P P P P P-P P - Pelotonia 2011 Day 1 Ride Report (Part 1)

Preparation (Part 1)

In which the author fuels-up for the day's exertions...

0400: the alarm rings.

Tenderly, my feet hit the floor and I pad down to the kitchen.

Not P.M., dammit! A.M.!

Open fridge. Grab bowl. Open microwave. Insert bowl. Button, button, where's the button? Cook! Grab bottle. Hydrate. Beep! Open microwave. Lift bowl. Close door. Drizzle honey. Spoon? Scoop into maw. Chew. Swallow. Scoop. Repeat. Empty bowl. Pad upstairs. Check clock: 0415. Snuggle pillow. Sleep.

Preparation (Part 2)

In which the author armors for battle... without and within.

0515: the alarm rings.

Tenderly, my feet hit the floor. I pad to the bathroom to attend to "necessaries."

Ride: Nowhere

Mission accomplished, I check my K-Tape. I run my fingers up and down the tape, and I gently probe my calf. I wince a little at a particularly nasty spot: deep breath...release. Mostly good.

I'd spent the week hemming and hawing and avoiding commitment. Would I ride with the lead group?

I'd tested it a bit the day before on a "spin up your legs" ride. I'd felt good, as long as I remembered to be careful.

But I hadn't completely committed. And in the dark at 0525, I still wasn't sure what I could do.

Back in the bedroom I dressed: base layer, bibs, ankle brace, socks. I warmed the chamois cream in my hands. I applied it, protecting what cancer left behind. I stared into space—focused, not tired—seeking my answer.

Headphones in, iPod on. Music flowed. I padded back down to the kitchen. Green tea and chocolate time. A mouthful of peanut butter. "Polar Bear" pulsed.

It's on.

I had my answer.

Energy coarsed through me...slowly, but undeniably. Awareness. Sensation. I was alive. Each moment...precious.

I sipped some water and felt it trickle into my gut. I warmed as I stretched. Rhythm pulsed through me. Building...building. "Dreams Burn Down" began. A tear welled. I loosened a neck kink. And another.

"It's on," I declared.

"It's on."

The guitars crashed into cacophony. Noise swelled, tensed, and...released.

It's on.

I donned my jersey: the one that answers the question "Who Are You Riding For?"

It's on.

It hit me: I'm invested in this event. It matters.

It's on.

My Not-So-Little Secret

In which the author soliloquizes about his motivations and goals...

I'm a heart-on-his sleeve guy. To know me is...to know me. Of course, I'm human. I try to play poker; I obfuscate. I have ambition and guile.. But, I do those things so...badly!

I'm most comfortable when I'm most natural. It's why I write this blog.

So, here's my little Pelotonia secret: I wanted to be the first survivor to cross the line.

There, I wrote it.

Now, most of you are thinking: "meh."

Got it. Fine. Move along. But it's far more than "meh" to me.

I've written before about the importance of thriving. About how survivors face choices, and how I have chosen a different, difficult path.

I'm wearing my heart on my sleeve...
(Late-nite artwork inked by the effervescent Kara Razek.)

Transforming one's life is not easy. It requires intention, demands commitment, and consumes. Yet, the rewards are incredible—if you are open to them and wise enough to recognize them.

I was driven to be the first survivor across the line. I'm a good rider. I have power, I can endure, and I can swallow pain. I wanted to show what survivors can do.

Survivors can do...whatever they set their minds to doing.

And I wanted to be among the first riders across that line in Athens. I wanted to be a testament to my concept of "Thrive"

A Brief Digression...

When I was in the hospital I promised myself to get better, when I got better. In other words, I promised myself that I would forge a better person from me.

Easy promise. Foxhole promise. Gallows prayer. Easily made; easily forgotten.

Two years after the hospital I was the same bum as before. But I was angrier...consumed by bitterness. My weakness disgusted me.

I was so disgusted with myself that one day I dragged my sorry, fat ass up off the couch and started working.

Sometimes you have to break it all down before you can build it back up.

On the bus at 0515 every day. In the gym by 0615. I'm still working.

But I have results.

...Back to the Narrative...

The lead group is a hard place. It's fast. It's risky. It's no place for the weak-willed. Tenacity matters. On the day, you might not have the legs. But if you have the drive, you just might stick.

And that's what I meant when I declared: "it's on."

I didn't have the legs. I knew that. I had a leg and (maybe) 3/4 of the other.

But I had something that few others had: a hard, core desire. A smouldering burn from within that fueled my effort and tempered my pain.

It was on. It was so, very, very on.

Proper Prior Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Productivity

In which the author recommends a service and (perhaps) foreshadows (a bit)...

Leading up to the event, whilst hemming an hawing, I'd been in contact with a few of the local lads who were absolutely driven to be the lead group. This crew was targeting an outrageous finish time of 4:30. They had trained all season—riding long and deep into the hills—to prepare for Pelotonia.

They planned, plotted, and prepared for the day with military discipline.

One of their brilliant ideas was to have their own SAG wagon. They commissioned Rick (of Rick's Bicycle  Service...more on him in another posting) to meet them along the route. He would be a mobile water bottle and fuel cache.

