Friday, July 17, 2009

This is the post where I talk about most of the ride (its long.)

The next miles blended together. We were moving along fairly quickly, and though each of us had our ups and downs the mood was still good. At about 130 miles in we met up with Marliesse for the first time, and snacked on the food that she had brought. At this point I began to feel the miles I had put in, and brought a few energy gels with me for the next leg of the trip.

The importance of eating during RATS cannot be understated. You are burning more calories than you could possibly recover, so you pretty much have to be shoving something down your throat every hour. If you start to feel hungry, its too late. I ate religiously, finishing off at least one food item every forty five minutes. I knew that this would be a challenge for me, as I have a tendency to stop eating and drinking as I approach a refuel stop or major milestone. But eat I did, regardless of taste or hunger. By the time we had ridden 170 miles I was pretty damn sick of Clif bars.

We kept riding through the heat of the morning. Except for a muted “halfway there!” from Jim at mile 150 we thankfully didn’t discuss the mileage we had left to do. Mile 170 was the next major stop, somewhere with picnic tables and shade. We took our time there, still in good enough spirits to joke around and snap pictures. As we got back on our bikes I made a few pedal strokes standing up, then sat back down once we were on the road. I immediately stood back up, the pain of sitting on my bike seat shooting through me. “It had better not feel like this for very long…” I said. Wincing, I sat back down, only to be greeted by the same wave of pain. I was very sure that there was a seat- shaped bruise on my ass. It was a feeling somewhat like what I imagine sitting on a drill would feel like. Gradually the pain faded, but I had begun to experience the discomfort that RATS is legendary for.

By this point we were in New Hampshire, and crossing the White Mountains. The climb out of Gorham, NH was immense. Our usually tight formation was shattered, with Justin pulling away, Matt falling behind, and Cam, Jim and I spreading further and further apart. Halfway up the hill was a false summit, which was terribly demoralizing, as what I thought was the top of the climb turned into a repeat of the pain I had just experienced. With as many miles behind us as there were, there was no way any of us were charging up that hill. But gradually we made it to the top and regrouped, very tired but still moving forwards.

The countryside was beautiful as we passed into Vermont, but it was hard to notice with my mental sharpness fading with each pedal stroke. In Vermont, around mile 200, we were met by Chris Jolly, a RATS and Rose Bike alum, along with his wife, Meaghan, and one year old son, Gavin. We took a fairly long stop, during which Chris announced his plan to do RATS with Gavin one day. Its amazing how quickly people forget about the pain of riding a bike that far. I had definitely started to feel fatigued at this point, and even though it felt like we were starting the last leg of our trip, I had to remind myself that we still had about 100 miles to go, no small distance. If I were at home, planning a 100 mile ride, and I for some reason felt like I did at the top of that hill in Vermont, there is no way that I would even get on a bike, much less ride one 100 miles. The others were starting to show signs of fatigue as well. Cam was dropping back noticeably on the climbs, and Matt was consistently lagging behind. However, we were all still motivated, and set out from the meeting with Chris feeling like we were almost there.

Then the wind started. Increasing gradually from a breeze to a consistent, strong head/ cross wind, it slowed our progress immensely. This was the first of many times that I thought to my self, “yeah, I can keep turning the pedals over at this very moment, but there is no way I can keep this up until Burlington.” In Saint Johnsbury, Vermont, with the headwind having buffeted us for miles, I experienced something completely new. It wasn’t a bonk, I have felt those before. I was hydrated and well fed. This was a feeling covering my entire body, as though everything was suddenly heavier. It felt like all the fat had been sucked from my legs and my calves were trying to escape. Far from bonking or running out of fuel, I was simply coming up against what my body was capable of doing. It was terrifying and frustrating. There were still miles and miles to go, and I was sure that my legs would soon give out. Riding out of town I looked up to the sight of endless hills. Greeting me at the worst possible time was a 7- mile climb. I shifted into my lower gears and, determined to keep going, basically crawled up the hills.

Luckily for me, everyone pretty much felt like taking the hills extremely slowly at this point. As we progressed up the climb we set an easy enough pace that we could talk to each other. Thinking about the distance we had come, and the relatively small (only 70 miles!) distance to Burlington I was filled with a renewed sense of purpose. Miraculously, my knees were feeling good, and I was determined, no matter how much my body screamed at me to stop, to make it.

Then the thunderstorm hit. With 50 miles left the sky turned black, and the rain poured down in sheets. We took shelter in a barn at the side of the road and waited for the support cars to find us. While standing on the dirt floor, watching the rain create streams in the road and listening to the thunder, we discussed our situation. 50 miles to go. Storm. All feeling relatively good. Raingear in the car. It was decided fairly quickly that we should ride through the rain. Matt eventually found us and doled out the rain jackets we had packed the night before. Through a communication error between Jim and I (which turned out to be my fault) we were unable to find my rain jacket. Faced with the prospect of riding in the rain in just a jersey, I grudgingly accepted Jim’s softshell rain coat, which he uses mostly for skiing. It was giant, it was purple and it was hardly aerodynamic, but it did a pretty great job of keeping me dry and warm. It did not, however, keep my phone from getting completely soaked and dying.

I should mention that at this point I was in a new kind of discomfort. I will spare you the details, but suffice to say that it was intestinal, and it was uncomfortable. Frequent stops mostly negated the problem, but it slowed me nonetheless.

Setting out in the rain, all five of us were hit with a surge of adrenaline. We realized that our situation wasn’t looking good, and that the rain could easily halt us within veritable spitting distance of our destination. So we hammered on, upping the pace and once again splitting up. With the rain pouring down it was nearly impossible to draft off each other, and it was inevitable that our group would break apart. Cam and Justin managed to pull away when I stopped to strap on my tail light for better visibility. Jim and I stayed mostly together, riding side by side when we could. We rode on for about an hour in the rain, during which time my mood worsened. Talking to Marliesse at a quick stop I suddenly realized exactly how screwed we were. If the rain continued into the night, it could very well be too dangerous to continue. The rain would soak our lights, make us less visible, and as the temperature fell we would freeze. Jim and I discussed this as we rode next to each other in the deluge. Jim admitted that riding in the rain at night would be a deal breaker, and that we would likely have to quit. I secretly hoped that his drive to finish the ride would overcome his fear for the safety of his children, and put my head down to ride.

We rode faster and faster, averaging speeds I had thought impossible this far in to the ride. Trying to make up all the distance I could before darkness, I willed myself forwards. At this point my mood was so bad that everything that Jim said annoyed me. This annoyance developed into outright anger. I realized that I was only angry because of the situation we were in and my fatigue, but still anything Jim said, no matter how benign, grated on my nerves. Digging deeper, I tried to drop him, but every time I would pull away he would close the gap. The sky was darkening, and we were still roughly 35 miles from Burlington. I was starting to lose hope. Then, as we rounded a corner, sheets of rain pounding the pavement around us, we saw the sun in the distance. “SSSSUUUUNNNN!!!” I yelled. We were riding towards the edge of the storm, and even though we were still being poured on, we could see steam rising from the distant, sunlit hills. We surged ahead, the sun getting brighter and brighter as we went. In a few miles, the rain slowed to a drizzle, then stopped altogether. I saw Cam, Justin and the support cars a few hundred yards ahead, and rode up to them with my hands off the bars, palms up, grinning. Looking back we could see the gray clouds receding, and a huge rainbow arcing across the drenched road. Almost giddy, we took off our jackets and set off, Burlington a mere 30 miles away, 90% of the ride behind us.

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