd catch up and we could ride together the rest of the way.

The rest of the way was "only" 80 miles at this point. I felt in my legs and in my gut that I could do it. I just needed to be mindful of the time and make it to the next control with some cushion. After that, it would be just the final leg home.

Leg 5 was the last one with any major climbing. To be precise: an 11-mile climb, followed by a descent and a flat stretch, followed by a 5-mile climb. I knew it would be difficult, but on paper it did not look any worse than the stretches we'd done earlier. In practice, it felt much worse. The sun was waning already, but the heat of the day had done its work and I felt "cooked." With over 100 miles in my legs, I was slow climbing. I spun and ground and pushed myself and played songs in my head with a fast rhythm, and even tried to stand (successfully), but nothing helped. No matter how I tackled the 11-mile climb, I was slow. Slow-slow-slow. Some miles in, Emily caught up. She attempted to ride with me, but I was sincerely worried about my speed and did not want to drag her down with me - so I told her to go on without. Reluctantly she agreed and disappeared around the next bend. I tried standing and pedaling in a higher gear again. The fact that I could do it was not bringing me any joy now. It didn't seem to help. I sat back down and spun/ground as fast as I could. It was endless. I could feel the time slipping away.

When the descent came, I switched into the big ring and did not touch the brakes. Any cornering problems I had in the past did not even enter my mind; I just needed to make up all the time I'd lost. It worked, and on the flat I could finally take a breath of relief.

Until the dirt road. When I first saw what awaited me, I could not believe it. First came a section where the road was under construction, "Caution, turn back" signs, completely dug up and unridable, and finally blocked from traffic with tall piles of sand and debris. I had to carry my bike across this for what must have been just a short time but seemed eternal at this stage in the game. Then came the 2-mile stretch of "dirt," which was, frankly, loose sand all the way, strewn with alarmingly sharp rocks. Fishtailing slightly even with my 42mm tires, I could only imagine what this felt like on skinny road tires. It did not seem right to be on this godforsaken road, but both my GPS and cue sheet directions indicated I was riding where I was supposed to be. This was confirmed when a car passed me... a car belonging to one of the ride volunteers, with a bike hoisted upon the roof-rack and a dispirited-looking rider in the passenger's seat. Another abandon.

With the dirt finally over, I picked up the pace as much as I could, but soon came the final 5 mile climb. I gritted my teeth and pedaled with all my might, feeling no sensation what so ever. The sun was setting. The sky glowed gold, then pink over an endless stretch of creepy bog. The final control cutoff was fast approaching and my entire being filled with intense disbelief and feel of impeding tragedy. No-no-no-no-no. This can't be happening. No. Please no. I stopped checking the time and just pedaled, focusing on nothing but making the final control until the road dumped me at the grassy knoll.

Volunteer staff were waiting in a wooden pavilion. When I got off the bike, I was so out of breath that I could not speak. I attempted to ask whether I made it on time, but instead started hyperventilating and making wailing sounds. People stared with undisguised concern. I tried to shut my mouth and sit down, but it only got worse, until I finally let out all the wailing that was pent up inside. What that was, I still have no idea.

And then, just like that, I was fine. I checked the time and learned I'd arrived 10 minutes before the cutoff. I drank a cup of chocolate milk and ate a hard boiled egg. I put on a reflective vest, spare lights, and helmet light, preparing to set off again.

I should mention that the final control was a sight of a mass unraveling. Quite a few riders were there, in various states of not feeling well. A handful had abandoned and were waiting for rescue rides. One man was lying down, trying to recover sufficiently to continue. The racer who had passed me earlier was resting in a recliner: done. Emily was there, telling me she would catch up again if I set off before her. I hoped so, as this way we could ride together in the dark. But I could not risk waiting any longer, in case she decided not to continue. I had calculated there were maybe 5 riders still behind me. None of them would finish at this point.

I set off on the last leg at 8:45pm. This was a long one - 55 miles, but it would soon have us on familiar territory. I had over 5 hours to cover the remaining distance, with not much climbing to speak of except in the very beginning. It was growing cool. I was not in any pain. I was tired, but not so tired I could not crank out the miles without stopping. This was doable, very doable. I just had to keep going.

It was dark, but not pitch black yet when I set off. I started at a good pace and was looking forward to Emily catching up, then us finishing together. I would be sure to hang on to her for dear life this time. I imagined us arriving at the finish dramatically, 5 - or maybe 3 - minutes before the cutoff, collapsing from exhaustion, but making it. This image kept me going as the sky turned from gray to navy to black.

And then, I began to notice with growing alarm, that I could not see where I was going. This was so unexpected that it took some time to even sink in. I consider(ed) myself to be an experienced night rider, and, based on previous experiences, genuinely thought that I was prepared for the night stretch of the route. I had a powerful dynamo headlight on my front rack, and a battery powered headlight on my handlebars, and a helmet mounted headlight. But even all this was not sufficient for the area I found myself in, especially riding alone. The sky was black - moonless and starless; there was no illumination of any kind. There was not even a yellow lane divider or a white fog line to focus on. With my 3 headlights I could see the potholes at various distances in front of me illuminated brilliantly, but I could not see the curvature of the road further ahead. And this meant I could not safely pick up speed, especially on descents, without the risk of going off the side of the road. Several times I stopped and tried to adjust my lights to point further out. This did not help much - they were not diffuse enough to do what I wanted them to do. I kept riding at the maximum speed I felt was safe, which was pitiful considering the twists and turns of the back road. My last hope was Emily catching up with me, and us combining our light power.

The road seemed to only grow darker and more twisty. This was truly in the middle of nowhere. I could barely make out the shapes of trees, and I seemed to be riding through some dense forested area. I heard disconcerting sounds all around me - howling, rustling in the woods, and at some point what sounded like a chainsaw. I am not generally scared of the dark, but I was by now so exhausted and frustrated that my mind must have started to mess with me. Around this time, I really began to worry where Emily was, and at length became convinced that she must have been murdered - what other explanation was there for her still not catching up to me? Surely that was related to the sound of the chainsaw I'd heard. After 15 hours on the bike, this made a great deal of sense, and I started to sob. I should have waited for her. I should have waited! Shaking, I had to stop to regain my composure. Eventually I snapped out of it, ate some food and kept going.

But increasingly, I was losing time on the climbs and unable to make it up on the descents, since I could not see where I was going. With a sense of dread I checked the time: It was approaching 10pm and I had barely advanced 10 miles. With 45 miles left to go and 4 hours to do it in, I was not going to finish if I kept riding at this pace. My mind went into emergency-analytical mode, putting aside all emotion to determine the logical course of action.

Fact: I would not make the cutoff, unless I started to ride drastically faster. Fact: The pitch black road conditions were unlikely to change, which meant I was unlikely to ride faster. Fact: Since Emily has not caught up to me by now, she had most likely abandoned herself, which meant I was the last rider remaining on the course. Fact: If I continued riding anyway, I would not only be putting myself at risk in the dark for nothing, but inconveniencing the organisers - who would wait for me as long as I was still out there. The logical course of action was to abandon.

According to the map, I would soon pass a gas station. I could end my ride there and arrange for a pick-up. After weighing my options, I made the decision. Making the call felt like tearing off a bandaid - if I was going to do it, I needed to do it quickly.

