From 0 to 100 Miles in Eight Weeks

From 0 to a 100 Miles in Eight Weeks

A Fifty Year Old’s Journey to the Back Roads Century

By Eric Sanne - Reprinted from Pedal Patter, November, 2009

It is July 26th, a warm summer day, and I am half-way up the Capital Crescent Trail. The ride down, my very first despite living six blocks from the Crescent Trail, is great. It feels good, and I decide to cross Key Bridge just to touch ground in Virginia. Next is the easy three mile climb to Fletcher’s, “Hey, this isn’t too bad,” I think. I am wrong, so wrong. Half way up the Crescent, I am panting so hard I sound like a hound dog. My legs do not want to pedal. Bikers keep passing me as if climbing this monster was the easiest thing in the world.

I pass a jogger, “Woo-hoo.” The Crescent seems endless. Barely making it to River Road this huge hump appears as the Crescent angles over River Road. I agonize over the bridge off-loading down River Road and finally turning left into my neighborhood. One more long hill to home. I gear all the way down, the wheels barely turning. I actually weave back and forth up my own street. I am 50 years old, 6’2” tall, weigh 168 pounds and am sooo out of shape.

Flash forward to September 20th, eight weeks later, and the PPTC Back Roads Century. It is just past 4:00 p.m. when Ron Tripp, Tom Humphrey, Erica Kane and I ride into the parking lot, having completed a full 100.2 miles and my first Century (I have not changed the names because these people are not innocent). The following is my story and nothing but.

I live in Brookdale, a neighborhood bounded by River Road and Western Avenue, and filled with crazy bike riders. Every day at the park where I walk my dog my dog walking buddy, Ed Evans, regales me with his commuter bike stories. I can relate since 20 years ago, before marriage, two kids and the end of biking for me, I used to bike all over Washington. For years I did not even own a car. Pot holes were my friends. In the Summer of 1989, at the height of my youthful powers, I biked to Mount Vernon. It was so exhausting coming back I failed to make it home and bailed at some friends’ house on A Street, S.E. In October, 1989, I got married. Enough said. Before July 27th of this year I had not touched a bike in 18 years. My form of exercise was climbing the Tenleytown metro escalator every day and walking up the stairs at work. But I live in a neighborhood of crazy bikers.

Another neighbor and PPTC member, Ron Tripp, has spent years quietly recounting the gazillions of Centuries he has ridden. We are both active in our citizens’ organization so I’ve had plenty of time to hear of these mythical Centuries. Then again, our Brookdale President, Marie Moylan, another PPTC member and member of the breakaway group, Wednesday Irregulars, has ridden in Italy and Spain and rides to Mount Vernon most Fridays. It was only a matter of time before I got sucked in again. That time was the week of July 20th. I talked to a neighbor, Mike Freeman, who asked if I would be interested in going on a bike ride. He had taken up commuter biking in June. I agreed, but asked if we could set a date of August 24th so I could get in shape. Little did I know.

On July 25th I retrieve an old junker of a hybrid, commuter bike I had purchased from Ed for $75 three years ago and ride it up to Griffin Cycle in Bethesda. Minutes later I had spent $199.23 on biking essentials. This is not going to be a cheap hobby. By August 2nd I would spend a total of $685.81 in portable pumps, new tires, essential bike pants (I drew a firm line at purchase of a jersey), gloves, bike pump, socks, bottles, chain cleaner, multi-tool, odometer, essential bike maintenance and map. It is and would be overwhelming and unbelievable.

Week 1, July 26th, 119.05 miles

So there I am on July 27th panting and puffing up the Crescent Trail having spent almost two hundred dollars and having agreed to ride with Mike on August 24th. My body is in serious pain. I keep riding during the week though and on Saturday ride 33 miles to the Wilson Bridge. It is such a painful ride coming back. My hands hurt (I had not learned about gloves yet), my butt hurts, my neck hurts. Coming up the Crescent everyone passes me again. The bridge over River is a killer; the hill in my neighborhood a mountain. At home, I soak in a bath for 45 minutes.

