What I Remember - Pelotonia 2011 Day 2 Ride Report

It's not been long-awaited.

It's not been long-lamented.

But here it is anyway...a ride report for Pelotonia 2011, Day 2.

I remember...

• Waking up in the dark and feeling spry
• The cold tiles under my feet
• The aromas of the dorm bathroom
• The echoing sounds of voices, flushes, and running water
• My first constitutional
• Strolling down to breakfast—before it was scheduled to start—to fuel for the day's ride
• Hoping that there would be coffee, while reminiscing about the previous year's caffeine-free debacle
• My second constitutional
• Eggs, and fruit, and dawn's camaraderie
• My third constitutional
• Packing and waiting on line to return my key
• Hauling my baggage
• Deciding that my leg felt surprisingly good, considering the previous day's exertions
• Delighting in the sight of Papillon (and knowing that we had another adventure before us)

It was a good morning. The air was fresh and misty, just as it should have been. We gathered, slowly. Some were more ready than others. After the previous evening's celebrations, two were...not quite well. But they were game for the day. How they managed it, I'll never know...

Eventually, finally, inevitably, we were off.

I remember laughing at myself...

• Laughing at the group (it was a sort of motivation)
• Lamenting the speed we were traveling
• Resigning myself to a long day
• Reminding myself that riding with friends is a rare joy—especially when you live 1,000 miles away
• Smiling a lot
• Watching Razek's computer pop out, up, and down—exploding into component parts
• Tom Lennox passing us, shouting abuse at Razek
• Restarting
• Stopping
• Restarting
• Catching long lines of riders, passing them, and the short conversations we had along the way
• Stopping
• Delighting in the porta-johns at the end of the bike trail (my fourth constitutional)

The ride proceeded as expected. Some were slow and lethargic. Some were spry and ready. All were a little weary, but something underneath drove us.

"Determination" is the closest word for that something. Everyone seemed determined—no matter how crappy they felt. Underneath the various masks—and we had many, from bonhomie to sarcasm with a little wise-arse for good measure—determination reigned.

I'm not so certain that was a good thing.

I remember approaching Logan Dam...

The sun was shining for this photo. For us, not so much...

• Seeing Kara and our wonderful ride support
• Thinking that the day was over for our most  charismatic companion
• Counseling said friend to stop the suffering
• Reminding him that he had already accomplished amazing things
• Believing that my counsel was in his best interest
• Watching inky-black clouds roll across the hilltop
• Listening to the thunder
• Feeling my stomach drop
• Hardening myself (that "determination" thing)
• Wishing that we would get on with it
• Lamenting indecision (on many people's parts)

The irony of the situation was lost on me...until many days later.

I remember starting up the hill from Logan Dam...

• Feeling tight from the long stop (20+ minutes!)
• Applying pressure to the pedals
• Feeling pain

The demons arrive...

Most of the time when you pull a muscle, it's a quick, sharp pain. Sometimes it's a charlie-horse.

This was different.

Imagine a pain that starts in your bone and radiates outward.

Imagine a pain that hits you like a wall of water, engulfing you. Drowning you. A pain that knots your stomach and fills your ears with rushing blood.

Imagine a pain that communicates: you're done. You're really, really done.

I remember realizing that I had "complicated" my injury...

• Knowing that a nightmare had just begun
• Wondering if I could continue
• Pedaling onward, as though nothing had happened
• Adjusting my technique to enable pedaling
• Going inside, to face my demons (again)

Much of the ride was—and remains—a blur.

I do remember riding with each of my ride partners in turn, separately, to let them know that I was hurt, that I was not trying to be a jerk, that I would do my best, and that I might disappear for a time.

I remember trying to motivate others...

• Believing that by focusing on them, I could avoid myself
• Thinking that my best mask would be one of support
• Hoping that my pain would pass
• Knowing that I was lying to myself

At one point in the ride—after Amanda—I went. I knew the rolling hills ahead, and I knew that I needed to be alone.

I needed isolation to deal with the screaming inside—the arguments, the doubts, the fears. I had to get away from my friends to be with the crowd in my head. I had conversations. I shouted expletives. I cried a little.

It wasn't fun

I've shared these experiences before. Sometime's they're funny. This time...not so much.

Here's what I remember...

I remember breathing, counting each breath. Feeling the air fill me.

I remember my mind's eye seeing a perfect left pedal stroke, and I remember feeling a perfect left pedal stroke. First one revolution at a time, then five, ten, twenty...until I no longer thought about it. I was it.

I remember shouting.

I remember the taste of my grinding teeth.

I remember looking up and seeing a long, stepped hill—straight as an arrow—cleaving the fields, thinking: "there's no way I can do this."

I remember doing it.

Determination (that word again) drove me. Sense didn't. I survived cancer, I sure as hell can survive this ride. I was better than it...stronger...more knowing...mindful. I was capable of amazing things.

But at what cost?

To hell with the cost! I'M GOING TO DO THIS!

You're hurt. You've got nothing to prove. Quit.

NO!

Why not?

NO!

That's not an answer!

I HAVE TO DO THIS!

WHY?

BECAUSE BECAUSE I'LL NEVER BE ABLE TO LIVE WITH MYSELF MY MYTH DIES IT'S ALL I HAVE EVERYTHING ELSE IS FAKE ALIEN UNREAL SURREAL ALL PETTY LITTLE NOTHING PETTY I'M NOTHING I HAVE NOTHING I NEED THIS MY JOB A JOB A PAYCHECK A PRISON MY HOUSE NOT A HOME A PRISON A TRAP DEBT PILED ON DEBT NEVER ENOUGH NEVER ENOUGH TO WHAT END IS THIS MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE MY FAMILY DEMANDING AN ANCHOR MY BIKE I'M FREE ON MY BIKE I'M FREE I'M ME NOT SON HUSBAND FATHER I'M ME IS THIS MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE MY FRIENDS DISTANT AVOIDED NEVER WHAT I SHOULD BE SHOULD HAVE BEEN COULD BE COULD HAVE BEEN I'M NOTHING WITHOUT THIS THIS MYTH MY MYTH MY BEST ME GODS HOW DID I GET HERE

You know how. You know why. Stop shouting. Acquiesce.