At the gas station parking lot ten minutes later, I saw two sets of headlights. It was Emily, along with another rider - the one who'd been lying down at the last control. I expected them to keep going, but they pulled in to the gas station. Emily wanted to buy a coke, and there was something off, I thought, about how important this seemed to her, with so little time left. The clerk who was closing up got her one and she sat down with it on the pavement. The other rider lied down on the porch. They seemed quite settled in. I tell them they need to keep going immediately, if they want to make the cutoff. I am not sure they understand or even hear me. I offer my bananas, water, Shot Blocks. "Look, you shouldn't sit here, you need to get going. I am only here because I'm done." Emily looks at her coke long and hard. "Well... maybe I'm done too." She looks at her watch. "Yeah..."

I know that Emily has been randonneuring for over 10 years and she has never DNFed an event. Damn it, I think. She was not planning to quit until she saw me sitting here. I contemplate continuing with them, but it makes no sense. I try to encourage them, waving my banana and extra water fetchingly. But they really are done now, sprawled on the porch, talking politics and sci-fi books. Now that more time has passed and the decision is irreversible, they relax and become more animated. Each has made the call and they are waiting for a ride.

I feel too numb to joint the conversation. I put myself on autopilot and start disassembling my bike. My husband arrives in a tiny ZipCar and we wrangle the pieces inside. He will never trust me to be "okay on my own" again, is all I can think of as we drive home. Well, maybe he never did.

At home, I went straight to sleep and didn't dream about anything. The next day I felt strange, weepy. After that I thought I was fine, but I ran into Emily in town two days later and had an almost PTSD-type experience when we started talking about the ride. She did not seem too happy either.

Many riders abandoned this particular brevet. It was a tough one. But somehow that fails to console me. It wasn't the miles or the climbing or the heat that broke me in the end, but inadequate preparation for the dark. An overconfidence in myself over a factor that turned out to be critical. A mistake.

All through the following week I would recall fragments of the brevet, sending my emotions into wild extremes of highs and lows. I would remember pedaling over Mt. Grace, elated, hot breeze in my face, smelling pine trees in the sun and looking down at miles of farmlands. What ecstasy, to have made it out this far on my own, and to feel as if I could keep on going forever.

Then later I would recall riding through that damned forest in the dark, alone, nearly going off the side of the road, ominous rustlings behind the trees. That feeling of doom seeping in, like a cold thick liquid against my skin. The decision to abandon after nearly 150 miles, after all that climbing, after having ridden clear across the state and back...

Well, what else is there to say. So much drama about a little brevet. Better luck next time and all that. It is good for the character to fail on occasion. I will try to learn what I can from it. And I will always remember the many beautiful moments of this ride, the kindness of the volunteers, the support of the other riders. Thank you to all who were there, and congratulations to the finishers. Happy trails to all for future brevets and other adventures.

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

Listening to cyclists' stories about their first long or difficult rides, I often hear things like "Afterward, I wanted to throw my bike away" or "The next day, I couldn't even look at my bike."

It always struck me as interesting how the feelings of pain and exhaustion caused by riding can become associated with the bike itself. In a sense, it is easier to think of the bike, a concrete object, as the source of our discomfort than it is of a deficiency in fitness or endurance on our part. We look at the bike and remember how we felt during that hard ride. It's not so much that we literally blame the bicycle, as that the bike becomes a signifier of the pain and exhaustion we experienced. That feeling of wanting to throw it out, or not wanting to look at it, is a way of dealing with frustration over our own limitations. And of course this is in addition to the possibility that the bike itself is at least partly to blame - be it through saddle discomfort, harshness of ride, inappropriate gearing, or bad positioning.

If only mildly, I have had my share of all this. I've overdone it before, to the point of fatigue at the mere sight of a bike that only time away from it could cure.

But I am thinking of this now, because more recently I've experienced something of the opposite. Still feeling battered and drained after an especially tough ride, the morning after I walked past the bike and thought about how much I loved it, and about how much I loved cycling. It was an unexpected reaction, having tumbled out of bed feeling as if a train had run over me. After a day of passion and heartbreak, it feels good to still love it all, and to want to ride again tomorrow. 

200K, Party of Two

This past Saturday was the New England Randonneurs 200K brevet out of Boston - the longest ride I have done so far. A brevet is an organised, self-supported ride, which participants complete within a time limit. The typically hilly routes must be carefully navigated, with control checkpoints along the way. 200K is an interpretive figure, which in this case translated to almost 130 miles with about 8,500 ft of elevation gain. The time limit was 13.5 hours. The week before I had done the 100K Populaire, the prelude to this brevet. This ride would be twice the distance. Having registered, I intended to finish, but beyond that I had no expectations. No matter what randonneurs would have you believe in their attempts to lure you into their fold, brevets - even the shorter ones - are difficult. There was only one way to find out just how difficult this one would be. 

Up before sunrise, I felt calm - too calm. Neither excited nor nervous, I was also not especially enthusiastic. I felt prepared. I had my bike ready and all my things organised. But at 4:45am I no longer knew why I wanted to do an organised, timed 130 mile ride, from a location I had to cycle 15 miles to at an ungodly hour. This was not how I hoped to feel setting off. The previous night I had published a quick blog post, where I mentioned I'd be doing the 200K the next day. This is something I normally try not to do, as I believe it is bad luck to make such announcements in advance. Now I removed the post, lest it was the cause of my ambivalent mood and could later jinx the ride. 

To make it to the 7am start with time to spare for a coffee along the way, I set off at 5:10am. When I left home, the temperature was 45°, and I knew that it would reach a high of 65° in the course of the day. I wore long tights, a thin long sleeve baselayer with a short sleeve jersey over it, a neckwarmer, fingerless gloves, and a windbreaker. Later I would remove the windbreaker, stashing it in my jersey pocket. While I like leg and arm warmers, I sometimes have chafing issues with the extra elastics. So on rides with milage in the uncharted territory, I go with long sleeves and full length tights to be safe. 

Riding to the Hanscom Air Force Base on empty roads in the morning mist was quite beautiful, and I tried not to think about the extra miles I was tacking onto the ride. 

Once there, I signed in, got my brevet card and looked for familiar faces. I was glad to see NER board members Bruce and Melinda there. They have witnessed me transition from outside observer to ride participant, and there was a comforting sort of intimacy in that. And Steve - with whom I'd staffed a brevet the previous summer - was now the ride organiser. Seeing him again and remembering that event made everything fall into place. This was a game I'd played before, only this time I'd be one of the riders. I am not sure how to express this, but at no point did I worry about finishing the brevet, despite being uncertain of my ability to handle it. It was as if I'd purchased a ticket to a rollercoaster ride and was already on it. No way out, but to finish it.

Walking around the parking lot in search of sun, I spotted Pamela Blalock. Earlier, Pamela'd mentioned that she would keep me company on the brevet, but I did not really expect to ride with her beyond the first few miles of this challenging route - a route that was, in fact, based on one of her own, designed around some scenic New Hampshire climbs. 