Sunday I get up to ride again. Earlier in the week I had asked Ron how to reach MacArthur Blvd from the Crescent Trail. Ron declined to tell me but agreed to show me instead. Off we go on a 20 mile ride down MacArthur. We have a harrowing ride as Ron disdains to ride on the poorly maintained bike path by Sangamore. And when, I ask myself, did I last ride on roads? Oh, yes, that was twenty years ago. Fun. He shoots across MacArthur’s single lane bridge forcing me to keep up with cars piling behind me. More fun. But I do it and learn. My reward? Off to Performance Bike to spend even more money.

I have ridden 119 miles my first week biking. Thus also begins a turning point in my journey. I have a coach. Now, make no mistake about it, Ron is an evil coach. He lies. I know you find this hard to believe but it’s true. 47 mile bike rides to Shirlington and back, “It’s an easy 15 miles to Shirlington on the Mount Vernon Trail and 4 Mile Run. Then an easy CC paced ride with Ron and the group and then we just come home.” “What’s a CC?” I ask. Ron tells me of Ds, CCs, BBs and Bs. “What am I?” I naively ask. “A CC,” he says. His eyes suggest “D.” Ron fails to mention that he expects me to keep up with his B pace. As for the later 82 mile ride to Poolesville coming back on the W&OD, “It’s got a few hills early on but the W&OD is all downhill.” I love it. Ron is so mellow, so low key, he makes me believe it’s all possible. Ron is a great coach.

Week 2, August 3rd, 134.01 miles

Week two I keep to myself. I have to master the evil Crescent Trail. At least let me pass someone, I pray. And I do. Monday is down to Fletcher’s and back. Wednesday is up to Bethesda and then down to Fletchers - twice. Friday is up to Bethesda and down to Fletcher’s - thrice. I’m slow. It hurts. This is not fun. I have an odometer now and it tells me just how slow; 7-8 mph on the uphill. But I’m steady and improving.

Then comes Saturday, Ron’s “Recovery Ride,” from some Century he’s done. A 47 mile recovery ride! “Who is this guy?” I arrive at Ron’s house only to find his infamous side-kick, Tom Humphrey (Tom, of course, might argue that Ron is his side-kick). To me, they will become coaches, mentors and friends and will rest always in my mind as partners in crime. While Ron is quiet, helpful and authoritative, Tom is loud, enthusiastic and deeply caring (he would never admit this). Tom and Ron like long rides and like riding them FAST. Tom does not return from rides saying, “Gee, I just did a Century;” Tom returns saying, “Ron, weren’t we averaging 24 mph on that back stretch or was that 22.7?” To me, their deepest lie is not the distances they do but the speed at which they do them. I am in for a treat and a lot of pain as countless numbers of times I will try to extend my distances while also keeping up with them. My nickname for them is the “Bunnies.” I am, of course, the tortoise. Today, Saturday, August 9, is no exception.

For me it’s a big day and I will totally blow it. Everything starts well. I’ve done the Crescent and Mount Vernon portion. All I have to do is keep up with the Bunnies which I do (it is, after all, a “Recovery Ride” for them). We jet along the Crescent, the Mount Vernon Trail, and the 4 Mile Run at 20 mph. At Shirlington , I am introduced to the other Ron, Ron Trueworthy. Ron T. sets a very relaxed, consistent pace heading out of Shirlington requiring me to adopt new group biking skills (such as slowing when going downhill and thus using more power going up hills). The ride is especially exciting as my saddle, which I had so assiduously adjusted the night before, tilts backwards.

Arriving back at Shirlington the group (finished with their ride) and including the three of us, goes to the Capital City Brewery for lunch and beer, the temperature topping 96 degrees. Big mistake. With the help of Ron T. and his bottomless saddle bag, I get my saddle fixed but, an hour later, replete with a mug of Amber Waves Ale and a quesadilla the three of us are off riding the fifteen miles home. My legs simply do not warm up. They are made of wood. The miles do not fly by. My legs loudly proclaim, “We thought we were home by now; what are you doing?”

I make it to Fletcher’s and am spent. I stubbornly announce that I want to go to Bethesda so I can rack up 50 miles, not just 47. The long climb begins. I am dying, in pain, barely turning the wheels. Ron and Tom bunny ahead. Arriving at the Reservoir after a small bridge my body is so spent that I almost pass Ron and Tom despite their shouts. There is a water fountain here.