NO

You're injured...hurt. Use it. Use the excuse. Stop. Acquiesce. You've got an excuse...a great excuse...another excuse like all the others over all the years. Perfect. Clean. No one will notice. No one cares.

NO

Give in. It doesn't matter. This ride doesn't matter. Quit. Give up.

NO!

Be yourself. Be the real you. Be the fake, the coward, the rebel without a clue. We both know it: you're just a shell of what could have been, a mockery of your dreams.

NO!

Yes. Acquiesce. Quit.

NOT THIS TIME NOT NOW THIS IS REAL THIS COUNTS THIS MATTERS I'M HERE NOT GIVING UP GIVING IN GOING HOME WHATEVER THE COST I NEED THIS REAL SOMETHING REAL BREAK THE MOLD STOP THE CYCLE SHATTER ME GET OUT OF ME OUT OF YOU THIS IS REAL THIS MEANS SOMETHING GREAT GOOD NOBLE PURPOSE REAL REALLY REAL AND I'M HERE PRESENT MINDFUL THIS PAIN IS REAL I'M IN IT IN IT BIGGER GREATER NOT ME LITTLE LIFE PATHETIC NOTHING SOMETHING TO PROVE SOMETHING TO OFFER WASTED OPPORTUNITIES SO MANY SHIRKED RESPONSIBILITIES SO MANY LET DOWN SO MANY PEOPLE NOT NOW NOT NOW NOT NOW NOT NOW HERE NOW STAND GROUND MAKE STAND HERE NOW LIVE TRUTH HERE NOW BE MY TRUTH

My eyes were blind. My ears...deaf.

The road rolled on.

I NEED THIS NEED IT NEED IT NEED IT'S SO DAMNED HARD GODS THIS HURTS SURVIVOR CAPITAL S STRONG STRONGER THAN YOU THINK STRONGER THAN MY PAST STRONGER THAN I KNOW I CAN DO THIS GODS THIS HURTS THE PAIN SO REAL I'M REAL THIS MATTERS IT MATTERS I MATTER

No. It doesn't. You're one of thousands. You're loud, yes, but you're just part of a crowd. You're nothing special. If you never had come, it wouldn't have mattered. No one cares—really cares. This is narcissistic, arrogant, pathetic waste. You don't matter.

No.

You're not shouting anymore. Give up?

No. You're wrong. I matter. This matters. Fuck you. Get out of my head.

(Laughing) Not a chance.

I don't need you.

So what? You're stuck with me. I've been with you forever, and I'll be here forevermore.

You want to know why? Why am I doing this? Why can't I quit? Because...it's what I'm meant to do. My leg doesn't matter. The damage is done. I can't hurt it more anymore. This ride matters. I believe in it. It's real. I'm making a difference to someone, somewhere. And others believe in me, too. Donors, supporters...they matter. My friends...they matter. They're real. This ride...it's what I have to give. I'm not alone. I'm with them—all of them. Get them home. Give. Go.

I stopped riding. I waited for my friends. We came together, by ones and twos.

We rode in, together. I took the lead, telling the others to get behind me, to draft.

I drove the train, my mind quiet, focused on the rhythm, the work.

We got closer. Headwind. I paced on.

I got stronger. At some point my pace split the group We slowed, regrouped. Together we came home.

I remember a lot about that day—too much. As I type this five months later my leg still throbs. I haven't been on a bike since Pelotonia. That was August. It's now January. I'm not on a bike again until April. Maybe.

Was it worth it?

My post-Pelotonia blues were deep, wide, and consuming—I still haven't unpacked.

But then...I saw this:

And I realized that maybe...just maybe...it was worth it.

For whom do I ride? I ride for you.

I ride because I must.

I ride to be.

I ride for me.

Into Athens - Pelotonia 2011 Day 1 Ride Report (Part 4)

Regrouping

"I just got here. Help me out! Don't make me pull!"

Perhaps not the best way to announce yourself. Not exactly "Bonjour, je m'appelle 'Wheelsucker'. Comment ça va?"

But it was all I had. And in the circumstances, it made sense.

The group was small—four or five riders, and they were cursing their misfortune. They were stopped by a light, and traffic, having lost the blessing of a police escort (bless those OHiPs!). I recognized Dave C. and Bob Kirk. Dave looked...bad. (Sorry to say it, Dave!) Bob looked...like Bob.

Bob's US Cycling racing age 63. The man's my idol (hereinafter known as MI Kirk). Twenty years from now, I plan to be as fit and centered as is he. In 2010 he was hugely supportive of me on Pelotonia Day 1.

I had no idea I was in such exalted company!
The guy's a stud. And incredibly generous, too.

When we finished last year—beating my five-hour goal by six minutes—I had something of a breakdown in Athens. Emotional floodwaters overwhelmed me, and I cried salty tears in a purging cry that emptied me. In 2010 I was completely invested in Pelotonia. I had come through a period of self-reflection—on this blog—that changed my life. Crossing the line in Athens was the culmination of so, so much.

And it all had to be released.

And release it did.

And as I stood there, banshee-howling, with tears and snot dripping from my face, there was MI Bob.

And here is what he said:

"I don't know who you're riding for, but you're a hell of a rider, and It was a pleasure riding with you."

Wow.

And here we were, once again, riding together.

What to Do?

As I recovered, drinking and eating and hiding from the wind, I sensed that I was surrounded by disappointment. Dave C. was hurting—cramps had gotten to him earlier—and he was distraught. For the most part, the others seemed to be suffering from ennui. There was no spark! No...something!

I moved to the front with MI Bob, pacing us through town. Dave C was in "game over" mode. For him, as soon as he lost contact with that lead group, his day was done. His ambition was to finish in 4:30. He'd worked for months to get ready. He was disconsolate.

I felt for him. He had, after all, been my contact with Rick. My entire PPPPP-PP strategy was built around my connection to Dave. I owed him a lot. And it was hard to listen to the tone in his voice.

Making things worse, we were in one of the most dispiriting places you can be when you're suffering: town. Stop signs, traffic lights, quick turns, railroad tracks, traffic: they're all obstacles; they're in your face; and they kill your legs with all the stop-start, stop-start.

