When the trail you’re riding ends in the ocean, literally in the ocean, you have done something right, especially if that trail also ribbons left along a cliff that hugs the shoreline. Clumps of goldenrod and sea grass hem you in. An increasingly rare Monarch butterfly dances across your path.
Block Island is part of a coastal archipelago. It sits 13 miles off the south coast of Rhode Island, and almost the same distance from Montauk Point on Long Island. 40% of it is conservation land. One main road rings the interior, linking houses to the sole, small town, New Shoreham, and, as it turns out, a small spider’s web of jeep track and sandy trails reaches even further, out to the perimeter and into the ocean.
The dudes I was there with all surf and fish. I am the only cyclist, so I was fortunate to escape for much of a Saturday to explore on my own. I had been to the island once before, but contented myself then with a soft spin of the main loop, pretty but unremarkable. This time, resolved to see more of what was there, I plotted a route on a crude map, only to have the ten minutes invested there deliver me to one of the most beautiful twisting, winding solo rides I’ve done in a long time.
Honestly, it’s hard to weigh the awesomeness of a ride like this. How does it compare to D2R2, for example? Was it more beautiful? No, just different. Did I have more fun? No, but it was a solo ride. It was more about me and less about connecting with friends. Honestly, there were a few times on this ride, where I caught myself laughing out loud at how good the route was, or because a pair of pheasants scurried across the way.
What is clear is that I am undeservedly lucky to get to ride when and where I do. I will bemoan how busy I am, how much time I spend sitting in ice rinks watching youth hockey, how most of my substantive riding begins in the pre-dawn, but that is all just the bullshit ranting of a guy with no clue he’s won life’s lottery.
When I got back to the house, perched there on the edge of the salt marsh, to shower and begin cramming my face with food, I had a peace of mind and a strong sense of having learned a great secret, the feelings we’re all hunting out there on the road and/or trail. Then I took a nap. Yeah. It was like that.
This week’s Group Ride asks the question, what has been your most awesome ride this year? And what made it that way? Was it the location? The company? Or some alchemical combination thereof? Maybe you had some sort of great form and won a race? Or maybe, like me, you discovered a beautiful place that you might have known was there, but still couldn’t believe once you’d arrived.
I imagine it drives engineers nuts. They spend all their hours trying to understand how the interaction of material and shape can produce an objectively better ride, doing hard stuff like math and testing, and then a designer comes along and slaps an eye-popper of a paint scheme on a competitor’s bike and suddenly they’re getting outsold 2-to-1. For all our talk about what makes one bike better than another, we all want to look good.
In the ’80s that meant splatter schemes and sparkle, neons and contrast. These days everything is either matte black or some permutation of the classic black/white/red. Bicycle aesthetics work in these small spirals, everyone seeming to riff on one color-way or one basic pattern, until some brave bastard dares to do something both different and repeatable.
I like geometrical shapes. I don’t care for splatter. Diagonals bother me. The Pegoretti above floats my boat. I don’t necessarily want to grab your attention with my bike, but if you do happen to look, I want my bike to be both sharp and unusual. I don’t want it to look like yours, but I don’t want it to look like a Ferrari Testarossa either.
Coming up with the next big thing is tough. I’ve been involved in projects like picking a season’s new colors. What you discover quickly is that, to do it right, you can borrow from no one. You have push out into the new and hope your idea of new somehow resonates with the masses.
It is possible that features and benefits are important, that engineering is, for some people, the thing that inspires their want, but I have been told for years that people buy things emotionally rather than rationally. And, my experience suggests that nothing inspires that emotional buy-in quite like a slick paint job or an elegantly crafted line. It is hard to feel compelling emotions about a bike’s stiffness, not impossible, but hard. Of course, in the best examples, engineering and design converge, but these are rare and precious, and usually very expensive.
This week’s Group Ride asks, how important are looks to you? Have you ever convinced yourself you wanted a bike based on a rational analysis of your needs, only to be swayed by a pretty paint job on another ride? What do you think looks good? How much will you pay for it? And have you ever bought a great ugly bike, only to watch it sit in the garage, because you just didn’t feel inspired to ride it?
I was JRA (just riding along), my legs rising with the pedals and then falling again, letting the circles be circles without adding or subtracting anything. Sometimes it blows my mind that I can do this, just let the bike roll beneath me.