Ron dumps two squeeze bottles of water on my head. I weakly exclaim that I want to go to Bethesda, “It’s a matter of honor.” Tom kindly takes me aside. Tom, from his Rugby days, understands honor, often exclaiming, “Football [meaning soccer] is a gentleman’s game played by hooligans, and rugby is a hooligans’ game played by gentlemen.” Tom quietly indicates that there is honor and there is foolishness; riding to Bethesda is just foolish. I am spent. Tom is right. I barely make it home.

Week two and I’ve done an awesome and painful 134 miles at an average speed of 11.5 mph and learned a valuable lesson. Don’t drink and ride; ride then drink.

Week 3, August 10th, 151.38 miles

Week three allows me to see the value of group rides. They force me to keep up. After a twenty-one mile ride on Monday, I decide to join the PPTC Tuesday ride from Bethesda to Key Bridge and back. Sneaky me, I do a run down to Fletcher’s and up to Bethesda to “warm up.” The Tuesday ride begins with a gentle ride downhill. Ron and Tom are there. I follow them as we plunge down the Crescent. All is good. At the bottom, everyone congregates and chats away. Then it’s time to be off and off they are. For a few minutes I keep up but the Bunnies just disappear. Humiliation sets in as one after the other the entire group passes me up the Crescent. I can’t believe it. No improvement despite over 200 miles. Ron meets me at the River Road bridge and we go home.

Stubborn is my middle name so Saturday becomes my ride to Mount Vernon. There’s just me and no Bunnies. By now my kit contains gloves, a proper sweat band and two water bottles. Saturday dawns a beautiful Summer day; my ride begins. Today, I learn to hate bike paths and to love riding on those harrowing roads Ron introduced me to.

My pace is good, the sky is blue, then up and over an easy hill and a biker, the middle of three all together in an oncoming lane, pulls into my lane. Apparently, he is going too fast up his side of the hill for the bike in front of him and, fearing to slow down because of the guy behind him, pulls into my lane. Big mistake. I brake and flip my bike without hitting him and with great luck land on my back on the grass. He crashes. I offer to help him but he is vaguely hostile. His friends ask what happened and I mentioned that he pulled into my lane. I  check my bike and it looks OK. His group rides off; no apologies or anything.

I learn a lesson often mentioned by my coaches, “Bike trails are dangerous. People of all experiences ride them. You never know what someone will do.” Of course roads and crazy motorists are dangerous too.

I ride on to Mount Vernon impressed by how the entire way now is paved (it was not back in 1989). A quick lunch and lemonade and it’s on to home. With my hybrid and it’s T bar, my hands begin to really hurt. My butt begins to yell. Riding is slow. The Crescent, always waiting at the end of any ride these days, is not kind. I arrive home DOA.

Meanwhile, that August 24th bike date with neighbor Mike is looming fast. On August 14th, Mike and Marie are quick to confirm that we will do a ride on August 24th. Marie, an experienced ride leader, intends to lead the way on an expected 34 mile Poolesville ride. Mike calmly climbs Massachusetts Avenue every day as a commuter biker. Eric needs a morale booster.

Sunday arrives and so does my treat as I ride to City Bikes where the wise Arsenio rules. I’ve sworn to ride my junker 1,000 miles before buying a new bike - anything to avoid being like so many trendy Washingtonians who buy $2,000+ bikes and ride them a month before hiding them in the garage (too embarrassed to even Craig’s List them). However, I need hope and so check out a Specialized Roubaix Arsenio tricks out for me. City Bikes knows how to support its customers and allows me a full 22 mile test ride.

Week three ends and Eric is a happy boy. 151 miles done with a 52 mile ride behind me; my average speed creeping up to 13.1 mph.

Week 4, August 17th, 81.57 miles

Week 4 and I am both determined and psyched. I’m on “staycation” and a full week looms before me to practice for the August 24th ride with my neighbors Mike and Marie. I jaunt over to Bike Place off of Grubb Road at the recommendation of a fellow at work and my nephew who has a friend working there, “If Trek is good enough for Lance, it’s good enough for you.”