And then entered the other worst place to be: flatland. A long, flat, wind-swept road endlessly unrolled in front of us. Misery. Pure misery.

I'd had a mechanical. He had cramps. Big difference. It's empathetic to state: when you're done, you're done. Dave C was done. It was only a matter of time.

So, what did that mean for me?

A standard paceline gives the point
man a lot of responsibility—
for good or for bad.

On the straightaway, our paceline was a mess. We just couldn't seem to get it together. Maybe I was being impatient, but I had bridged up to these guys, working hellaciously to do so, and I wasn't going to soft-pedal the remaining miles. I had my ambitions, too.

I knew Bob was strong, and there was a guy in an Ohio State kit (with 437 water bottles attached to him), who had good legs, so I suggested we try a reverse (rotating, rolling) paceline. It would enable us to get breaks, and it would pick up the pace.

This technique is different from the standard paceline. While the lead rider still sets the pace, he no longer determines the length and speed of the pull. It's the responsibility of the the overtaking rider to get to the front. Once on the front, that rider simply maintains, knowing that another rider is approaching from the rear at speed, and that a rest is soon to come.

When it works, it's an elegant flow. Bikes rotate with clockwork regularity, and the entire group glides forward with inevitability. It cycles beautifully.

In a reverse paceline, the overtaking riders
shoulder responsibility. It's fast and effective.

In our case, I hoped to spark something in the group. A reverse paceline mitigates the situation we were having—where riders got on the front, tired, and slowed the pace (or riders simply did not ride on the front). I wanted to ride. I wanted to see who wanted to ride. Someone had to try something.

It didn't take. A few of us took the point in turns. Onward we labored.

But I lit a small spark. The pace quickened.

One...More...Hill...

There was one more hill to come: Carbon Hill. We all knew it was out there; but I couldn't remember how far it was, or what led up to it. It's one of those landmarks that impresses itself on you, but that seems to come out of nowhere.

In Pelotonia's two previous editions I rode over it strongly—to the consternation of my companions. Like Starner Hill (whoa), it's perfect for my power-climbing style.

If only I could make it there!

Despite my PPPPP-PP, I had a problem. I was nearly out of water, and the thirst was upon me. Thirst is like...needing to pee—as soon as you acknowledge the sensation, you need to pee more. If only you could ignore it! In this case, as soon as I felt thirsty, I started seeing water everywhere. I just couldn't drink any of it. A stream here, a puddle there, water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink!

You caught me. I'm exaggerating.

I did have a quarter-bottle of water left. But I knew I needed much more than that to support my effort. And if I killed that reserve, I would find myself in bonk-town.

There's a literary/film reference you
didn't expect!

So I turned to Gunga Din, the previously-mentioned, Ohio-State jersey wearing, 437 bottle carrying, strong-legged fella with the aerobars.

"How are you for water?" I asked, fully knowing that he had several full bottles.

"Um, ok," he responded, confusedly. As in: why-is-this-guy-asking-about-water-this-can't-be-good.

"Can I have some?" I ventured. "I promise not to drink it all."

Kindly, and patiently, he responded: "Sure."

My faith in human nature restored, I drank lustily.

In seconds I felt stronger. I hadn't felt weak, but the speed with which the water had an effect told me that I was closer to the edge than I'd thought.

I thanked him, and we rode on—closer and closer to the hill.

Just like Starner Hill (whoa) I kept asking the locals where it would start. I knew there was a slight turn to the left (at least I thought it was to the left), but I didn't know where it would appear.

And just like Starner Hill (whoa) it was suddenly upon me—84 miles into the ride.

I shifted my gear, rose from my saddle, and found my rhythm. Just like Starner Hill (whoa), I told myself to ride, not to race. There were no King of the Mountain points here.

I crested and descended, relieved. The hard stuff was in our wake. Now we would run in to the finish.

And what a run-in it would be.

The Strait

We navigated Nelsonville and halted at the last traffic signal we would see before Athens. As we waited for the ruby light to change, I looked at my companions.

Tired: that's what we all were. Yet everyone was itching to go. When the signal did turn, we dashed off—across the railroad tracks, and up the gentle grade beyond.

Up we went, softly curving left, and then down to the long, flat, final road leading to the bike path.

This stretch was just that—a stretch. We shook out what needed shaking out, fed, and assessed. I felt good; Mission Control was still reporting a status of "Go!"

I finished my borrowed water and my own meager bottle. Rick was somewhere ahead. I was confident I would make good on my promise to Gunga Din.

Two dodgy twitches—left and right—and we were on the path—the Strait of Athens.

And there was Rick!

Looking for all the world like a goateed boy hosting a summertime lemonade stand, he had set a table lined with bottles. I screeched to a stop, swapped bottles, and surged away, to bridge back to Gunga Din and those others who hadn't stopped.

I was sprinting down the path when I realized: I was sprinting down a bike path.

It's not the tunnel of love, I can assure you of that!

Really? Is this a good idea?

Anyone planning to fly through Pelotonia's course (such as the lead group with their 4:30 ambition) is challenged by the course itself. While the last ten miles are smoothly paved and on an aggregate downslope, they're mostly on a bike path. Even if you had a police escort through all the previous roads, you would need to share these miles with local runners, dog walkers, kids, and cyclists.

It was a short sprint, but it gave me much to think about, as I slowed from 30 mph.

Ok. It's not yellow, and not merely a pole,
but you get the idea. Road furniture is the
stuff of cyclists' nightmares!

The group re-formed and we pacelined through the canopy. I glanced down and saw that our speed floated between 24 and 25 mph. On the open road, that was lovely! Here? I was so tense, I was waterproof.

Adding to the excitement, at irregular intervals we encountered "traffic furniture"—cycling parlance for "shit that can hurt you."

At each road crossing—the path intersected a number of minor roads and other paths—we dodged around yellow-painted posts. These were placed to keep motor vehicles off the bike path—a noble idea. But they had a devastating effect on our group.

Nope, no-one crashed (thanks, Holy Spoke!).. Instead, we became rubberband men.

Stretching, Stretching, SNAP!

We WISH we had rubber-band propulsion!

