I'd ride and have family fun with BCB and the LAs!
The Plan
Maps are fun!
I wanted to ride to the west, and I hoped I could hit some real hills. I started playing with Google Maps and Google Earth and realized that I could make it from home to Thurmont, MD, then ride around and up Catoctin Mountain. I'd gone half-way a few times, but I never thought it reasonable to try the whole trip.
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| You can see my recorded ride— including my meager power output— by clicking on this caption. |
Who came up with all these goofy words for "hills", anyway?
My Goal was simple: ride my first century of 2011. Ride some long hills
Reality? Great on the second part...not quite there on the first part.
The Ride
The trip from home is a lovely and solid ride through rolling farmland. Up. Down. Level. Steep. Gradual. Swooping.
I left at 0600 sharp. As is my habit, I felt crappy for the first hour. I didn't get my legs under me until 1:10 into the ride. Yes, I remembered the exact time. It's precisely what I need to remember for events (read: I need a 60+ minute warmup!).
No one was on the road (go figure, it was early Father's Day Sunday morning!). It was quiet, cool, slightly overcast, and beautiful. It was the kind of morning where you can catch all the aromas and hear all the morning sounds of farmland.
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| I had no idea! How cool is that? |
Once I got out of the suburbs, I saw a lot of folks who were sitting on their porches, greeting the day. I waved and wished them all a happy Father's Day—even the ladies. Why not, right? Spread the joy!
I peaked somewhere between 120 minutes and 240 minutes. I really felt good during those hours. No discomfort, no pain, no weariness, and good spirits. My nutrition was good (my home-made gels are really working!), and I was feeling a rouleur's vibe—like I could ride forever. .
And who knew there are covered bridges in Maryland? I certainly didn't! I rode through one, and felt the goofy, inexplicable thrill one gets when encountering them. A delightful surprise!
Centurion Alert!
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| By your command! I couldn't resist a BSG reference! |
When I got to Thurmont, I had a minor problem—I was there too early, and my route was too short.
OK, so my map reading is excellent. My memory is nearly photographic. But my sense of distance is laughable. I thought it was around 80 miles to Thurmont. I thought it would take five hours to get there.
It was a little over 60 miles to Thurmont. I was there in roughly four hours.
Oops.
I knew immediately that a century was out of the question. I had until noon to meet the family. I had a lot of uphill to do. 40 miles in 2 hours? Not going to happen!
So, I did what I could...I continued with my plan. I figured that I could add loops where I could find them to increase my mileage.
Up I went.
Who the @*&^* Put This Here? (Part I)
You know how it goes, you look at a map, see a line that declares itself to be a road, and you make it a part of your plan. All squiggly lines are equal, aren't they?
So there I am, having traversed the north side of Catoctin, following a squiggly line up a wooded valley, when my planned turn appeared. I crossed the road and the railroad tracks, and I continued. So far, so good!
The road forked just after a barn, changed name, and became non-squiggly.
I looked up. Straight up.
The road was unbending (rare for Maryland) and disappeared into the canopy about a mile uphill from where I'd turned.
Nice! Shade!
I climbed, steadily. I had no idea how to gauge my efforts, because it had been a long time since I rode long hills like this, so I kept it steady—not slow, but even-keeled. 350 watts.
I got under the canopy and discovered...that the road turned to gravel.
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| NOT the road...but you get the idea. And turn it around...I was going uphill! |
Not pavement. Not even well-crushed gravel. Gravel. With narrow "lanes" where vehicle traffic had traveled before.
Some perspective: I 'm riding a racing frame with carbon tubulars. My tires are 25mm wide at their widest, with only about 10mm contacting the road at any time. The gravel included pebbles and stones averaging 30-35mm in some dimension. When you hit them?...
It was ugly.
I kept going.
Why didn't you go back? Are you asking for it? Why risk a fall or a wilderness puncture?
Because I am a guy. A stubborn, foolish, risk-taking guy with low blood sugar, no water, and a misplaced sense of adventure.
Turn around? To what? The nearest...something...was 20 minutes downhill. I wasn't prepared to ride into a farm—clad in polka-dot lycra—and ask for water. Hell, all the farms I had just passed appeared to be sleeping. They were probably churching. Either way, it was a non-starter. I was riding.