Enter, stage right, Mike Butchko. Mike is the long time owner of The BicyclePlace. Mike is bigger than life (but don’t mention the word “big” around Mike unless you are ready for a throw down). Mike knows, breathes and loves Treks and bikes from Seven Cycles. Over the course of two days, I am given the red carpet treatment by Mike, a three and a half hour tour of bikes, saddles, Speedplay pedals, shoes, materials and introduced in person to the magic of all magic words in the biking community, “good fit.” I sign on to become the proud owner of a custom fit saddle, shoes and Speedplays. Goods and bike disappear into the back.

Mike continues to educate me on cool carbon Trek bikes in the 4 series line while I wait for the house guru, Pepper, to setup my junk bike so it will at least be presentable on Sunday the 24th. Pepper is the opposite of Mike. Pepper attracts words like phlegmatic and deadpan. While looking at bikes with fond desire but which I can ill afford, Pepper approaches. “Your bike is non-functional.”

So is my life, I think, so what’s new. “What’s the problem and what can we do to fix it,” I respond in my typical Washington, D.C. manner. “Your bike is nonfunctional.” Not a man of many words, this one. But he shows me. The wheel is bent and out of true. The derailleur is bent this way and that. Money will not solve this problem. “Well can I at least ride it home?” “You don’t understand. Your bike is non-functional. It’s not safe to ride.” Now, I understand. I just needed to hear it three times. There goes the staycation. There goes my August 24th ride. Life sucks and then you die.

I run back to Mike. “I need that 4 series bike we were talking about, Saturday if you can.” No problem. A call to New Jersey and Mike assures me that all is good. Days pass. I call. I call again. Saturday arrives. Well, there is no Trek 4.5. Instead, not being able to get me the 4.5 Mike gives me the 4.7 discounted appropriately (the difference being that the 4.7 comes with the SRAM Rival drivetrain compared to the 4.5’s Shimano) and with the custom saddle. Eric, a poorer but a wiser man, leaves with a bike that is much bigger than Eric. Total cost with shoes pedals, toys, tax and tip: $2,700.

Sunday dawns and it’s off to Poolesville, my first time biking in that region. Poolesville is located in something called the Agricultural Reserve, founded in 1980, to preserve our rural farmland (don’t get me going on TDRs). For bikers the Ag Reserve is a blessing of huge dimension. For me, the Ag Reserve is a place of hills, more hills and then even more hills. Poolesville and pain go together. No matter how hard I bike, Poolesville leaves me in the lowest gears in no time. And did I say I love it. I do. Bring it on.

The day is beautiful and Marie proves to be an excellent ride leader smoothly navigating the hilly Poolesville terrain. Surprisingly, my saddle is excellent from the start, a major breakthrough in my bike riding enjoyment. Indeed, in the weeks ahead I never have saddle problems again. Whew! The same does not go for my legs. So much preparation and yet so much pain to go. The first ten miles are great, the fields magnificent, the barns relics of a bygone era.

Then painful climbs start and just keep going. My only view is of the road and wheels in front of me. Adding even more pain, I’m having trouble going into my small gear ring. Topping it off, Mike, used to Mass. Avenue, is doing great. Hills are just candy to Marie who “woo-hoos” at the tops. My wife Judy asks about the beautiful country ride. I respond, “I saw a lot of road and the tire in front of me.”

Week four ends and I am in sorry shape. The staycation added up to 81.57 miles, an all time low. I’m $1,700 in debt (I had $1,000 for a new bike saved). I have a new bike but it did not transform my bike riding. The machine does not make the man. I need a lot of hill work.

Week 5, August 24th, 145.08 miles

The Tuesday PPTC ride out of Bethesda comes. You can imagine the ribbing I received by my coaches. Instantly dubbed the “Carbon Rocket” by Tom I knew (and they knew) I had a machine better than the man riding it. Eyes were on Eric. I rode and road hard. The Bunnies disappeared. This time I was not the last person up the Trail.