At 7am, we took off in one long, drawn-out cluster. The faster riders were asked to go first, but only some of them obliged. As a result, the first few miles were defined by an ongoing jostle for position. I expected to lose Pamela in the chaos, but we emerged out of the shuffle unseparated, picking up a couple of other riders along the way. For some time, we rode 2x2 at a brisk pace, with me behind a very strong rider from our cycling club, whose pedal strokes were so even, so predictable and so quick, they were like a work of art. Of course, it was not to last, and eventually he took off, along with our other companion. I told Pamela to go on ahead with them and leave me to ride at my own pace. In response she informed me that I was "stuck" with her, as she intended to ride with me the entire time. I hadn't realised until then that she was serious about that. At that moment I would have preferred to ride alone, as my mood was not very sociable. Almost 20 miles into the ride now, I still wasn't "feeling" it; I was just going through the motions. "110 more miles of this," I thought. This was a factual thought, not charged with any particular emotion. 

We rode straight North. The route would take us across the MA/NH state line, then up some more to the first control at mile 53. We chatted idly, until the topic of laundering bike shorts came up, at which point I remembered something and slapped myself on the forehead. "I need to stop after this hill to make a phone call," I said, "I left my shorts in the oven." With Pamela laughing, I explained that I will sometimes warm up my bike shorts in the oven (with the heat turned off) before a ride, and that this time I ended up not wearing those shorts, forgetting to remove them. They'd be fine in there all day, I'd placed them far from the pilot light. But just in case,  I would call my husband and ask him to take them out. That I did, with Pamela giggling at our conversation. 

Soon after that, we crossed into New Hampshire. Keeping up a brisk tempo, we cycled through a village fair where farm vegetables were sold and baby goats were on display in a large pen. A chorus of "Meh! Beh!" echoed behind us as we continued. 

By the time we began the first respectable climb at mile 40, it was a different ride from the one we started. There were no other cyclists around, it was just us two in the middle of nowhere. Everything seemed funny. This 5 mile climb would be a warm-up for the more serious climbs that awaited, Pamela explained, as we pedaled at a much-reduced speed up an endlessly winding road. Sure, sure, I said. It seemed not to matter much.

We made it to the first control in good time; some riders from the faster groups were still hanging out. I refilled my water bottles, replenished my banana supply, and bought a couple of hot dogs in the country store across the street (I don't do well with PB&J sandwiches, cookies, and other typical control foods during strenuous rides). 

Everyone around was amused that I'd gotten "bunless" hot dogs - two of them, laid out on a little paper plate and covered in relish. This is perfectly normal outside of the US, so I don't see what the big deal is. But I accepted my freak-show status and dutifully posed for pictures with my bunless dogs. Meanwhile, Pamela ate a chocolate muffin, washing it down with one of those bottled frappuccino things. Others ate chips, cookies and nutella sandwiches. Tempting as some of these things were, I know enough by now to not touch junk food during bike rides; it does not work for me. Hot dogs and bananas: Yes. Cookies and chips: No. Milk: Yes. Soda: No. 

Pedaling away from the first control, I felt great. We had not stayed long, but the time off the bike allowed me to do some nice stretches to help with the uncomfortable, tight feeling I get above my tailbone after long climbs. The stretches involve a sequence of twists and backward bends, after which I am good as new and ready for more climbing. Timely, as the next leg of the route was a loop through the middle of New Hampshire, with one long climb after another. After another. 

I do not want to downplay the hills on this route, they were difficult and like nothing I'd done before. But this tough middle section was my favourite part of the brevet. The day was beautiful, sunny with dry heat, and we rode through pine forests strewn with wildflowers. The pines and flowers released scents that mingled with the heat in a way that, to me, was simply intoxicating. I felt my lungs open up wide to get the most out of this, and I felt my body wake up and orient itself toward the sunshine flickering through the tree branches. 

We started out with a gradual 7 mile climb, followed by a shockingly steep 2 mile climb, followed by a steady 10 mile climb with some steep stretches. These were punctuated by steep, winding descents - which I was better at handling this time than on previous rides, feeling more in control around bends and relaxed the whole way down. 

On the climbs, a couple of short stretches were so steep that I simply could not push my lowest gear (34x29) and walked. And there were other stretches where I stayed on the bike, but ground my way up at an excruciatingly slow pace. But the subjective experience of this was not bad; I feel like the worst of the hills happened at just the right place in the course, where I had the most energy. During one of the longer and steeper climbs, we somehow got into a conversation about Jan Heine's Bicycle Quarterly article comparing titanium race bikes vs steel fat tire rando bikes. So passionate were our feelings about this article, that before I knew it we had completed the long climb. Highly recommended. 

In the midst of this was a secret-question control at a farm, then an unmanned control at a country store. We stopped at the first to get the requisite information, then lingered at the second to refill our water bottles and eat more food. Me: a frozen BBQ patty heated up in the store's microwave and a bottle of strawberry milk. Pamela: ho-hos, cookies and another frappucino. I felt sick just looking at her food, and I'm sure she felt the same about mine! We moved on quickly after finishing our meals.

The next stretch of the ride was tougher for me than the previous. There were still some good climbs, and even though they were tamer than the ones we'd just completed, my legs and body were now feeling the cumulative effects of going uphill for so long. We pulled over a few times along this section, which was an effective way of maximising my energy. I also enjoyed the descents here, taking as much advantage of them as I could. 

Although this part of the ride was taxing, there were never any "dark moments" as some riders call them. We were making good time, we rode at a brisk pace, and I knew that as long as we pulled over every so often, my body could handle the rest of the ride without much drama. We even took a couple of short scenic detours, to incorporate parts of Pamela's original route that the official brevet omitted. 

We were now past mile 90 of the brevet, my cyclo-computer reading 105 starting from home. Seeing that number and knowing there were still 40 miles left to go, I could feel my mind making room for a new "I can do X distance" figure. There would be one more control coming up before we crossed back into Massachusetts, after which it would mostly be rollers till the finish.

At the final control we did not need much food or water, and moved on fairly quickly. After that, it was all a blur. I was proper tired by the final leg, but the terrain had flattened out and the finish felt in sight. 35 miles to go. 20 miles to go. It began to seem like nothing. We sprinted for town lines, reminisced about past rides, discussed future ones. 

At some point Pamela got a message from her husband, who was taking part in the Rapha Gentlemen's Race at the same time as we were doing the NER brevet. The Ride Studio Cafe team had finished 3rd. In previous years, Pamela had done this race herself and I was reminded again of the discrepancy in our abilities, feeling guilty that she was riding with me - when she could have easily been in the lead group. But Pamela is not one to indulge that line of thought. Had she wanted to be in the lead group, she'd be in the lead group. But today she wanted to "enjoy a gals' day out in the country." Saying this, she winked slyly, making a fishing reel gesture with her hands. Of course it dawned on me where this was heading: The next time she'd invite me on a little ride, I'd be expected to handle 200K as a matter of course. I laughed at the realisation, imagining some surprise dirt roads and maybe an extra hill or two thrown in next time for good measure. My heart swelled with love for Pamela; the woman is adorable. 

At 10 miles to go, the adrenaline kicked in, masking the pains I was starting to feel. "Let's get this over with," I thought, and Pamela, as if reading my mind, said the same thing out loud. 

With the cool evening wind against our faces, we rolled up to the finish screaming at the top of our lungs, at 6:59pm - having ridden the brevet in 11:59 hours. Some other riders were there, lingering about, and more were still expected. We had some nice conversations at the finish, after which I was not too proud to accept a lift home from Pamela in her motorised vehicle (a rare and welcome occasion!). I had ridden over 145 miles that day.