Momentum is mass in motion, a rider on a bike, just rolling along. It is a function of mass and velocity, but metaphorically also a measure of what we are moving toward or away from in our larger lives. In some ways, ‘Can I pedal harder up this hill?’ is a similar question to ‘Can I sneak in one more day on the bike this week?’ which is only a tactical permutation of ‘Am I getting better at what I’m doing?’ or ‘Am I moving forward in my life?’
I find that when I am moving well in the literal way, I am probably moving well in the other way as well.
I also think of momentum as what is happening in the moment. What forces are at play? Am I moving with them or against them? Sometimes just being present in the moment is a challenge, external forces rag-dolling me through like a kid caught in a too tall wave. We wait around for something magic to happen, maybe we put ourselves in magic’s way, ride a tall mountain, shoot a twisting descent, ramble over miles of dirt and gravel. We are only trying to force ourselves into the moment, gathering the circumstances that will focus our attention, if only briefly.
It is tempting to bring inertia into the discussion, but there we are talking about bodies at rest. Inertia is a measure of a body’s resistance to momentum. Even in a track stand the bike yearns to move. Sometimes it yearns hard enough to deposit you on the asphalt. That we control that movement is only our temporary mastery of momentum, the asphalt a measure of our hubris.
My form on the bike is more than just fitness. It is also my ability to work with whatever momentum I’ve got. Can I keep my fingers off the brake as I lean against a turn, dropping my knee as counterweight, edging the volume of my tire against the broad surface of the road? Can I find the will to drop down the cassette at the crest of a steep rise, to pound into those tall gears that will spit me out the bottom at something approaching terminal velocity? Can I wed concentration to that force, dance with it, bend it to my will, and accept its own thoughts on the subject? This is souplesse.
Off the bike, wiser heads ask me whether I want to be right or happy, and I smile and think this is really a decision about whether I want to squander the momentum I have to prove a point, to stop in the road to admire my own paint job. Do I want to swap momentum for inertia? Mostly not. Life is hard enough without riding the brakes all the time. I’d rather go smooth than fast.
I don’t know about you, but I capture very little of the momentum I receive. Mostly my ego revolts, pulls back hard on the brake levers, and I shake my head, over and over, at my own stupidity, the past welling up to overwhelm the present. Or else I am afraid. What will come around the next corner? What horrors await in the wreckage of the future?
The bike is like this, both teacher and blackboard, serving up lessons and giving us a place to practice. As ever, I struggle to pay attention in class, but I believe the answers are there, on the bike, in the moment, somewhere just beyond my front wheel.
Image: Matt O’Keefe
I didn’t pass him. That would have been a dick move, so just as I was about to make the catch I sat up a little and coasted onto his wheel. As far as I could tell he never even turned his head to notice I was there, but I was trying to get my lungs back in my mouth and keep my brain from bursting out my temples, so maybe he did.
I don’t know why I did it. It was just one of those stupid commuter games you play. “Can I catch that guy?” you think. “I probably can’t. Maybe I can. Well, screw it.” And you go.
He was probably 50 meters out in front of me on the long climb that leads up to my house, but I could see he wasn’t going very fast. He had a bag on, like me. He wasn’t rushing. He was just going home.
I closed half the distance pretty quickly, as you do on a climb, but my heart was red-lining, so I had to back off. That’s where it gets challenging, right? It’s hard to know how much to slow. Your brain is telling you to let the pedals go slack, to coast until the engine room gets the fire under control. You have to find that middle point, fast but not heart attack fast. You have to maintain enough progress to continue the chase, to maintain motivation, but not go all in like a poker player with a pair of nothing.
Like much of what I do on the bike, there was no real point. I was commuting. He was commuting. Why race someone who isn’t racing you? Why go so hard on the way home? It was stupid, but I needed something to ride for. I hadn’t realized that until I was getting close enough to believe I would make the catch.
The pros calculate their every effort by whether they have something to ride for or not. A chance to put a teammate in the winning break? They ride. A chance to save a podium place? They ride. A chance to set up for the sprint? They ride.
I can’t be so discerning. I don’t stand on many (any) podiums, but I need to ride. I need that something to motivate me, or I let the pedals go slack. I coast.
After D2R2 this year, I swore I would take my fitness and plow it into trail riding, that I’d double down by running on days I couldn’t fit a ride in, that I’d play more soccer, that I’d keep it going. Instead, I gave myself a week off. I slept. I drove. I ate stuff. One week became two became three.