I continued practicing my hill training focusing on Potomac and the long climb up Persimmon Tree Road. Thursday found me doing my first PPTC ride, pizza and beer out of Tenleytown. What a ride! Ron had given me a cue sheet holder, so when Paul handed out the cue sheets I smugly tamped mine in. I was so ready to be a Bunny on my new bike. The ride starts and “boom” the wild frenzy takes off. No hand signals. Just a rush.

I hustle to keep up losing my cue sheet and holder in the process (Ron still mentions that cue sheet holder to this day, “I gave him one of my cue sheet holders and he lost it”). The leaders stay in sight for a while but I have not mastered my gearing and fumble on an uphill climb at Tilden. The Bunnies disappear. Riding hard, huffing and puffing the Bunnies appear ahead, just in sight. I hit a stop light. They ride on. I don’t have the cue sheet and wouldn’t know how to read one if I had it. My reading glasses are at home anyway (I’m fifty after all). I remember Ron’s advice, “If you ever get lost on the Tenley ride just look for the radio tower.” What tower? I don’t see any tower.

Regaining my focus, taking a deep breath, I realize I am just below Tenleytown. It’s going to be OK. I pedal on to Armands. Lessons learned: get the cue sheets ahead of time and enlarge them for the elderly and blind (like me), get a good cue sheet holder, fold the cue sheet, learn how to read a cue sheet. Oh sheet. Poolesville, “All Sides of Sugerloaf.” Sunday already. Mike and Marie at 7:30 in the morning. Whatever happened to pancakes and the Washington Post?

Off we go. “Oh,” Marie says, “are you guys OK with doing 44 miles?” Her email had said 35. Sure I say.

On the PPTC site, Mike Devine describes the ride as “ A couple of good hills, but not overly hilly.” Wrong. I learn today that there are some tricky rules that apply to Poolesville rides. First rule. Don’t let the first ten miles fool you. They always seem so lovely. Then the rolling hills start. If you are lucky and leave Riley’s Lock correctly you at least get a reminder hill. Second rule. If there is a sharp turn, there’s a hill following it. Every darn time those hills catch me flat footed, in the wrong gear, and grinding slowly up the hill. Third rule. Just when you think you’re done with hills, you’re not. Whatever ride we took, it ended up being 46.68 miles. 36.68 miles were all just pain. Thank God for Bassett’s and beer.

Week 5 ends with 145 miles, some good hard training runs and a good restaurant find in Poolesville.

Week 6, August 31st, 168.81 miles

Week six turns out to be a big week founded on a big lie. Ron suggests that I might want to take a ride on Sunday, Twice Across the River a New Way, a 78 mile ride to Poolesville then back on the W&OD. “There are a few hills on the way to Poolesville but then it’s all a downhill ride on the W&OD. It’s rail grade. You’ve been on the Custis before. It’s got a few ups and downs but is manageable. You can do it.” Ron’s motto for his protégés is simple, “Just keep pedaling.” Ron approves of my idea that a 52 mile ride to Mount Vernon might be just the thing to prepare for the Sunday ride. The day before, I ride to Mount Vernon with my new-to-biking nephew Pat Coan and friend Mike Freeman.

The ride back is brutal, and I am utterly exhausted coming home barely making over the River Road bridge and up my neighborhood hill. Even Mike is beat. Needless to say my 19 year old nephew, proud owner of a Camelbak “Hydration Pack”, was there 20 minutes ahead of us. I’m thinking that 26 extra miles the next day might just be a little problem.

That evening I pull out a card given to me on the 28th at the Tenleytown ride. It says Historic Back Roads Century, September 20, 2009. Well, I say to myself, if I can do 82 easy miles tomorrow maybe I can do that Century on the 20th. So here comes Sunday. I pedal 2 miles into Bethesda joining a series of hardened veterans for a 78 mile ride to Poolesville (paralleling River Road) and returning on the W&OD and Custis Trail to the Capital Crescent. These veterans are serious people. Among the people are my coaches, Ron and Tom and a member I have heard of before as a Century rider (one of the mythical elite), Erica Kane. What story could be complete without a gorgeous babe (and, yes, you guessed it, she’s an active member of Babes on Bikes).