Rick Rocks. Call him at 614.266.8822 (serving Central Ohio).

Rick's also an amazing mechanic.

So, if anything happened along the ride, Rick could help to make it right.

In the midst of all my hemming and hawing about "would I, or would I not" ride with the lead group, I jumped on the opportunity. I wanted to plan ahead, too. Feeling optimistic, I gave Rick four bottles, two flasks of energy gel, and a wheelset.

A wheelset?

Yep. I was riding tubulars. I knew that if I blew a tire it was "game over!" Knowing this was a real possibility, I gave him a set of clinchers—just in case of worst case. If I blew, at least I would have something to ride to complete the day.

And though I prepared, I prayed that I wouldn't need it.

On Food

In which the author proves pedantic regarding Real Food....

Years of Powerbars, Gu, Accelerade, and all sorts of "sports nutrition" has left me...unsatisfied. Most of it tastes chemical, all of it affects me in some unpleasant way, even though it helps with short-term energy.

Where's the honey pot? I'm just a Pooh-bear, after all!

My stomach always feels...icky; and I always feel like I need a good cleanse afterward.

Hippocrates suggested that we should "let food be thy medicine."

I'm a believer.

To that end, I've been making my own gels in recent months, and I've been packing "real food" for long rides.

No, I haven't gone the old-school Italian panini route. Instead, I pack nut butter and honey (or jam) wraps. They're portable, tasty, digestible, and wholesome. When I need to eat I chew on a 1/3 wrap. When I need a quick burst, I squeeze some of my home-brew gel.

It works. And I'm not ingesting monopotassium phosphate (used as a fertilizer, a food additive and a fungicide!) or FD&C red 40 on my ride!

For this ride I had five peanut butter and honey wraps (one for each hour) and one flask of gel, with several more flasks in cache with Rick. It would be just enough

Preparation (Part 3)

In which the author and his mates make their way to the start...

Scott ever-ebullient was lacking perk. His caffeine hadn't yet kicked in, but there were signs of life. His spirit was eager, and the spark was in his eye, even if the rest of him had not yet gotten the message.

I was somewhere deep inside. I occasionally emerged into non-self-consciousness, like an open-water swimmer lifting his head and seeking his bearings. I was ready: kit on—pockets brimming with food; body loose—ready to ride; and spirit free. I was with people I trusted completely, and it calmed me remarkably.

The Pelotonia SAG wagons hit the road on Day 1.

0600 and Lovely Lady Lucy smoothly strolled down the drive—an early morning visitation from an angel—vigorously escorted by Robert "I'm Kitted Up in Pink and White and Why the Hell Aren't You Ready Yet?" Collier. Robert was driving our train; making sure we racked bikes and got to the start. He was acting the hard man, getting us out on time. For my part, I was a happy passenger.

We loaded up and Lucy drove us through the pre-dawn mist. Robert had a plan. We executed.

We unloaded...somewhere, parking next to Trent "I've Got Mad Skillz, I'm Insane, and I Can Ride Like the Wind!" (Hereinafter referred to as "MS Trent.") Trent handed me a Campagnolo window sticker, and declared that he was paying his fare to ride my wheel. We laughed; (I was stoked! All my bikes are Campy-kitted!) But when I considered his steed and his physique—he had white-spoked Spinergys and a racer's physique—I thought to myself: "who's gonna be riding whose wheel?

Oh, what a beautiful morning!

T'was a half-mile ride to the start—far enough to file off the burred edges of my stacatto nerves. My heart rate was flying. I sprinted—because I had to! The energy was boiling up and over!

I needed to get back inside myself. I love my mates, but the stimulus was too much. I was frenetic with nerves; I needed to re-center.

At the start we convened with other friends, saying our "hello"s and "good luck"s and our "keep the rubber side down"s. Good vibes and smiling faces—just what you want to see and feel before setting off.

Mass starts—even the best of them— are chaos.

With 15 minutes to go, Mother Nature knocked once again. Blessed, blessed, Mother Nature! The perfect excuse to separate, isolate, and calm.

With 5 minutes to go I rolled to the "start-after-the-start", out on the road and away from mass-start chaos. I wanted to avoid the whole triathlon swim start experience. I was looking for Sloan "I Am a Rock and I'm Here for YOU" Spalding. He has that uncanny ability to set you at ease and make you believe that you're the center of the universe.

We found one another and were looking for other mates on the broad boulevard, when I heard a voice singing the National Anthem.

We stopped to honor the flag. As I listened I thought of the hobbled veterans I see every day at my gym. As I type this my bus passes Walter Reed Army Medical Center—another daily reminder of others' sacrifices. I'm humbled.

Papillon and me...we're pensive before the start.

A photographer captures the moment. He asks me my name and my cancer—referencing my arm artwork. We chat. Sloan rolls up, taps my shoulder, and says, "It's time."

We clip. We glide. We cross the median to catch the wave.

Here it comes!

Lights flashing! Sirens woop-wooping! The surge is upon us!

We're off!