For those interested in logistics: My overall average speed for the brevet (clock keeps going during all stops, etc.) was 10.83mph. Rolling average was 13.2mph. 

Consumed in the course of the ride: 2 bananas, 2 hot dogs with relish, 1 BBQ patty, 1 bottle strawberry milk, 1 cup chocolate milk, 2 slices watermelon, 2 packets Shot Blocks, 7 bottles of water containing Skratch Labs electrolyte powder. 

Difficulties during ride: strain above tailbone during prolonged climbing (relieved by occasional stretching), gearing not low enough for a couple of climbs, slow to warm up at start of the ride. 

Notably absent: headache, nausea, numbness, cramping, low energy, thirst, lightheadedness.

Damage post-ride: two small saddle sores (healed a day later), some swelling in wrists and fingers (gone several hours later, possibly water retention), mild sunburn, moderate thigh muscle soreness. 

I do not plan to do longer brevets. But I am glad I managed the 200K, and hope that over time this distance will become easier. 

As always, I thank everyone involved - directly and indirectly - for making this event happen, and for contributing to my ability to do it. As for 12 hours of riding with Pamela... That was an experience in comradery I will not forget. Though I could have managed this brevet on my own, it would have been a very different kind of ride, very different. As I was falling asleep that night, an endearing image of Pamela making the reeling-in gesture popped up in my mind's eye. Oh those charming randonneurs. Watch out for them. 

Wham Bam Thank You Lamb!

So, did you know that Mary had a little lamb? No, seriously. That there once was an actual girl, named Mary, who kept a diminutive pet sheep? The girl in question (Mary Sawyer, to be precise) lived in Sterling Massachusetts in the 1800s. And according to historical scholars, some time in 1830 she brought her pet lamb to school - an act that caused such mirth among the other children, that a local poet was inspired to immortalise it in verse. On the Sterling Town Green, a statue now stands commemorating the event.

This statue also marks the halfway point and only control stop of the New England Randonneurs Populaire - a timed 107 km ride that heralds the official start of the local brevet season.

"But at least take a picture next to the Lamb!" someone exclaimed when I mentioned there would be no pictures on this ride. A kindly volunteer did the honors. My few lucid memories of the Populaire revolve around the stone rendering of the famous Victorian pet.

Having already done two "Permanents" earlier this month (this one and this one), I hoped the official Populaire would not be anti-climactic. I needn't have worried.

Some notes, while it's all still fresh and I am too tired to feel self-conscious:

I must remember that rides with similar overall elevation gain can be very different. The climbing on this one was intense and draining, even though the elevation gain (3813ft over 68 miles) was the same as in the previous (easier!) 100Ks I did this year.

But perhaps much of that had to do with how I did this ride. Straight through, minimal stopping, really pushing myself to get it done. Particularly on the return leg, I just basically raced through the course, inasmuch as I am capable of such a thing. I do not know what possessed me to do it this way; I certainly did not have to as there was plenty of time left before the cutoff. But it felt in the spirit of the event: Everyone seemed focused on making good time. I finished well (for me), certainly better than expected. But it was tough. At some point, everything was a blur, attempts at conversations became babbling nonsense.

For some of the time I rode in a group. This proved a novel experience compared to previous group riding. While the group's average speed was similar to my own, their rhythm did not match mine - a situation I found extremely difficult to deal with. I tried a few times to cycle ahead of the group, so as to go at my own pace. This did not work, as they'd always catch me. Falling behind did not work either, as I'd eventually catch up, yet again be unable to pass them. I seemed destined to ride in this group and adapt to its rhythm; it was as if a magnetic field held us together!

The start of the Boston brevets is in a middle-of-nowhere location - an airforce base some distance from my house. By the time I got home, I had ridden 105 miles, and felt every single one of them. A Century is not quite a casual distance for me, yet. This is disappointing.

Because of the Boston Marathon bombings and their aftermath, the Populaire took place one week later than initially planned. The 200K brevet is next Saturday, not leaving much time for further training. Considering how I feel after this ride, I am not sure it is a good idea to embark on the 200K so soon. But I will see how I feel mid-week.

Finally... Despite this depriving me of photo opportunities, it felt good to put in an effort and try to make decent time. By mid day it was all over, and afterward I felt oddly over-emotional. I wasn't happy, or sad, or proud or frustrated exactly. Rather, it was as if so many miles and so much intensity packed in a fairly short time was too much for my system to cope with. But in a good way... I think.

My thanks to the New England Randonneurs for putting on this event, and to the wonderful volunteers who made it happen. I hope to see you again this summer.

Once in a Blue Moon

Six days after my first official Permanent, I found myself riding another. An entirely different and slightly longer route with a couple of brief stretches of dirt, but otherwise the same idea. The other day a friend was teasing that I write the most detailed 100K ride reports ever. True, it probably takes some riders longer to get through my reports than to ride the routes! But you know, there may come a time when I think a 100 km bicycle ride is not worth writing about. And that makes me a little sad. We go through our learning experiences, growing pains and all the wonder that comes with them but once. Today I appreciate that more than ever.

The Blue Moon Permanent marked this year's New England Brevet Season Kick-Off Party. The start of the ride was crowded, with a varied mix of cyclists. The bikes ran the gamut from road race to traditional randonneuring machines. Like a handful of others, I hung back and began a few minutes after the official start. Though I saw other riders along the way, I rode mostly on my own this time.

The route weaved through Boston's south-western suburbs, taking us to the scenic Noon Hill reservation and the Blue Moon Café in Medfield. Although the towns on this side of Boston are known to be high in traffic, the route itself was remarkably quiet. Orchards and farms comprised much of the scenery, alternating with stretches of sleepy residential streets bordering bodies of water. At one point there was even a Forest Road that, uncharacteristically, went through an actual forest, rather than a series of strip malls or new housing developments! Pamela Blalock's route design skills are a rare talent.

My experience of this Permanent was very different from last week's. I didn't question whether I could finish before the cutoff time; that now seemed like a given. Instead, riding such a circuitous route solo gave me the opportunity to focus on improving my navigation skills. I made a game of trying to not go off course a single time, and succeeded. I also tried to see whether I could manage to make fewer, shorter stops while still enjoying the scenery.

I cycled the 10 miles to the start and arrived with only a few minutes to spare, not giving myself a big break before the event this time. The ride itself was just over 67 miles and I finished it in 6 hours 25 minutes. My computer shows 3,900ft of elevation gain, but the climbing was distributed in such a way that I did not especially feel it. The descents seemed tamer than last time as well. My overall average speed (including stops and the sit-down meal) was 10.45mph, which is a bit faster than last week's 9.9mph. My average rolling speed was about the same: 13.1mph. If I can improve my times a bit more, I might be able to do these rides on the camera bike soon, with proper photo stops, and still make the cutoff - but not just yet.

After the ride I stuck around for the Brevet Season Kick-Off Party at the Ride Studio Cafe, then rode home in the dark, for a total of 87 miles. I took a quick shower, went out for a walk, then stayed up late working and woke up early to work some more. I do not feel any worse for wear after this Permanent. Unlike last time, I did not even have that crazed, feverish feeling afterward. It felt like a normal ride that just happened to be timed and counted "for credit."