I needed to ride. That poor bastard didn’t ask me to chase him. He was just the right challenge in the right moment. By the time I turned off his wheel my breath rasped in my chest painfully, that bronchial ache made of effort and car exhaust. I didn’t pass him, because it would have been the wrong thing to do.
As I stood in the kitchen after, sweating like a summer soda can, I wondered aloud, “WtF was that?” But it felt good. It focused my mind. I thought, “I’m going to ride every day this week.”
Image: Matt O’Keefe
Maybe we’re spoiled for choice. Classics season gives way to Grand Tour time. In between there are a veritable panoply of small, interesting races that drag the world’s fastest cyclists all over the globe. Our sport is steeped in history and tradition, and yet remains ripe for innovation, for new races like the Strade Bianche to take hold of our collective imagination.
Increasingly lost in the churn of the season is the World Championship.
Born on the track in the 1890s, cycling’s World Championships have taken myriad forms, been run by multiple governing bodies and been slotted into the calendar haphazardly for more than a century. At times, the race has been the pinnacle of the season, at others it has been what it seems to be now, an afterthought.
This is not to say there is no prestige to wearing the rainbow jersey, nor that some of the best riders of this generation will make it one of their primary objectives for the season. Despite the relative truth that the World Champ almost always has a crap season in the multi-colored top (see this bit from Philippe Gilbert), it’s hard for a bunch of go-fast lunatics not to want to be crowned World Champion.
But sitting where it does in the schedule, stuck on the end like a spare tire, it doesn’t lend itself to high prestige or fan excitement or even the intrigue of the world’s best going at it in their mid-season form. Instead, the top contenders have dragged themselves to the four corners, looking for competitive races to tune up their finishing speed rather than springing off the back of some more logical and high profile one-day racing earlier in the year.
Of course, this is also a marketing problem, and the UCI has shown itself to be mediocre at race promotion, at least when compared to the 800-pound gorilla in the cycloverse, the Amaury Sports Organtization, owner of the Tour de France among many, many others, or even an upstart sports agitator like Red Bull. Maybe the diminution of the World Championships is one more reason to change leadership atop the UCI.
The whole circus starts this weekend with the team time trial and carries on through the week, culminating in next weekend’s individual time trials and road races.
This week’s Group Ride asks, are these races important to YOU? If not, why not? Has your attention wandered since the Vuelta? Or even before that? Do you hope your favorite rider wins in Florence, or do you hope they avoid the rainbow stripes, the better to compete in the coming season’s more important races? Predictions are allowed, too, but no one gets any credit for picking Marianne Vos for anything.
Image: Fotoreporter Sirotti
As a kid, I could never quite wrap my head around a visit to the toy store. On the one hand, everything I could ever want was there. On the other, I knew I couldn’t have it all, and so an ontological crisis ensued any time my parents asked me what ONE thing I’d like to take home with me.
Interbike is like that.
Even my jaded adult self has trouble quelling the rip tides of gear lust that drag me down every aisle of the show until I’m standing in front of some booth at the outer reaches of the convention center staring at glittery, fluttery grips for kids’ bikes. There, in that comical space, I can take a breath and do some not-wanting.
Last year, Padraig and I walked the floor together, shaking hands with friends old and new and trying not to let on how badly we wanted at least four of the things in their booths. I will confess now that the things that grabbed me last year were, in no particular order, Giro’s Empire shoes, Pegoretti‘s paint jobs, and the Chrome backpacks they were customizing on-site. This is the short list, the stuff I wanted to grab and make a break for the exit with.
My natural aversion to Las Vegas, or more specifically the Vegas strip, where America spills its banks so ostentatiously, does little to dampen my interest in the latest and greatest cycling finery. It is only fortunate that most of what’s on display is not for sale, and I am, by and large, able to drag my weary bones back out to the airport and doze quietly while some poor soul who didn’t get quite enough, deposits the last of his cash into a slot machine in the departure lounge.
This week’s Group Ride wonders what YOU are most interested in seeing from Interbike. What new products are on your horizon? What should we be looking for, bringing back pictures of, reviewing for the upcoming season? What toy would you pluck from the shelf, if you could only pick one?