Curious things happen in traffic. When the head of a line of vehicles slows, the line compresses, with everyone filling the micro-space between bumpers. When the head of the line speeds up, the line elongates, with large gaps forming between vehicles, due to uneven reactions and accelerations. Then—as speed normalizes—spacing normalizes.

In our case, every time we would come to one of those crossings, we'd compress (to mere inches), expand (to several feet), and normalize, returning to our one-foot spacing, with each rider adjusting his speed accordingly.

This elasticity is a horrorshow, if you're not ready for it. Especially for the guy on the back.

On the front? You call the shots. You control the line. In the next three? Get gunslinger-ready! You're going to be braking blindly, and you'll need your fast-twitch reactions to not crash. On the back?

Well, that's where it gets bad. If you're near the rear you have the greatest distance to cover when the line accelerates. You're a rubberband man.





Why?

Let's say the line is eight riders long. Normally, in the paceline, you have a one-foot gap between your front wheel and the rear wheel of the rider in front of you. When the line slows, that gap shrinks to inches (centimeters!). But when the line accelerates, the gaps can grow, the rubberband stretches until there's an average of a six-foot gap in between.

Then it the rubberband contracts; it normalizes.

The second rider in line only needs to close five feet (from a six-foot gap to a one-foot gap for a total of five feet). The third rider needs to close twice that (two six-foot gaps are closed to two, two-foot gaps—one for his gap and another for the gap of the rider in front of him. Rider three closes a gap of 10 feet).

Confused yet?

Here's the important part: On the back = bad.

The 8th rider needs to close a 40-foot gap. That, dear readers, is work—especially at the speeds we were sustaining.

The guy in yellow is off the back.
He's  got some work to do,
or he's going to be in the hurt locker.

So, being on the back hurts. But it's part of your paceline responsibility—everyone takes a turn on the front and drops back to the rear, rotating through the entire line.

But, sometimes you're on the edge. You're tired, cramping, sore, and just this side of being cooked. If—God forbid!—you are stuck on the rear and can't move up in the line, then every time the line slows, you're going to be sprinting for your life.

I don't know how many crossings that path had. I do know this: I never got out of the top four—I was happy to take pulls, rather than become elasticized. I was pushing the pace, despite my misgivings about racing down the path (BIKE UP! MOVE LEFT!).

And at some point we lost Dave C and others.

I'm not proud of it, but it's a fact: they was gone. I knew it would happen, though I'd hoped it wouldn't. Even so, in my hyper-aware, are-we-really-going-this-fast-on-a-bike-path (RUNNER UP!) mode, I barely noticed.

IM Bob, a few others, and I took turns pulling on the front. Gunga Din was there—and I had returned a full bottle to him at some point on the path—as was Riley Adams, with his escort and confidante, Richard Lewis. I know very little about Richard

Riley? He has a powerful story (and a lifetime ahead of him to realize his dreams). Godspeed, lad. You're a strong rider and a better person. May your wishes be fulfilled...

Off the Path

The final stages of the path include a long straightaway with woods tight to the right and open fields to the left. It's a fast runway that leads to a long, sweeping left. we hit this stretch and I knew we were home free—it was just a matter of completing the run-in. A shorter-pitched curve to the right carries you to a short rise and more traffic furniture. Careful, careful boys!

Then, POP!, you're on the street. You can feel the rubber bite the road as you bank hard-over, keeping your  speed in a tight, fast left.

For more than a few miles I'd been thinking about the finish. Who was going to do what? Did the group have an unspoken commitment to finish together? Was is every man for himself? How was this going to go? Would some folks get cagey and slow, looking for draft position in anticipation of a sprint?

I had no idea.

Until we came off the path, and all hell broke loose.

It was just like a Cat 5 race—everyone went, and they all went too early. We were a good mile or so from the finish—a long way!

I came onto the road and instantly got passed by IM Bob, in full-out sprint mode. Maybe he was trying to break away, I dunno. I stopped thinking. I reacted.

I jumped his wheel and tucked into his slipstream. We were surging ahead when he suddenly pulled up and slowed.

Shit!

Somehow I didn't crash. I was hyper-aware, and I was lucky. I shouted something guttural as I slowed, losing top-end speed. I watched several riders sweep past us.

What to do?

I stayed in the saddle and re-accelerated without sprinting. I needed a moment to recover and view the situation.

Everyone had sprinted out of the bike path. Now, they all slowed. We made the final right turn into the finishing sweep. Everyone was gassed, or they had simply stopped racing. Gruppo compacto. Or becoming so, at least.

Perfect.

That's a look of joy...intensity...desire...focus...passion.
I owe this photographer for capturing the essential me on the bike

I was behind the bunch as it re-settled. And I had no intention of joining them.

When IM Bob flew past me earlier, it triggered me. All my ambition came forward. All my hard work justified it, and the group's disintegration cleared my conscience.

I was going to finish. I was going to finish alone. I was going to finish strong.

It had been a long day. My abilities and my mettle had been tested. My planning had paid off, and Dame Fortune had looked upon me with favor.

In the morning I had declared: It's on.

I saw no reason to turn it off now.

Just as the group came together, compacting back into a bunch, I spied a gap on the left.

I punched my pedals.

We were inside the finish barriers, on a sweeping left turn.

I shot through that inside gap like a cork from a well-shaken champagne bottle. I had some distance! No one followed. I was clear!

I have no doubt that everyone in that group cursed me. I am absolutely certain that I was called names that I would prefer my LAs to not hear.

I didn't care.

I was completing my mission.

The finishing archway greeted me home.

I sat up, crossing the line, with my SURVIVOR arm thrust in front of me...

...in 9th overall.

...in 4:40—a 21.7 mph average.

...as the first Limited Brands finisher.

...wearing my heart on my sleeve.

...as a testament to what survivors can do.

And it was done.

Nothing Is Easy - Pelotonia 2011 Day 1 Ride Report (Part 3)

Author's Note: I apologize in advance for some language that will appear early in this post. I try to be PG-13 on this blog. However, circumstances dictate otherwise on this day.

KA-POW!!!