There may come a time when I think a 100 km bicycle ride is not worth writing about. In the meanwhile, I am enjoying it all. The slew of new sensations that every ride brings, the shameful yet oddly liberating experience of being the weakest cyclist of everyone I ride with, and of course, the beautiful local scenery waiting to be discovered.

Brevet Season Came Early

I expected my first event of the year to be the big New England Randonneurs Populaire on April 20th. But on a whim, this past Sunday I took part in a 100K Permanent to the Haystack Observatory in Westford, MA. I will save you the suspense: I did it on the clock and finished within the time limit. Counting my trip to the start and back, it was an 82 mile day. 

In randonneuring vernacular, a Permanent is an officially sanctioned brevet route that can be ridden at any time (with some notice), rather than on a specific date on the established brevet calendar. Members of Randonneurs USA (RUSA) can design their own Permanent routes of either full brevet (200K+) or Populaire (50-150K) length, and submit them for approval. The routes are then available to any member who wishes to ride them for RUSA credit, either alone or in a group. As with standard brevets, the time limits, control stops and other rules apply. 

Local randonneuse Pamela Blalock has recently put together an entire series of such routes. About 100K in length starting from Lexington, MA, Pamela's Permanents are best enjoyed as group rides and have some special features. The routes are circuitous, with a strong focus on back roads. And each route is designed around a theme destination and theme food stop. The idea is to stop at the destination long enough to enjoy it, and stop at the food stop for a sit-down meal - while still making the official cutoff times. The Haystack 100K would be the inaugural ride in this series, and I was excited by the destination. This was my main motivator in attempting this ride so early in the year. 

Having decided to try the brevet, I did not feel especially nervous. The idea of starting from a familiar place (our cycling club's "club house"), with indoor facilities and hot drinks, was comforting. I signed up for RUSA membership the day before. On the morning of, I pedaled to the start slowly and arrived early, giving myself time between my trip there and the ride itself.

At 10:30am on a colder-than-promised morning, a small group of randonneurs had gathered. Sheepishly standing beside them was I: by far the weakest, feeblest rider present. While I braced myself for a challenge, they had clearly prepared to enjoy a relaxing little jaunt. The disparity was too hilarious to feel bad about, so I didn't. But neither did I expect to see the rest of the group for most of the ride. 

We started out together, led by Pamela and Jon D - the only riders there I knew. Just for laughs Pamela was riding a fat tire cyclocross bike and Jon a vintage fixed gear. There was an experienced-looking couple on a tandem. There was a man who I was told was an exceptionally strong rider, on a Rivendell 3-speed with swept-back handlebars. The other two men and myself rode skinny tire roadbikes. I stayed quietly in the back, behind a fit-looking gentleman astride a Serotta. 

One of the roadie men went on ahead about a mile in. The rest of us stuck together for about 10 miles. I was amazed that I was able to hang on for that long. But in truth, I was over-exerting myself for a long-haul ride, so I decided to fall back. At around the same time, the Serotta Gentleman pulled over to the side of the road to make some adjustments to his bike. And so our group split up. 

For a while I rode on my own. This was a welcome break after struggling to keep up with the group, though I still tried to ride as fast as I comfortably could, without stopping. The weather encouraged this. Though the forecast predicted temps in the 50s, I had not trusted it and now I was glad of that. The day was bleak and cold (that's ice and snow back there in the bog) with gusts of wind strong enough to push my bike sideways. Luckily, my dressing strategy had me well prepared. Instead of wearing a warm winter jacket, I had worn a thin wind vest, paired with an equally thin windbreaker over it. This layering protected from the wind chill while also allowing me to pack minimally, since each of these garments could be stuffed in a jersey pocket had I needed to remove them later. I packed a small under-the-saddle wedge with tools, spare tube, extra snack, etc. I started out with two full waterbottles with some electrolyte/energy powder mixed in. I also brought lights, just in case. And scotch tape. 

The scotch tape was in case I'd need extra to secure my cue sheet. As inelegant as the setup looks, this is my preferred cue sheet location (even if there is also a nice handlebar bag with map case attached!). This was my 5th ride following a cued route, and by now I know that (1) The paper cue sheet is a must, even if I have a GPS unit, and (2) In order for the cue sheet to be useful, it must be in a location that allows me to process the text at a quick glance. I hope to elaborate on all of this in a future post. 

Navigating on my own was fine, with the exception of a confusing area around the first control, where I managed to go off course, lengthening my overall distance by about a mile. Here I should mention that the Haystack Permanent route was unusually rich in controls for a short brevet, which I suspect will be he case with all of Pamela's Permanents. It has to be, by virtue of the back roads design. The circuitous route creates potential short cuts, and control points ensure riders don't take advantage of them.

Contrary to what I had assumed, the control points were not at convenience stores or gas stations (in fact, I don't think we saw any of those for most of the ride!), but at completely random places in the middle of nowhere. Our brevet cards contained secret questions, and we had to search for the answers. This was not unlike a scavenger hunt, although I admit it would have been more fun in warmer weather. The coldest point of the ride was at the second control, by the side of a lake. The wind was so strong here, I could hardly hold the pen and brevet card in my hands. The light had that eerie deep-winter look to it - almost as if it might start snowing! 

Soon after the second control, I noticed that I was over 20 miles into the ride - I had done a third of it. Just then, the sun came out briefly and somehow I knew that I would finish just fine. I was feeling good and fresh, despite the respectable amount of climbing. The route was described as having +3513ft of elevation over the course of 62.3 miles, and that felt about right. I thought the climbs were very humane: Just steep and long enough to require my lowest gears and some effort, but not so sharply pitched as to make me ill with that awful feeling of all the blood rushing to my head. 

Which is not to say there wasn't suffering. I had determined not to bring my big camera on this ride, to ensure I'd take it seriously and do it on the clock. However, at the last moment I couldn't help it and snuck a tiny 35mm point and shoot into my jersey pocket, loaded with a roll of black and white film. I made an agreement with myself to only take pictures at the controls, where I would already be stopping, and so far I had stuck to this. But oh how I suffered through it! I suffered at the sight of dilapidated barns, rusty farm equipment, overgrown bogs, ice-covered fields, erratically winding roads. I settled into my pain and dealt with it. 

But after all, I am only human. When I paused at an intersection to double-check my cue sheet, the sight of a river crossing under some ancient train cars proved too much. I took out the point-and-shoot and snapped away in a hurried frenzy. Just then I spotted the Serotta Gentleman in my view finder. He slowed down and soft-pedaled, in an invitation for me to join him. Coming up on the next control and the brevet's main attraction, I warned my new companion of my picture-taking plans there. He was amused but unfased. From that point on, we rode together. 

The MIT Haystack Observatory is situated on an enormous campus that is home to a couple of climbs. The first one leads to the Westford Radio Telescope (pictured here), and the next one leads to the main research facility and the Haystack Radio Telescope (first image in this post). Cycling uphill with the telescopes looming gloriously on the horizon, framed by thick growths of pine trees, was a breath-taking, unforgettable experience. This alone made the entire ride worth it.

The Haystack observatory was built in the 1960s, as a collaboration between MIT's Lincoln Laboratory for the US Air Force. It is an astronomical observatory, containing two telescopes and vast research facilities.  

There are also several enormous antennae - some functional and others abandoned, rusting in the nearby woods.

The research campus contains several interesting buildings - as well as military structures and vehicles. I will definitely return with some proper camera equipment.