Pretending that I belong, I have taken the precaution of bringing a cell phone with me (wrapped in plastic because of the chance of rain) and have arranged with my beloved wife, Judy, to come pick me up if I bail on the bike ride. I am stoutly equipped with two bottles of PowerAide, three bananas and a PB&J sandwich. Gazing down at my black Polo shirt and looking around at the Versace looking crowd decked out in thousands of dollars of equipment, most of whom are older but fitter than me, I exclaim, “Don’t bother waiting up for me at the rest stops; I may take awhile.” The only member of the ride under 30, wearing a blue racing shirt, responds, “Don’t worry, I am always the last person.” Erica points out that the rolling hills to Poolesville are a lot preferable to the endless flat of the W&OD. My concern grows. Erica repeats this morale-building refrain several times over the course of the ride.

On time the bikers take off. I happen to be near the front, but, no worries, everyone but the girl in blue soon passes me. Up Bradley we go and on to Poolesville. It is a hilly ride - quite hilly. Desperation grips me as I hope that I can keep someone in sight since my cue sheet reading skills remain nonexistent.

A few riders spread out behind five Bunnies. People pass me but I begin to pass a few too. The girl in blue sails past me at one point but in a fit of desperation I refuse to be last and pass her on a hill (I love you Poolesville). The ride becomes good. Hills are good. Just keep up I tell myself but then worry that my energy will fade before the first rest stop. Visions of everyone waiting for me at the Poolesville rest stop keep me going. Needless to say, the first rest stop is not in 10 or 15 miles but in 26.6 miles (not counting the two miles needed to get to the group launch point in Bethesda). Ron’s words come back to me, “Just keep pedaling.” Words of wisdom.

At the rest stop everyone’s in good spirits. Eating a banana I ask myself, “Why am I doing this? I have over 50 miles to go and I’m ready to go home already.” At least, I remind myself, the next 8 miles to the ferry are supposed to be easy. With the exception of that one huge hill no one bothered to mention. Reaching the Ferry is joyful. I can rest again. Ron, unable to resist, points out that there is a killer hill where the Ferry lets out. “Did everyone shift into low gear?” Of course not. Tom has not. Tom frantically shifts gears while holding up his bike.

Uncoordinated, I fail to do the same and sweat out the ferry ride. Frantically leaving the Ferry and shifting gears only to make the hill with ease Eric begins to appreciate his coaches’ sense of humor. Ha. Ha. Eric has reached mile 33.7. The W&OD is an endless expanse of trail with slow downs and slow ups, the kind of hills that you can’t build any momentum on and the kind of downs that offer no respite. Frequent crossings require you to slow down and stop to look both ways before crossing a street thus losing your momentum and ruining your “cadence.” Of course, the art of slowing down just enough to look each way is one Eric must perfect. The next regroup and break is at mile 61. 28 miles! My odometer decides to move in slow motion teasing out the miles.

Ron and Tom call from the side of the trail at about mile 50. A surprise “Pit stop.” I am so tired I barely get out of my pedals, almost tumbling to the pavement. Time for a banana, PowerAide and the almighty PB&J. In a turning point in my training, Tom gives me advice I will cherish in the weeks to come. Tom says, “Better to use your big chain ring. That will give you a better cadence. It’s what all of the B riders use.” I try his approach. The gears are harder to pedal but my momentum on the flat W&OD increases. Instead of just spinning to make life easier, getting nowhere and falling further behind, I find.

I am keeping up with Erica and even in sight of the Bunnies. Mile 61 comes. More banana and Gatorade. Only 18 miles left, “I can’t bail now.” Ron, at my request, provides the drug of choice of bicyclists, a couple of gel packs. I tuck these away, one for the Crescent Trail and an extra one just in case.

Unbelievably, I stay just behind the Bunnies and right behind Erica. Erica has done Centuries. It’s cool to be behind her and inspiring. Besides, her name is cool and she wears a cupcake shirt. Thankfully, folks wait to ensure that all find the turn off to the Custis Trail. After a series of ups and downs (where the riders in front of me always seem to slow down at the bottom of hills) Key Bridge comes up and Erica bolts ahead. I don’t care. Home is near. The Crescent Trail is brutal at the end of a ride but it’s home turf. Everyone dismounts, carries their bike down to K Street and remounts. Time for that gel pack and some Gatorade. Home. Soon. Keep pedaling. Remaining in the big chain ring, my bike’s momentum builds. I pass runners and children biking with their parents and grind over the bridge at River Road. Everyone is waiting and we go to Ron’s house for pizza and beer. 82 miles. Tom talks about his pace, “I had this variable pace on Hughes Road between 17 and 20 mph.” The Pizza is the best I’ve had. We all have a good time.