And I had no idea what my alternative was! I was already committed to the north side. Continuing on the valley road would put me...where? What was on the other side of the mountain?
So upward it was. Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!
Getting There
I survived the climb. After 23 years in the gravelly wilderness, I emerged onto pavement, took a left, and continued to climb into well-groomed nature.
Up. Up. Up.
Down. Down? DOWN?!
There's no marker to tell you you're at the top. You're left to your own devices there. But the clever among us can figure it out. One minute you're climbing, the next minute you're descending. Fast.
Gloriously, there was no one on the road. I did see a few people, but not a single vehicle on the descent. That made it fast.
What fun!
Tuck. Snake. Turn. Glide. (Don't forget to breathe!)
I got to the bottom of the park (still several miles from Thurmont proper). There was a visitor's center and—most importantly—a water fountain!
Drink. Fill bottle. Drink. Check time: 1030. Hell, might as well go back up!
I climbed it again—backtracking up and down to the point where my gravel road connected with the pavement. I turned around and headed up again.
It was like doing hill repeats, but without the redline and the need to vomit.
I descended all the way into Thurmont—taking the entire road lane on Route 77 where necessary. (I can take most of the turns faster than any car.)
I found the planned rendezvous—an Inn called the Cozy that has been in Thurmont since Moses was in a reed raft—and called BCB and the LAs. They were still some way away, so I did what any obsessed rider would do.
I climbed.
Again.
Going Blind
There's a term some commentators use when referring to exhausted cyclists. They say that they are "cross-eyed".
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| Cross-eyed. Centurian. Geddit? |
I made it to the park entrance with no problem. I felt decent—weary but decent.
I looked at my computer and saw that my mileage was still in the 80s. I like the 80s—some good music there—but I wanted more. If I couldn't have my century, I wanted 90.
So I thought it a good idea to climb for two more miles (to mile 88) and then descend—achieving my 90.
The problem? I failed to convince myself that it was a good idea
Pain hurts.
You know it's bad when you are devouring air, your ribs sore from the effort.
And you know it's bad when you're counting distance—in hundredths of a mile!—on your computer.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I watched my odometer. I didn't change.
Remember when you were in school? Class would drone on. You'd stare at the clock, willing the minute hand to click.
I've never watched a clock more closely. I've never burned with a more fiendish desire to see a number change than on that ascent. If willpower itself could have changed those numbers...you get the idea...
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| YOU try reading a clock cross-eyed! |
It's like when you're on a high walkway and someone says "don't look down." Everything is fine as long as you Don't Look Down.
I looked up; my soul groaned. My body shuddered. I was cooked, baked, toasted, roasted, and fricasseed.
But I continued. Upward.
I'm a guy, remember? Stubborn, foolish, and all the rest.
I ignored the computer. I closed my eyes and pedaled. When I opened my eyes again I could barely focus. Everything was a blur. Especially the computer. But something penetrated the fog. Pixels resolved. "88". I had done it. I could turn around.
Down, down I went, swallowed by the rushing wind and the fabulous forest canopy. Down to the entrance I rolled.
A quick right, a quick left, and I would be at the entrance to Cunningham Falls Park, our revised rendezvous.
Who the @*&^* Put This Here? (Part II)
Up? Again?
Oh. My. God.
No one told me (not that I asked...) that I would need to ride another uphill mile to get to the Cunningham Falls entrance! I expected the park entrance to be right near the road. In a civilized place. With water fountains. Hammocks. Lunch!
Somehow, though, I recovered enough to ride there. It wasn't fast. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't a lot of the elegant things I love about cycling.
It was sweaty, salty, dirty, and it hurt. (So, on second thought, it was all the things I love about cycling!)
Picnic!
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| Rapture! Joy! A picnic! |
Life is good.
We ate chips! We ate berries! I ate smoked salmon! (I loves me some smoked salmon!)
We laughed and played and spread lake-bottom mud on our arms and pretended we were at a spa.
Happy Father's Day to me. And blessed thanks to my girls for enabling it!
It was lovely. It was...perfect.
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