Having passed the Haystack, we were roughly half way through the brevet. Things sped up, as we rode straight through the next control and to the food stop at mile 45. Cycling with the Serotta Gentleman felt like drifting in and out of a shared stream-of-consciousness. Sometimes we rode side by side, sometimes we rode one in front of the other, sometimes we rode spread out, while still keeping each other in sight. Sometimes we were silent, sometimes we talked, in fragmentary conversations that had no clear start or end. All this was an oddly natural and meditative experience, despite our being strangers. According to our computers, we rode faster than either had expected - which surprised us, especially considering the winds, the climbing, and the occasional cue sheet misinterpretation. Only when we approached the food stop did I begin to feel tired. But the sight of the main group of riders renewed my energy. They were leaving just as we were arriving, and all were glad to see the group together once more.

The themed food stop for this ride was at Gene's Chinese Fladbread Cafe in Chelmsford, MA. While the name suggests some sort of contemporary fusion cuisine establishment, in actuality this is a very traditional place that serves a variety of dishes prepared around large, gooey noodles, made from scratch on the premises. The atmosphere was delightful: Chinese families enjoying a late Sunday lunch, and a bunch of us cyclists. The owner seemed well used to issuing receipts and signing brevet control cards! 

Praising the food, Jon D. suggested we get the #4 Special, and we followed his advice. This dish turned out to be a generous bowl of garlic, which also contained a handful of said noodles. I am still not sure whether this meal recommendation was sincere, or a practical joke played on us stragglers. Drivers must have steered well clear of us on the final leg of the brevet, so mighty was our garlic breath! 

It is unusual for me that a second half of a long ride goes by faster than the first. Typically it is toward the end that the aches begin, the difficulties, the tiredness, the tedium. At some point, each climb grows more unpleasant than the last, irritation sets in and enjoyment diminishes. This time, none of that happened. We had the sense that time flew, and we flew. Though the climbs kept coming until the very end, they did not bother me. That is not to say I was fast, only that I really did not mind the climbing. If anything, it was the descents that were my weakness. There were a few spots on this ride with tightly winding downhill stretches, that I am not skillful enough to navigate without reducing speed considerably. As far as safety, this is where my GPS unit was extremely helpful: I could see the curves coming up and regulated my speed accordingly. 

The finish snuck up on us. Pamela managed to route the final leg of the ride through a stretch of back roads I did not immediately recognise. And before I knew it, I saw there were no more cue sheets and my computer stated we'd ridden over 60 miles. Several miles later, we turned the corner to see the Ride Studio Cafe just down the street. Reeking of garlic and quietly beaming with satisfaction, we wheeled our bikes in at 5:00pm on the dot to submit our tattered control cards.

My computer read 64.3 miles at the finish, and 6.5 hours had elapsed since the start. That's an average speed of 9.9 mph, including all stops and the sit-down meal. My average moving speed over the course of the ride was 13.2 mph.

After handing in my control card, I hung around drinking tea and babbling excited non-sense for a half hour, then cycled home. After an 80+ mile day, I felt suspiciously fine. I got home before dark, washed, changed, and went out for a nice evening walk with my husband. I kept expecting the exhaustion and pain to hit me, but it never did. The next day was very busy, but I had no trouble waking up before 7am and doing everything on my schedule. Again, I kept expecting to feel the aftereffects of the Permanent in my body, but it never happened. 

What I did feel, was a lingering sensation of a very physical, feverish sort of post-ride euphoria, like I was hopped up on some drug and couldn't come down. To some extent this showed in my face - which had a swollen, reddish look to it for some time afterward - and in my eyes, which looked unnaturally shiny and glazed over. Whatever high I was on, it is possible that it dulled any sense of post-ride pain I would have otherwise experienced. 

And so that is the story of my first "on the clock" ride. For anyone local considering the Haystack Permanent, I highly recommend it for those who enjoy scenic, low-traffic routes along back roads. The Haystack Observatory and Gene's Chinese Flatbread Cafe are worth savoring. There are no unpaved stretches along this route; skinny tires are fine. The climbing is reasonable, with no overly sharp pitches. Things to be aware of are the frequent controls, the lack of food-buying opportunities other than Gene's, and the handful of curvy descents. I am so pleased to have been a part of this ride, and heartily thank everyone involved for this special day! 

Misty Memories: the Vermont Fall Classic

When I think about why the Vermont Fall Classic holds such importance for me, it's because this ride marked a point of no return. I didn't want to fall in love with this kind of riding, but I did. And it happened with a sort of romantic finality, a "sometimes you just know" moment that stretched into hours. I will never forget it. Several weeks later and now stuck at home with a bad case of flu, I keep dreaming about it, hallucinating it. Did it really happen the way I remember? Yes, I think so. But before I lose myself in purple prose, let me start with the facts.

The Vermont Fall Classic is an official, RUSA-sanctioned event organised by the New England Randonneurs, offering a 100k Populaire and a 200k brevet (read more about these types of rides here). But unlike typical brevets, the Vermont Fall Classic includes significant portions of unpaved roads. And while brevets of this distance (short by randonneurs' standards) are normally offered at the beginning of the season, the Vermont Fall Classic is held at the very end. The idea is that participants get to see the changing leaves while enjoying a crisp Autumn day along beautiful dirt roads. A large group of us from Boston had been planning to do this ride for months, to carpool up to Northern Vermont and make a weekend of it. For me, the biggest draw were the dirt roads. I planned to do the Populaire and assumed that the route would not be overly challenging, since Populaires are the gateway to randonneuring and are meant to draw new people in. Operating under this assumption, I also invited my friend Bekka (bikeyface) and her boyfriend VorpalChortle, who were interested in trying some dirt roads. We were all looking forward to a lovely weekend and ride.

However, several days before the event some new information gave us pause. To our dismay, the forecast pretty much guaranteed rain, possibly heavy rain. And then we received the cue sheet and discovered that the 100k route was actually a 123k, with about 6,000 feet of climbing. So, instead of a sunny autumnal ramble, we were now looking at 76 very hilly miles in the rain. Was it worth it to drive up to Vermont for the weekend for that? My brain said "no, stay home." But my heart said "go." Many of the others decided to go as well. Unfortunately, Somervillain - with whom I was meant to carpool - got sick shortly before the ride and couldn't make it.

On Saturday morning I hitched a ride to Burlington with Bekka and VorpalChortle, who would take part in the brevet before continuing north to Canada on a little Autumn vacation. Being first time participants in a ride of this magnitude, they had no idea what to expect and made plans for alternative, shorter routes just in case. Discussing the route on the drive up, we were all hoping that the bleak weather prognosis would turn out to be wrong. But so far things were not looking encouraging. After more than 4 rainy hours in the car, we arrived in Burlington and headed straight for the Old Spokes Home - a legendary bike shop and museum that we had been looking forward to visiting. This visit cheered us up considerably and I wrote about it in detail here.