(Heart leaps into throat)
      Fuuuuck! Noooo! That was me? Fuck! WOW! Loud! No!
(Glances back at rear wheel)
      Fuck!
(Looks ahead, seeing the lead riders roll away)
      Goddammit! No! Shit...shit...SHIT!
(Swallows)
      Rick! Bugger! Where's Rick? The plan! Get to Rick... Where the hell is Rick?
            Fuuuuuck!
                  Steady...steady...breathe...
(Breathes)

Poop.

It's amazing how many thoughts explode through your mind the moment your ride is flushed down the crapper.

Fuuuck!

Noooo!

Breathe.

Crawling

In which the author faces his fate...

No time for regrets, recriminations, or sadness: disaster focuses the mind nicely.

Could I yet salvage this ride?

Dave C. and a few others raced past—no doubt thinking that I'd blown up (racer-speak for "exceeded my limits")—and he called out to me. I shouted back "Flat! Where's Rick?"

Gravel = bad.
Mood = worse.

"A mile," came the response.

And with that I limped up the gravelly hill.

Complete concentration consumed me. My eyes were riveted to the road. If I rode perfectly upright, keeping the tire between the road and the rim, I might make it to Rick without destroying my beloved Zipps. If I hit a rock just wrong—game over. The rim would be damaged beyond repair.

Either way, I had to get to Rick. He wouldn't wait forever.

Each contour, fissure, pebble and gradient impressed itself on me. I rode steadily—and slowly—and in complete control. Few riders passed me, and I expect that those who did thought it was "game over" for me.

So did I.

Crunching grey matter under my wheels, I rolled, my breath sucking deeply the woody-scented, dusty air.

Mindful Breathing.

In which the author describes a tactic for managing effort (and mood)...

When the littlest LA is upset (frustrated, angry, wild), and in that state where she lashes out at others, I try to help her calm herself by telling her: "Breathe!"

Breathing works.

It's one of the main lessons I try to share with my spin classes: breathe mindfully.

Don't let the breathing happen to you. Be in control. Be aware. Use your breathing to meter your effort. Seek and find your rhythm. Draw breath from your belly. Suck it in and savor it. Feel it open your chest and cleanse the humours. Push it out and purge the demons.

Manage yourself by breathing.

It's amazing how well it works. You can be in the middle of a spin class climb—with your focus on everything but your breathing—and when someone says "breathe", the effort suddenly becomes...less. Even when sprinting, an exhortation to "Breathe!" centers you.

It's the same on the road. In the middle of an ego-bumping, frenetic group ride, when the hormone/endorphin cocktail is at its corrosive height, a reminder to "Breathe!" calms me. It's all still there—the chemistry and the physicality of the event—but it's managed.

Powerful stuff. Simple stuff. Internal stuff. And I'll be damned, if it doesn't work. Sometimes the simplest solutions are the most effective.

Sucking in the wooded air, I was breathing.

SAG Support

In which the author describes how PPPPP-PP works in the field...

The grey blur rolled upward and turned black. Pavement!

I was so far inside that I had no idea how long I had been riding flatted. Suddenly, a panorama opened before me. I crested the rise on the blessedly smooth tarmac and...there was Rick!

It's Qatar (NOT Ohio!). But you get the idea...

And there was a crew collecting their caches.

I wasn't dropped (yet)!

Harrraaghhhh!

I bumped down the hill and shouted: "Flat! Rear wheel!"

Rick was frantically handing-out bottles, sorting through what was who's and reacting to the moment.

Just as I rolled next to him, with his hands slotting my refill-bottles into my bottle cages, I heard him say: "did someone flat?"

With acidic adrenaline flowing through me like jet fuel! I shouted: "Rear wheel! I need a rear wheel!"

Rick jumped to the wheel bag, arms a-flurry like a dervish. I pedaled over to the truck, shifting into my lowest cog to get the derailleur out of the way of a quick wheel change.

And suddenly, with almighty urgency driven by my heightened senses, I had to pee!

As Rick changed my wheel, I leaped away and (with acidic adrenaline flowing through me like jet fuel) shouted: "I gotta pee!"

Now, I have no idea what Rick's reaction was to that declaration. He probably thought it a might bit strange. Yet, in the moment, I could not have cared any less.

I had to pee.

Many, many, many ounces later I came back to my bike, wheel changed and bottles full. I hopped on and started pedaling, getting a fantastic push from someone.

And the long chase had begun.

What Next?

Wherein the author describes torn allegiances and NASA...

Two hundred yards in front of me was OS Blair, his pink Limited Brands jersey a beckoning beacon. I mouthed some water and tempoed up to him. He seemed to have waited. "Let's work!" I declared as I pulled past him.

He was eating, and when ready he hopped on my wheel. The rolling road rose to meet us. I pulled, then rotated to recover in his wake. He pulled, and as he drifted next to me, he let me know that he could follow, but that he couldn't pull—he was cooked.

I grunted, and said: "get on." And off we went.

We approached one of the Clydesdales as he labored up another rise. I sat on his wheel to get a breather, and considered. .

Should I stay? Or, should I go?

On that day, in that moment, I knew I was stronger than either of my companions. But I like OS Blair. He was kind to me in 2010, and he had been a supportive companion all morning. Should I leave him? Should the three of us work together?

I had no idea how far ahead anyone was. Three minutes? Five minutes? After my misadventure, did the leaders form a paceline and drill it? Did they remain scattered? Were they strong? Suffering?

And what of me? How was I really doing?

I dove inside (again). How was I?

I checked with mission control:

All stations...report!

• Head? Clear and focused. Go!
• Lungs? Clear and calm. Go!
• Heart rate? Strady and strong. Go!
• Neck and back? Some stiffness, but not limiting. Go!
• Shoulder and collarbone? Sore, but manageable. Go!
• Hands and feet? Recovered from the Road to Roubaix. Go!
• Perineum? Just fine (thanks for asking!). Go!
• Legs? ...
• Legs? I was thinking! ...Um .glutes, quads, hams good. Calf?
• Well? Er, the calf's surprisingly good! Go!
• Feet? No hotspots. Ankle brace is biting into arch, but I can handle that. Go!
• Headspace? Well, we're having this conversation, so it's obvious that it's a... Go!

Right!
System check complete!
All systems, GO!

Nothing Worth Doing Is Easy.

