As soon as I finish this post, I will be making the final preparations for today. I’m about to leave to do the annual Penance Ride! Hope to see you out there!
When I first entered the realm of serious road cycling (as in, on a road bike) I was in my late teens. I raced. I rode. I lived on a bike. Ultimately, I sold my car, demoted my bike to transportation, and bought the first “really good road bike.”
Time passed and stuff happened. I got married. I changed jobs. I changed jobs a lot. It was a difficult time.
At age 30, I went inside and sat down. For the first time in my life, I rode a desk. It was a great job, but it was sedentary. The bike rides and gym work suffered. I rode less and less, and it seemed to hurt more. But there was the job! It was rewarding and very demanding.
I’d always been very active. I had 30 years of habits. Those habits said I could eat anything, at any time, in any quantity. I blew up like a balloon. Before I stopped the weight gain, I was tipping the scales 260 pounds. That’s about 80 pounds more than I weigh now. It was awful.
It took a long time to stop the weight gain. It took more time to lose the weight and recover fitness.
I’d started riding much more frequently. By most standards they weren’t much in the way of rides. But it was happening. I was doing it with increasing frequency.
There came a day… I decided I needed to do a ride that would show that I was back. I signed up for a new one that the Southern Bicycle League was doing. It was called the Wilson 100.
I did everything wrong.
The only bike I had left then was the old “Iron Eagle.” It was a Schwinn, steel bike. It was heavy. It wasn’t in good repair. I’d been riding again, and doing it much more regularly. I was “down” to around 200 pounds.
The weather was nasty. Back then, the Wilson ran later in September. It was a cool day, and rainy. I didn’t have good gear. I was in cotton sweats and a windbreaker. I was under-fueled. I started off way too fast.
By the end of the first 15 miles, I was ready to quit. I felt awful, about to lose what little breakfast I’d eaten. Then I encountered a lady who was riding an old clunker of a mountain bike. She wasn’t going fast, but she was steady. We chatted. She had one of those diseases. This one had taken a lung, a kidney, and part of her liver. Yipe! She was still riding. It shamed me.
If she could do it…
So I kept on, and as the miles rolled by, I felt a bit better. This amazing woman and I spoke of any number of things. Then we reached the decision point. There was a choice, turn and return to the start with 65 miles done? Or continue and do the full 100 miles? My newfound friend was turning. I decided to go on. I never saw the lady again.
Shortly after that decision, I began to feel the effects of my earlier hard riding. I was getting very tired, and there were miles yet to go. The day ground on. There was a SAG stop in Gay, GA. I didn’t feel very gay. I’d done 60 miles, still had 40 to go, and my legs were getting stiff, my feet hurt, my hands hurt, and my backside hurt. At least it had stopped raining. I comforted myself with the thought that I had less than half of this death march to go.
Shortly after leaving Gay the road flattened, or descended. I was thrilled with this. I had not yet learned about riding in north Georgia. The simple truth is, when you are descending, you are heading for water. The longer the descent, the bigger the stream at the bottom, and the longer (and usually steeper) the climb back out on the other side. I didn’t know the route was descending to the Flint River, at the Flat Shoals.
If you’ve ridden this road, you know that the climb toward Concord is long, and it’s a deceptive “step climb.” Every time I thought I’d finished it, I found the road was just going through another “step,” and there was another grade ahead.
I was feeling pretty bad. Everyone around me was passing me like I was standing still. I didn’t think I had much left in my legs. Then I saw it. There was an honest to goodness mountain off in the distance. I knew it was to the south of me. I had no idea there was a mountain south of Fayette County.
I am a mountain boy. There is some kind of connection, one which I cannot explain, between me and the big hills. I need them. I pulled the bike over to the side of the road and just stared at that distant, blue ridgeline. Other riders passed, some asking if I was okay, or did I need assistance. I replied that I was fine, just taking a moment to look. As I remounted, I asked a passing rider what that was. “Pine Mountain,” came the reply.
I looked to the distant vision and told it, “I will come back. I will see you again.” The experience went a long way to recharge my flagging spirits. I didn’t know it then, but I would soon need that boost.
The route entered the edge of Concord. I almost missed the turn onto Concord Rd. Then I was descending again. Glorious!
In those days, the stretch from Concord to Hollenville was old style, exposed aggregate, “shake and bake.” It also felt like I was climbing the entire way. My cue sheet told me I had less than ten miles to go to the next SAG stop. I gritted my teeth, cursed the route designer, and soldiered on.
The stop at the Opry House in Hollenville felt like an armistice in a long war. Only another 25 miles. What had I been thinking when I signed up for this!? I lingered. I spent a lot longer than I should have. I ate and drank. I filled bottles. I drank more. Despite the damp and cool conditions, I’d allowed myself to become very dehydrated.
I consulted the cue sheet again. Fifteen miles to the next SAG stop, then only 10 more to the end. Onward!
As I rode through Brooks I had a thought. I knew where I was. I was very close to home. In fact, the route would go to within a mile and a half of my house. I started thinking seriously about quitting the ride. Sure, I’d done most of it, but I was in pain, badly over-extended, and basically sick of the whole thing.
After an eternity, I arrived at the last SAG stop. I was then less than three miles from my house, and a bit more than ten hilly miles from the end of the ride. I pulled into the stop and laid my bike down. I was here, so I should get something to eat and drink. That was my reasoning. I filled my bottle, took some cookies and a banana, and went to sit down by my bike.
A small group of riders pulled in as I was lowering myself to the ground. I had just begun the process of steeling myself for the long three mile ride I would need to make in order to quit the organized ride. I’d thought it through. I could get a ride to the park and retrieve my truck later. I was basically finished.
That group of riders pulled in and started dismounting. There was a frighteningly fit looking young woman in the group. She was grinning hugely, and she exclaimed, “Isn’t this great!” I could have cheerfully killed her, but she wasn’t through. “What a fantastic day!” she laughed. “This is awesome! How good it is to be out and sharing this with all these wonderful people!”
She meant it. She was genuinely happy. She was having a grand time. She was sharing that joy. It was infectious and contagious. As I sat nursing my banana and my depression, she kept on. Gradually, it occurred to me that she was right. This was good. She spotted me, caught my eye, and grinned. “Hey!” She laughed, “We have this thing finished. Just a bit more, and we can end a beautiful day!”
She got to me! My spirits lifted. I wasn’t as sore as all that. I was, by jiminy, going to finish this thing. What’s more, I was going to enjoy it!
I stood and bent to lift my bike. By the time I turned around, she was gone. I never saw her again. I didn’t realize it at the time, but she was the Bike Angel. I’ve seen her many times over the years. She never looks the same. Sometimes she’s an old man, or a kid. But I know the Bike Angel when I meet her. She’s saved a lot of rides, and pulled me out of a lot of tight spots.
The rest of the ride was hard. It was hilly. I was tired. But I wasn’t whipped any more. I was doing it! And sore and tired as I was, it felt good!
At long long last, the last hill was behind me. I was coasting down the street toward the parking lot. I pulled in. Most of the cars had left. I was gratified to know that I wasn’t the absolute last rider in.
Several bystanders actually cheered as I rode up. I stopped and stepped down from the saddle, straddling the bike. My legs felt quivery. I tried to dismount and almost fell over. One leg would not support me while I swung the other over the bike. I tried a couple more times with similar results. In the end, much as I hated it, I had to re-mount the saddle, and ride over to my truck. By hanging on to the side of the pickup, I was able to dismount. I don’t know when I have felt worse and better at the end of a ride.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
I’ll see you on the road!