Later in the afternoon, Bekka and VC proceeded to their hotel and I to the lodgings I'd be sharing with about a dozen other riders from Boston. Out of concern for privacy I don't want to say too much about where we stayed, but it was thoroughly communal. We were all to sleep in what was basically one room, mere inches from each other, with our bikes lined up down the hall. It was an interesting arrangement. After dropping my bike and bag off, I managed to get out for a walk along the shore of Lake Champlain before it grew dark. After that I headed to the town center (Burlington is relatively small and very walkable) and had an unexpectedly social evening - first meeting up for drinks with a group assembled by ride organiser Mike Beganyi, then later for dinner with the familiar Boston crew: Jon D, JP Twins, and Emily among others. I usually don't drink alcohol the night before a hard ride, but it was so cold and miserable that all of us ended up having some beers. There was a great feeling of solidarity that night, because we all showed up despite the terrible weather. We returned to our lodgings some time after 10pm and fell asleep before midnight. 

At 5am the next morning I got up and prepared for the ride. Not knowing how bad the weather was going to be, I had brought several different clothing options including long winter tights. After stepping outside to check the weather I decided to wear those, as well as a long sleeve base layer, a cold-weather long sleeve jersey, and a lightweight rain jacket. I put on a visored wool hat. I stashed an extra pair of socks in my saddlebag, along with two small plastic bags in case of rain (more on this later). I made some coffee, ate some of my trail mix, and just after 6am headed out to the start at the Old Spokes Home with another rider. It was misty and raw out, but not raining.

At the start there were several dozen riders already gathered. Among these were many I recognised, even if I did not know them personally. One girl looked so familiar that I kept shyly circling her until she finally introduced herself as Lily, a recent addition to Seven Cycles. 

In the weak early morning light I noticed how ubiquitous all the bicycles looked. On closer inspection, the bikes themselves were actually pretty different, but nearly all of them - from vintage 650B conversions to titanium club racers - sported front racks with traditional handlebar bags. It was a curious sight. As for me, I was riding a work-in-progress Rawland that had just been assembled the day prior - ridable, but still missing some parts including a handlebar bag. Sifting through my images from the day, I am amused to discover that I took virtually no pictures of my bike. I kept photographing other people's bikes and figured I'd get to mine later, but never did. Well, I will post some once it's fully built up. 

As we fussed around before the start, there was a lot of speculation as to whether it would rain and how badly. This was when some of the riders explained how they keep their feet dry in the event of a downpour. Apparently, you are supposed to put plastic bags not over your cycling shoes, but inside them, over your socks. Frankly I could not imagine this working or being comfortable, but took the bags and an extra pair of socks with me anyway. The remaining space in my saddlebag was taken up by food, tools, a small medical kit, a roll of tape, extra cue sheets, and my camera. 

We received brief instructions from the ride organiser, who would be riding the Populaire himself. There would be no support except at the start and finish. Convenience store cashiers were to sign our control cards. We were responsible for our own rescue in the event of abandoning. 

After a double-checking of cue sheets and GPS units, both the 200k and the 123k group were given the green light to head out at 7am. My goals for this ride were vague in the absence of Somervillain. The two of us are more or less well matched in terms of pace and we had planned to ride together. Now that he wasn't here, I did not know anyone else doing the Populaire other than Bekka and VorpalChortle, so I thought I'd ride with them at whatever pace they wanted and not worry about the clock. We set off a little after the start time at an unhurried pace. 

The first few miles were paved, featuring rolling hills. We warmed up, with occasional stops to make clothing and bike adjustments. During this time I experienced and resolved two mechanical problems one after the other (headlight and drivetrain related). But after the first 8 miles of the route everything went smoothly. 

As pavement turned to dirt, we rode through beautiful farmlands with hardly any cars around. It occurred to me that if I wanted to take pictures, I would need to pick up the pace in between the picture-taking, unless I wanted the ride to take all day. So from that point on, we agreed that I would ride ahead, reconvening with Bekka and VorpalChortle at various landmarks and rest stops. We were in good spirits and glad that it wasn't raining. 

As I surged ahead, the landscape grew increasingly remote and rugged. But I wasn't alone for long. Soon I was joined by an older gentleman who must have started later than the others but was now racing his way through the course. We rode together for a couple of rolling miles and then began to climb a startlingly steep hill. I was impressed that this man gave no indication - in his breathing, speech pattern or bodily language - that he was exerting himself in any way. He just kept chatting easily while his legs moved in elegant circles. This admirable demeanor inspired me to try and keep up with him on the monstrous hill. By the time we reached the top I was red in the face and panting, while this amazing gentleman was hardly worse for wear. And then I saw the street sign: Duffy Road. We had just done the 4 mile climb the cue sheet warned about. I was grateful I had not realised this going into it; sometimes it's better not to know! Shortly after we parted ways as I stayed behind to take a couple of photos. After that I continued on my own.

The intense climb left me feeling nicely warmed up. As the scenery grew yet more dramatic, I began to fly through the fog and mist, as wild bursts of colour exploded all around me. And this is when the ride began for me in earnest. I loved the texture of the dirt roads under my tires and experienced an intense flow of pure unbridled happiness to be riding on such roads again. Uphill, downhill, loose, soft, slushy, I loved it all. No fear, just an unbelievable endorphin rush. I got into a rhythm where my legs spun effortlessly, my body on the bike felt weightless, and overall everything just seemed so free and limitless and utterly perfect that I could hardly feel the ground beneath me. A part of me wished that Somervillain and Brian P had been riding alongside, as they had been on similar rides. But another part of me savoured the loneliness of the experience. I've had glimpses into this high on previous rides, but now it was as if a dam broke and an intense bliss flooded my senses. And I know it's just a chemical thing; it's not magical or metaphysical. But try telling yourself that as you are flying up a dirt road straight into a cloud of mist through tunnels of gold and magenta. 

As I progressed toward the first control point, I saw that if I pushed the pace, stopped taking pictures, and nixed the idea of reconvening with Bekka and VorpalChortle, I could still make it within the official time limit. I considered doing this, but ultimately decided against it. What did finishing within the time limit mean to me? Truthfully nothing. If it had I should have approached the ride differently to begin with. Well then, logically there was no reason to strive for an arbitrary time frame just because it now appeared within reach. The first control point was at mile 35 and I arrived 15 minutes after it officially closed. I bought some water and asked the cashier to sign my card anyway, and she gladly did. 

When reconvening with the others, it was good to catch up and share impressions of the route. Though a bit shell-shocked by the 4 mile climb (as was I!), Bekka and VorpalChortle were clearly enjoying the ride. At a rest stop around mile 25 they were in great spirits and had no intention of implementing a short cut route. Ditto at the first control 10 miles later. 

I left the first control when I felt my muscles beginning to stiffen up, while the others stayed to have a bonk-preventive meal. I had been snacking pretty much continuously since the start of the ride and preferred to wait until later. 

The next 20 miles are when things turn hazy. Not hazy because I don't remember them, but hazy because my memories of this stretch seems improbable. The rain did not begin right away. First the mist and the black clouds gathered. And this gathering was happening in a way that was visible to the naked eye. I could see shapes forming right in front of me, the density of the fog changing, twirls of white and gray mist dancing over the mountains and the fields. It was like watching one of those nature shows where they speed up hours of footage to show visible patterns of change that would otherwise be unobservable. Well, they were observable here. This wonderous dark magic show coincided with a steep 3 mile climb toward Smuggler's Notch. I was so mesmerised that I could hardly feel the climbing in my legs; I was practically floating upward in the swirls of dark mist. 

Some time later, I paused at an intersection, trying to make sure the dirt road I was about to turn onto was the correct one. A lone station wagon was passing by and pulled over. The man rolled down his window and yelled "You don't want to go that way on a bike, trust me!" That's how I knew it was probably the correct road.