We rode along in silence, chains whirring. The sun was only just lumbering up into the sky, and neither of us was quite awake. After a bit, he glanced over and said, “You get a ride in this weekend?” as you do when you’re breaking the silence. And I said something stupid like, “Yeah. Got 60 miles in, probably averaged 17 or 18mph. Good weather,” and then fell silent again.
I’d said nothing, and we both knew it. Did any of that information, I thought, say anything interesting or meaningful about my day in the saddle? Is it true that if I go far or fast or don’t get wet, by default it was a good ride?
In a previous life I spent hours and hours in pro sports locker rooms or huddled by the sides of practice fields frantically scrawling the half statements and platitudes of sweaty athletes and harried coaches. Sometimes I held aloft a pocket recorder and transcribed tape later, all the better and more accurately to relay the wisdom of the unwise to my fickle and cynical readers.
And then sometimes I would stand next to Francesco, the beat reporter from the big paper. While I furiously jotted statements word-for-word, he would carry on a normal conversation, only in the end turning away and dabbing briefly at his own notebook in shorthand. When I read his story the next day, I could see clearly all the adjectives he’d missed, all the nuance he’d left hanging in the air. His facts weren’t wrong, but his stories lacked the texture of the moment.
Shorthand is like that. Distance. Speed. Weather. These are all inadequate descriptors. True, they form a composite, but, if anything, they also obscure what really happened, what I really thought and felt when I was out on the bike. At the very least, we should come up with a better shorthand for what we do.
My family are Welsh farmers, and as a boy I spent some of my favorite summers rambling around the farm with my cousins, a pack of filthy farm dogs in tow. The smell of fresh cut grass and the impossibly large cow flops mouldering in the sun are my madeleines, the olfactory spark for happy memories.
The smell of cow shit is, for me, usually a good indication that I am enjoying myself on the bicycle. This is mostly geographical calculus. If you can smell that rich, organic something wafting on the breeze, chances are you’re in farm country. And farm country is where I like to spin my wheels. It connects me to my youth, to a sense of freedom and adventure. Green pastures and stone walls, rambling wooden fences and the slow churn of cattle at their leisure. Narrow lanes that swoop and gather. The sun bright and dappling through the trees. These are better descriptors.
Speed and distance, especially as I exaggerate my relationship to them after the fact, only tell you about the ride relative to yourself. I went faster than you can or farther than you did, at least if I exaggerated properly. Maybe you can imagine what it was like to have done what I did, but it presupposes you’re not paying attention to anything beyond the end of your nose, that you don’t like the smell of cow shit.
In the bike game we see this, too. What something weighs, a frame or a derailleur, a wheel or a handlebar, often passes for what is important about that thing. Don’t get me started on “stiffness.” If a bike is light and stiff, does it follow that it’s a good ride?
Because we are so starved for that ineffable something that cycling gives us, the madeleine moments of fresh cut grass and cow shit on a gentle breeze, we succumb to the shorthand. We buy into faster and longer and lighter and stiffer. We accept their equivalence to the quality of our riding.
Despite my nom de plume, I remain something of a romantic, and I get really tired of seeing things, instruments of joy and freedom, reduced to simple numbers, simple ideas, even if I fall into the same dull habit of reductio ad absurdum whenever anyone asks me about my ride.
Next time I’ll just say, “Cow shit and fresh cut grass. A cold start and warm middle. Well packed dirt. A lung-searing climb. A good joke that carried us for about fifty miles, but probably less. A greasy cheeseburger at the end. And I still had it in me to mow the lawn.”
Image: Scott Bauer/USDA
The kids started school this week. Backpacks. Lines. Small desks. New teachers and friends. New subjects to daunt and dazzle. They are both, of course, complete geniuses, my boys, masters of all they survey, and I am constantly amazed, both by what they know and also by what they don’t know, which is the inspiration for this week’s Group Ride.
As a card-carrying, check-drawing member of the bike industry, I am, to the average person on the street, an expert in this field. Neighbors come to me to fix small problems or for advice about how to tackle a big ride. I am regularly asked to help with the acquisition of a new bike. Conversations with acquaintances often begin with, “Hey, you’re the bike guy, right?” And I listen and give the best information I can.
And yet, as the years tick by I find that I know both more and less about bicycles and their use. As much as I am adding to my knowledge-base, I am also constantly discarding misinformation, received wisdom, and preconceived notions. I unlearn as much as I learn.