Wherein the author makes a decision...

The body and mind were capable. Were they willing?

My major concern was my injury. Thus far it had survived the harshest tests. Was it ready for another?

It was gut-check time.

"It's not a race," I told myself. "You can hang and enjoy," I continued. "No one—but you—expects you to do anything. You're injured—seriously injured. Finishing will be an accomplishment, and something to savor. There's no need to work this hard!"

I grabbed a sandwich to chew on my thoughts.

You're here...in Ohio. You did the right thing. I know you were luke-warm about it this year. I know you've been conflicted. I know how many doubts you wrestled with just to be here, and I know that leg hurts like hell."

I chewed some more, I couldn't swallow.

"Sit up! Pace yourself! Cobble together a group and finish with them. Be a leader; but don't hurt yourself. It isn't worth it. Why are you even considering it?"

Chewing. Bitter. I couldn't swallow that. Peanut butter and honey never tasted so...bitter.

Thanks, Kara.

I reached down with my left hand—breaking the habit of many miles—and grabbed a bottle. As my arm came up, I saw Kara's artwork: SURVIVOR.

That's why.

I was done chewing.

That I could swallow.

And I was gone.

Chasing

Wherein the author discusses loneliness and rabbits...

When I raced Giro di Coppi this year, I chased...a lot! Who knew that it would be perfect Pelotonia preparation?

Me chasing. Practice makes perfect (or something)...

Chasing takes balls. (Stop snickering, you in the back! I know I only have one...it's figurative!). It's a leap of faith. You may chase and never catch anyone! (I did that at Coppi.) Or, you may chase passing stragglers without ever forming a cohesive group. Either of those options sucks your soul.

I had little information: I couldn't meter my efforts. I didn't know the time-gaps. I wasn't well-familiar with the course or the distances between landmarks (especially the upcoming hills). And I no longer had a power meter; the wheel change eliminated that.

So, I did the only thing I could do: I found a strong tempo; I swallowed the pain; I breathed through the effort; and I got on with getting on.

Loneliness

Chasing is lonely.

There's no other way to describe it. You're fighting the wind with no relief. You're alone with your screaming doubts and body sensations that universally declare: "Stop! Now!"

Spanish riders often describe—at the end of long stages of the grand tours—their "sensations". On good days they talk about having "good sensations" and being tranquilo on the bike. When chasing, that's precisely where you need to be: you need good sensations and tranquility. Which is precisely the opposite of what you're feeling!

So, how do you get there?

You need a surplus of motivation. Heaps and gobs of the stuff. You're entirely self-dependent. You need to have something inside of you that shouts down those screaming doubts and fills you with sensations other than suffering.

So what if the Yellow Jersey was on his wheel?
Cadel was racing his demons...

I love Cadel Evans. He's been one of my favorite pro riders for some time. He's a tenacious, tough bastard, and I absolutely love the way he's "real"—he wears his heart on his sleeve.

In this year's Tour, on Stage 18, he delivered a masterclass on chasing. With Andy Schleck more than four minutes ahead, up the road on the legendary Galibier climb, Cadel assumed his crocodile-wrestling, I'm-a-hard-man-so-to-hell-with-how-I-look climbing position, and dragged the remaining contenders up the mountain. Not one other rider helped. The chase was Cadel's. On that day he fought and battled and scratched and scrapped—with himself. He wasn't racing those behind him; he was fighting his demons.

The result? He cut two minutes of that four-minute deficit—in 10 kilometers.! On the Galibier!

And if you don't know what he did when chasing time in the penultimate stage, shame on you!

Chasing is lonely: even in a race, it's all about you.

Rabbits

Those Ohio roads twist and turn and undulate. You don't get a lot of straightaway. As a result, you never can see too far ahead. Sometimes, just as you round a bend or crest a hill, you catch a glimpse of another cyclist. Other times you're riding on blind faith

I spent a lot of time with my head down, churning, simply driving—mind empty, living the moment, breathing...breathing.

But when I looked ahead, I prayed for one of those glimpses.

All I needed was a flicker of color, and I would transform into a greyhound in the blocks. A glimpse would set my jaw and slit my eyes. It would flex my fingers on the bars, clenching the carbon, creaking my leather gloves. It made me faster.

How could I resist?

Rabbits: the other riders were rabbits. And how I loved them.

I saw rabbits. I caught rabbits. I left rabbits behind.

Each was a rung on a ladder. I climbed, ever upward.

Ahead, on one of the few long-sighted stretches of road, I spied a group ahead. That's what I was seeking. A train!

They disappeared. I dropped into the drops and paced. I had been making up time! A knowing smile curled my lips. I was going to catch them—whoever they were!

Another climb. Stragglers dropped from the group. I passed them, crested the hill, and tucked down for the long descent to Logan Dam. They were there!

As I hit the nadir of the descent, and started up toward the overpass, I could hear their gears shift. I was just about on them. I would catch them...there, at the intersection after the overpass!

I was no longer alone.

Scattered Dreams - Pelotonia 2011 Day 1 Ride Report (Part 2)

And So It Begins

Wherein the author describes the beginning of the journey...

We launched out of Columbus in a jostling flurry. The motorcycles blazed a path through the dewy morning streets, and the front of the pack settled into a three-wide arrow, following the lead rider.

Iron Man leads us out of town.

The guy on the front—wearing an Ironman Canada kit—tucked on his aerobars and cranked out a steady pace. It was good: not too fast, and not too slow.

I jumped into the fray and found a comfortable spot in the front dozen. I had a few Clydesdales in front of me (polite racer-speak for "large men"), who seemed perfectly happy to ride together and protect me from the wind.

The lead rider's long, steady pull settled the group while forcing an initial selection. Sure, there were a lot of guys in the lead bunch who wouldn't be there after Starner Hill (whoa). But the folks in the first 30 or so could do their part, rotating in and out of the wind like an Emperor penguin daddy colony, protecting their precious cargo from the biting chill.

My turn, no, YOUR turn...get out there in that wind!

There was plenty of time and space to stretch out, warm up, eat, drink, and converse. For you heart-rate geeks, I was in a high Zone 2. If you took a pull—depending on the length of the effort—it was a Zone 3 to low Zone 4. Nothing crazy. Easy peasy.