Week 6 and what a week. I never believed I could do those 82 miles, 30 miles longer than my longest ride. Ron’s lies have paid off because somehow he knew that it’s not the miles that were the issue but the mental game inside my head. Wisely, he and Tom knew that I would not and could not quit half way down the W&OD. That night I looked again at Historic Back Roads Century Card. Maybe I can do this, I thought. I turned the card over and it had a little chart for preparing for the Century. Fourteen days ahead of the Century it said riders should book 158 miles for the week with a sixty-five mile ride. My chart showed 168.81 miles with an 82 mile ride. Not bad.

Week 7, September 7th, 48 miles (oops)

Another vacation week comes but this time the vacation is booked with a solo visit to friend Nick Petro up in Rhode Island. Judy calls me there, “Can you rent a bike up there? Don’t lose your momentum.” I only do 48 miles this week most of it in a nice CC ride with Mike, Marie and her friend Peter.

Week 8, September 14th, 203.9 miles

Crunch time. I ask Ron about the Back Roads. He rejoins, “Many people will be doing the metric.” The Three Musketeers, Ron, Tom and Erica, are going. I decide to go too. I do hills and miles that week. The night before is spent checking and re-checking everything and still manages to be a restless night where I keep waking up to make sure I don’t oversleep. The time comes and, gathering in the morning chill, we set off for Berryville, Virginia. Registration (closed when I called) is a breeze. We all join up and take off. Spirits are good and the first twenty-five miles are nice and easy.

The first rest stop is relaxing. But Poolesville has trained me well in the art of lies and deception. Those hills they do. At around mile 34 or so the rolling hills start. On the crest of each hill the same story repeats itself. I approach the top and gear down while the Bunnies don’t and recede into the distance. Racing to catch up, a new hill pushes me back.

Time flies though and the 50 mile rest stop comes. Banana, PB&J and Gatorade are friends. There is no way to bail and do the metric (as Ron must have known); no one even asks. On we go. The next twenty-eight miles (no rest stop until mile 78!) are cruel beyond description -hill after unrelenting hill, never ending. The Bunnies stay 1/4 mile ahead of me, teasing, tantalizing images to catch up to.

One time I pass Erica. Ron and Tom stop to aide a bicyclist. On my own I plunge ahead reading my enlarged cue sheet and following bikers when I see them (and so very glad when I do see them). Into some suburban neighborhood the ride goes with open windy roads. No more hills, but even gentle rollers seem like mountains. At one point, talking to myself, I mutter, “Just another damn hill,” over and over again.

My whole body aches but my legs just keep pedaling. Out of the blue, Tom sails past. Who ever thought I’d like the draft? But drafting behind Tom is a blessing. Only three miles to go. I count each mile knowing that all I have to do is make it. We do.

The seventy-eight mile rest stop is a magical utopian place from a land far, far away. 78 is a good number as it means only 22 miles to go and not 25. A subtle but key motivating factor to me. Bikers give me encouragement as they find out it’s my first Century. Most of all, elves live here. The elves make tomato and cucumber sandwiches. Nothing has ever tasted so good. Nothing. Like the fabled lembas bread, their magic restores energy and confidence. After a few of these, I know I can make it.

On we go. The Bunnies, sensing the end of the ride, ride on ahead with merciless speed. Abandoned, I follow my sensei’s advice and just keep pedaling. It was not hard at this point just long. The hard part was behind me when so many miles lay ahead. At around mile 90 my legs grew really tired and time slowed. Each mile became an effort but the miles ever so slowly melted away.

Willpower kicked in over a failing body. The group waited at the last road crossing for which I was so grateful. We all went into the final stop together and with pride. I even dismounted my bike without falling off.

Week eight draws to a close. I did a Century, with a lot of help from my friends.