This next 5 mile dirt climb really wasn't bad compared to the previous two long climbs and all the other shorter steeper ones. In general, there were very few flat stretches on this ride, and climbing began to feel normal pretty quickly. Climbing felt like a state of mind and the dark weather felt oddly appropriate. 

It began to rain right after a long, out of control, I-should-be-scared-but-I'm-not descent. I remember the winding narrow dirt road finally dumping me into an open field with surround views of mountains, and that's when it started. Not hard at first. But here is the strange thing, and another one of those memories I don't trust: I keep picturing the rain being black. It could not possibly have been, but that is how I experienced it. Sharp black droplets of rain at first, then sheets of it. I did not take my camera out again after that. The rain enchanted me at first. But once the mist dissipated, the whole thing lost its supernatural appeal: Soon I was cycling in a nasty and in no way romantic downpour with several miles to go before the next control. 

It is rather impressive how wet one can get over the course of those several miles. While my jacket was blessedly waterproof and my tights surprisingly water resistant, my shoes did not just get soaked through, they filled with water and became freezing little torture-buckets in which my feet were trapped. To make matters worse, the scenic dirt roads suddenly ended, forcing me onto a winding main road with heavy and erratic traffic. There was very poor visibility in the rain and drivers sped past sending tall sprays of disgusting water my way. With the constant traffic lights, I began to feel cold and shaky. My eyes burned around the edges, as if from a fever. Finally I approached the second control point at mile 54 ...except for me it was mile 58, as I'd accidentally done a bonus loop on one of the climbs earlier. I arrived 45 minutes after the official closing time. 

The second control was a very nice restaurant with the misleadingly casual name The Village Cup. Some other riders were just leaving as I left my bike on the porch and gingerly made my way through the entrance. This was a sit-down restaurant with white table cloths, where local families had gathered for early dinner in their Sunday best. Filthy, soggy and trembling, I half expected to not be allowed in, but the management was hospitable. I found a spot in the corner of the bar and ordered hot food, anticipating that Bekka and VorpalChortle would join me soon. But as I waited for my meal, I received a message: They were at a gas station, 5 miles behind me and were not going to continue. They planned to hitch a ride back to Burlington, then return in their own car to get their bikes. If I wanted, they could then collect me and my bike as well. That sounded pretty good right about then. But later - after consuming a cheeseburger, a beer, and two cups of scalding hot coffee, I felt much better. I could think clearly at least. The first step was to implement Operation Plastic Bags. Retrieving the spare dry socks from my saddlebag I went into the bathroom, removed my shoes, removed my wet socks and dried my feet with paper towels. Then I put on the dry socks and over those the plastic bags, tying the handles around my ankles. Then I put my shoes back on. It was amazing! Warm, and I could not feel the wet shoes at all. At that point I realised that no part of me was really uncomfortable anymore. My tights had dried out while I sat in the restaurant. My top layers never got wet in the first place under the rain jacket. I decided to make my way to the finish on my own two wheels. 

But having stayed in the restaurant for as long as I did sealed my fate of not being able to make the cutoff; with only an hour remaining on the clock and over 20 miles to go there was no way to do it now. Given that reality and the relentless downpour that awaited me, I had a genius idea: Since I would not be finishing the ride officially anyway, I could take a short cut - shaving some miles off and minimising my exposure to the terrible weather. I looked at my map, memorised the direct route, then set off. The rain was just as nasty as it had been earlier. I was cold and pedaled hard to warm up. But the shortcut turned out to be a bad idea. The road was basically a highway, and the further I rode, the worse it got. A couple of miles later I had to admit defeat. I pulled over, studied the map, and figured out how to get back on course, having done yet another bonus loop. And then, on rolling hills along paved and dirt roads, I rode the remaining 20 miles to the finish in continuous rain. There was water everywhere at this point, with messy slush along the dirt stretches. I have never cycled in worse conditions, but I can't really say I was miserable. I remember feeling great as I rolled into Burlington. At an intersection I caught a glimpse of myself in a storefront window and laughed at how wet and dirty I looked. "Girl, you are nuts!" yelled a woman from across the street cheerfully. I nodded and smiled as filthy rainwater streamed down my face. Somehow everything about this ride made sense. I arrived at the Old Spokes Home and got my meaningless brevet card signed at the finish, just as I had done at the controls. I finished over an hour behind schedule, thus unofficially completing the course with some extra milage tacked on, for a total of 82 miles (132k) with over 50% dirt and over 6,000 feet of climbing. With all of these factors combined, plus heavy rain for the final third of the way, this was the hardest ride I have done to date. It was also the most enjoyable.

At the finish I wasn't tired. I chatted with the 100k finishers and friends of the 200k riders as we waited for the latter group to arrive. I learned that a number of riders abandoned, finding the conditions unpleasant. 

But those who did finish looked pretty good. The weather had been so over the top terrible for the second part of the ride, that it was frankly funny.

One after another, riders arrived covered in mud, sand and grime, peeling off their rain jackets like some filthy bandages.

"Man, that was awful!" they would exclaim, grinning ear to ear, as they reached for a slice of post-ride pizza.

The pizzas did not last long.

As we discussed the ride, we all seemed to agree that the climbing did not feel as tough as we'd expected. It was more or less constant, but it was also well distributed. Some said they found the dirt challenging once it started to rain, but this may have been due to tire choice. I was very comfortable on these particular dirt roads in the rain.

Once all of the riders were accounted for, we took turns changing in the bathroom of the laundromat next door and eventually said our good-byes. I got a ride back to Boston with Emily and her boyfriend Jake in their rented pickup truck. We were all exhausted, and I do not envy Jake for having to drive 4.5 hours in the dark after the day we had. After rolling my cruddy bike into the house, I showered and climbed into bed after midnight. I was not physically tired, but emotionally I was drained. As I fell asleep, I found myself back in Vermont doing the ride again. I rode through mist and black rain, up and down endless hills, as my tires rolled through the slushy top layer of the smooth tan dirt. I had a control card in my pocket and it was many pages thick, like a small book. 

But there I go again, drifting away from the facts. And the facts are as follows: 50 riders were expected at the Vermont Fall Classic this year. Due to the weather, the actual number at the start was 40. In the course of the ride, 10 abandoned. 12 riders finished the 200k and 14 finished the Populaire within the time limit, with an additional 4 completing the course on their own time (myself among these). There were no injuries or accidents reported. Participants traveled from all over New England and beyond, many bringing spouses and staying in the area for the weekend or longer. 

I took part in the Vermont Fall Classic because it presented an opportunity to ride on dirt roads. The fact of it being an official brevet was incidental. At this stage, I am not sure that I am ready to do these kinds of rides on the clock. Not because I can't make the time limit if I try, but because these rides are too pretty and too new to be rushed through. Possibly next season I will join a few of the local brevets and see how I like those. But I can't help being more interested in the dirt roads, and regret that this kind of riding requires travel. I met some great people in Burlington, whom I would enjoy seeing again and riding with, and I know that others from Boston felt the same - it was a wonderful, welcoming atmosphere and an exciting weekend. I would like to thank organiser Mike Beganyi and the staff of the Old Spokes Home, as well as all the participants, for making this ride special and memorable. Complete set of pictures here.