The city rolled past us. We entered and exited suburbia and glided into rural country. Steady, calm, no surprises.

I stayed in the middle, maintaining a position in the initial dozen or so riders. It was the safest place to be: no "sketchy" riders ride that close to the front; I could see and react to any road hazards, as opposed to the blind-riding that occurs in the big bunch; and I could keep my eye on people, learning who was strong, who was laboring, and who had what habit.

Nasty Habits

Wherein the author describes shares secrets...

We all have them: habits. Like poker "tells", they identify us. One guy loves to ride with one hand in the drops and one hand on the hoods. Another guy likes to ride on the bar tops—he's the one to avoid. No way he gets to his brakes in time.

What's your tell, M. Le Chiffre?

Some riders have an exaggerated "throw" of the bike when they get out of the saddle, and woe betide the rider on his wheel. When the "thrower" launches, his bike jets back a few inches, and an unwary follower eats rubber (and possibly gravel). Bad. Bad. Bad.

And then there's snot-rocket guy...You've got the idea...

Cyclists—especially racers—look for these tells.  A bobbing shoulder, or a particular look on one's face can say volumes about how you are feeling, and let you know when to attack.

I have habits. For example, I adopt Chris Horner's smile/grimace when I'm suffering, and I come out of the saddle more than is fashionable, or predictable. But not all of my habits are harmless. I always grab my bottles with my right hand, and nudge to the left when doing so. Unless I am completely focused on not swerving, it happens. A multitude of shoulder injuries have had their impact! I'm not as young as I used to be! I'm left...no! Right-brained!

I know this, and I try to make amends. When I drink, I try to do so only when I have space around me. And when I eat, I move outside the bunch—into the wind. It's safer for everyone. Especially me! I don't want to be that guy..

Cruising

Wherein the author writes of input and output...

The steady pace let me eat and drink comfortably. I didn't plan to stop on the ride—if I did, I knew I would have a hard time bridging back.

Dave C whizzed past, taking his station near the front. His white-and-black kit standing out amid the explosion of color around me. He looked good—fit and happy and bursting with speed.

Blair Beavers (Old School Blair), on his lovely steel steed, paced with precision; making forays into the front, and representing the Limited Brands Peloton with aplomb.

MS Trent was everywhere—sometimes in front, sometimes behind. His white spokes whirred dazzlingly as he chatted up and down the line. He had a video camera on board, and has quality footage of my rear end, and a flopping, flapping name-tag thingy. Why, oh why, did I bother to put that thing on?


Pelotonia 2011 - The Adventures of the Bath & Body Works Brothers from MS Trent on Vimeo.










One of my habits is to not look behind me. This sounds strange, but it answers the question: "Where was Sloan?" I had no idea. When I ride I am completely conscious of my immediate front and periphery. I sense what is behind me, but (unless it's a race, and tactics dictate it) I don't look back.

Sloan could have been behind the guy sucking my wheel, but his whereabouts were unknown to me. I didn't even know how big (or small) our group was. It really didn't matter.

We glided past the 23-mile stop, with barely a blink. It was only notable for the one rider who pulled off to use the bathroom. Given our pace, we wouldn't see him again.

Unfortunately, his leaving reminded me that I needed to pee.

I was not yet at floating-eyeballs level, but I could have used the stop. It's that whole pre-ride hydration thing. and once that "I gotta pee" thought pops into your head, you're doomed.

Amanda's Popcorn

Wherein the author discusses detritus...

Before I could blink, we approached Amanda (mile 43) and—almost as though on signal—bottles flew.

Like popcorn from an air-popper, bottles popped out of the bunch. We rolled through town, and pop a white one flew to the left, then pop-pop-pop a yellow and a white to the right, a blue to the left.

It was something to see.

Souvenirs! But I'm not certain how the locals felt
about having our discards in their lawns...

I'd never been in a bunch that actually did that. The pros jettison their empties; clearing space for new bottles and losing unwanted weight. But I'm neither pro nor neo-pro (A wannabe pseudo-pro? Guilty as charged...but that's a conversation for a different day!)

Yet, there I was, riding with a crew of tossers!

Unfortunately, these guys were heaving their bottles into front yards. That seemed a bit rude to me.

Now, in fairness, I had tossed one (of the three I'd started with) as we passed the first rest stop. And that's the point, I threw it into the rest stop, where I knew that volunteers would dispose of it.

And that was my plan in Amanda: drop a bottle in the rest area, and be gone!

Flying through the parking lot I tossed a bottle (into which I had put my food wrappers), aiming for a garbage can. I hit it, with a satisfying "thud". Grinning with childish self-satisfaction, I rolled on...

Columbus-Roubaix

Wherein the author finds himself in the middle of a Spring Classic...

Left. Right, then left. Cornfields. Farmhouses. Small hills. Then...larger, rolling hills .

Lovely stuff.

Fast descents, slower ascents. The bunch held together, constantly reconfiguring. Big guys go fast downhill. Little guys go fast uphill. I'm in the middle at 173 pounds, so I was flitting about, like a bird in flight—finding my place in the flock.

I knew from previous years—and recent visitors emphatically confirmed—that the valley road leading to the Starner Hill (whoa) turn was a mess. Translation: eat and drink at the covered bridge; it's your last chance!

I saw the bridge, shot some gel, swallowed some water. I drank a little more than I wanted—to prepare. We made the left, and...

...it was on!

The cobbles of Arenberg...in Ohio?

In Paris-Roubaix—a legendary race that must be seen to be believed (and even then, it's difficult to appreciate)—when the pros approach the Forest of Arenberg's brutal cobblestones, the peloton accelerates. It's blinding. It's as fast as the lead-out for a sprint finish, but there's no finish line in sight, and it's over roads that test mettle and metal with merciless scrutiny. Riders fight for position, using every tactic and trick to lever themselves in with the leaders. Why? Because the Arenberg Forest is treacherous. It destroys bikes and mocks carefully-planned stratagems. It is a force of nature.

Who decided to throw-down the gauntlet and power through the valley?

So, who the hell declared that this road was our Arenberg? When did this become Paris-Roubaix?

Someone lit the fuse; we were flying.

The group scattered. We took the entire width of the road—praying that no cars would appear from the other direction—and spread ourselves. Orange paint marked the largest of the hazards, but it would take a pool-full of paint to warn us of what was to come.

This is what you're trying to prevent
by powering across the rough stuff.

And it came fast. We rocketed down that road like the Dukes of Hazard, getting nearly as much air-time as the General Lee. I kept my hands as light as possible, knowing that a death-grip would only make it worse. Even so, my arms were punished and my teeth crunched with each bump and crack.

I glanced at my computer and saw 500 watts. Holy carp! Really? 500?

Perspective: I ride long tempo at 275 watts; I press on climbs at 450 watts. On a flat? 500 watts puts me just under 30 mph.

We were moving!

MS Trent was a few positions in front of me when life became slow-motion.

Bottle! Bottle! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling...

It's a missile!

I watched as one of MS Trent's gorgeous blue gingham Bath and Body Works CamelBak bottles popped out of its cage. He tried to pinch it against his frame with his leg, but too much was happening too fast. The bottle dropped, and bounced, inscribing a white-blurred arc against the grey road. It bounced again, with the randomness of a football—defying predictability. And again it bounced...

...as bicycles raced past at 30 miles per hour.

And somehow, some way, by some small miracle, it bounced to the side of the road—and no one got hurt.

Gobsmacked. I was gobsmacked.

At that speed, in those conditions, for that to have happened, a slew of guardian angels worked overtime. How they managed it, I'll never know. Maybe they play hockey in their down-time, or maybe they all had a bet on "how many bounces can we get and still keep our boys safe." I don't know.

I do know, however, that I wasn't thinking about how badly I needed to pee. I was praying to the Holy Spoke that I would survive!

Starner Hill (Whoa)

Wherein the author recounts his ascent of Pelotonia's most-famous hill...

Really, it's not that bad. Three kicks and you're there. That's all: three hard kicks.

Now, a "kick" in this case is "an effort." It's not one leg-thrust, but many revolutions, following an initial power surge.

In other words, the hill goes up and levels off three separate times. You kick each time it rises.

Three small hills; that's all!

Not buying it?

We made the right off the Road to Roubaix and onto the Starner Hill (whoa) approach, rattling past a rest stop. People cheered! Nice! It helped relieve my mind of a nasty realization: if anything, this road was worse than our previous dragstrip. This made the Road to Roubaix look like the Yellow Brick Road. Gravel! Potholes! Cracks! Lions! Tigers! Bears! Oh, my!

And the band played on.

I took a 30-second recovery, considered the tactical situation, grabbed my bottle, and nearly drained it.

Yes, tactics mattered. I knew that Rick the PPPPP-PP SAG master was somewhere after the next rest stop—the now-legendary stop atop Starner Hill (whoa)—and I had a bottle-and-fuel cache with him. So, I could afford to drink.

But what of the guys around me? We had just power-blazed across the past two miles and we were about to hit the first climb. Who had what left? Who were the gazelles? Who were the Clydesdales? Where was MS Trent? Whither Dave C.? What about OS Blair?

MS Trent was gone. Dave C. was on the front. OS Blair was just ahead. I was boxed-in among three Clydesdales. I couldn't tell who was still strong.

There's where it starts! I couldn't see it
from behind the behinds I was behind.

"Where does it start?" I shouted. Between the road's twists, the forest around us, and the behemoths surrounding me, I had no idea where the actual hill was! I knew that false flats and teasing grades led to the hill proper, but I lacked local knowledge, and I couldn't see a damned thing! I needed to know where she started. My attack depended on it.

And I planned to attack.

The selection would be here—that much was clear. The lead-in had softened legs, and riders were about to get dropped.

The powerful Clydesdales who had gotten us to the base (many thanks!), were going to go. Those with spirit, but not the legs, were about to founder. It was about to happen.

And if I was to have any chance of realizing my ambitions, I had to attack this hill.

The road straightened, chains rattled, gears clattered...we were there!

I spied a gap to my left and shot through, shifting to my climbing gear as I rose from the saddle. I flashed past riders who waited too long to shift, and I was in open space. 360 watts.

I looked down and drove it. Eyes focused on the road just in front of my wheel, conscious of others, but aware that it was every man for himself.

Just before the top of Starner Hill (whoa) Marty S. unleashes,
beating me over the top. I hope he was just angry with his bike.
Did he know I wasn't racing him?

I'm a power climber. Short and steep is my happy place. Starner Hill (whoa) is short and steep—three short-and-steeps. It's my kind of hill.

I had rhythm as the road leveled. I saw Dave C. as we hit the second rise and moved past him. 600 watts.

I felt good. I had great rhythm and my breathing was in-sync. Lactic acid welled in my legs...and we came to the second reprieve. It was enough, just enough. I flashed a look around, surveying the scene: a handful of riders in front, few near me.Gears exploded next to me as I passed Marty S. Problems with shifting under load. He was not a happy camper.

Steady on. Don't race. The selection is made. You're in the top ten. Steady.

460 watts across the top.

Relief.

Recovery...and

Wherein the author...ah, to hell with it!

A flatter grade means a lower heart rate and less-labored breathing. I finished my water, recovering nicely, and charged. In front of me was a strung-out line of a few riders, negotiating the downs-and-ups that remained on the gravel-strewn roads.

Starner Hill (whoa) has a nasty little secret: it ain't over 'till its over.

You see, after you've climbed her; after your legs and lungs have stopped burning, and your heart has returned to your chest from its stratospheric vacation, you're greeted by some short steeps.

Bastards.

You dig deep, asking your legs to power-up once again. They respond (or not).

I climbed the last of the steeps (590 watts), feeling good as I closed the gap between me and the riders in front.

We passed the World Famous Top Of Starner Hill (Whoa) Rest Stop (the one with the brownies). In my sights along the straightaway in front of me I spied Marty S. and a few others. Tactically, everything was perfect. I was over the top, closing the gap, and my cache was just ahead.

Nice!

Then...

KA-POW!!!

If a tubular tire explodes in the forest, does anyone hear?
(Er, yes, they most definitely hear! DAMMIT!)

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!