The bike seems to be bottomless. You can’t know it all. Even if you were able to convince yourself that you knew everything there was to know about frame geometry for example, the ride resulting from a given geometry would still be massively affected by materials and construction method. Fork rake, tire width (and volume) and brake style would all intrude on the party. Is there a graduate degree in Cycology? There should be.
As a rider too, I am no great shakes. I am neither very fast, nor very slow. My handling skills are good, but not remarkable. And I have been riding thousands of miles every year for the last twenty or so. I see so much room to be a better bike rider that I almost want to jump out of this chair, shove aside the keyboard and run for the door now.
I read books and magazines. I talk all the time with bike designers, bike builders, and riders of exceptional ability. But I have so much to learn. I’m still a beginner in so many ways.
This week’s Group Ride asks, what is it you can learn about cycling? What can you be better at? What fascinates you about the bike or riding it? At the same time, what did you once believe that you no longer hold true? What have you unlearned?
Image: Matt O’Keefe
It is late to run a prediction thread for the Vuelta. Things have happened in Spain. Dramatic things. The stuff that makes Grand Tours so Grand. And yet, we haven’t discussed the Spanish race in this forum. All week our good friends Charles and Patrick have been stoking the flames of the thing like Eugene Christophe’s young assistant. If you have not “tuned” in, then you have missed the craic, the part of watching a race that makes it a socially constructive and celebratory event. If you HAVE been following by LiveUpdate, then please do the right thing.
And so, here we are. Astana won the opening team time trial (TTT). On Stage 2, Nicholas Roche reminded us that he is still riding bikes professionally and is still, on his day, really good at it. Then Chris Horner became the oldest ever Grand Tour stage winner when he crossed the line at Mirador de Lobeira in Stage 3. Katusha’s Daniel Moreno attacked and won on the final climb in Stage 4, before Michael “Bling” Matthews of Orica-GreenEdge opened the sprint battle with a win in Stage 5. Stage 6 saw Tony Martin perpetrate the most brilliant, gutsy, painful solo break that most of us will ever see/remember, only to see it end in tragic failure a few meters from the line. Michael Morkov was the horrible jerk who stole the win from him.
Finally, today, Zdenek Stybar continued to prove that he has something very real to offer on the road by besting World Champ Philippe Gilbert in Stage 7 to Mairena de Aljafare.
Vincenzo Nibali is in the leader’s jersey, maybe too early. Michael Matthews is in the sprinter’s shirt, with not a lot of sprint having happened. And Nick Roche is in the climber’s kit. The top of the GC is clustered closely with 18 riders within a minute of the lead.
There, now you’re caught up.
This week’s Group Ride asks, who’s going to win? How’s it going to happen? If Nibali wins, it will be his third Grand Tour win. Will it make him a contender for a race like the Tour? Or is the gap between what he’s done in Italy and Spain larger than it looks from the top step of the podium?
Image: Fotoreporter Sirotti
At 5:45am, heavy fog sits in all the hollows and rolls up to the roadside and leaves everything beneath it wet. We park in the fresh-cut field and walk over to the registration tent where all is moving along in the proper subdued, pre-dawn manner.
During this, my third year at D2R2 (Deerfield Dirt Road Randonee), I realized how much I love this tent. The volunteers who staff it are uniformly cheerful and kind. There is never a time when someone isn’t having a friendly conversation there or warm food isn’t being spooned onto a plate. It feels like a good launching point for what will be my biggest day on the bike all year, and I hold it in my head throughout as an oasis at the end, those conversations multiplying exponentially, the smell of pulled pork heavy on the evening breeze. If I can just get back to that still, happy place, all will be well.
Soon we are at the business of nervously pinning on numbers and pulling on gloves. Everyone in the field is in some state of undress, bib straps dangling, shoes being buckled and re-buckled. The long route, the 180km (14,777 ft vertical) , leaves first, and so those who have camped in the adjacent field are still only just stirring in their sleeping bags or stumbling over to the main area for coffee and a bagel.
We roll out later than we intend to, as we always do, but there are enough miles in front of us that we can’t spend too much time caring about timeliness. D2R2 is not a ride you bang out and then head home to mow the lawn. D2R2 is your day, and the nature of the riding, mostly up and down in alternately daunting and thrilling bursts, defies your ability to over-plan it.
The morning is cool, verging on cold, just at the edge of arm-warmer range, but I resolve to go without so as to have less to carry throughout the day. My over-sized seat bag has multiple tubes, CO2 cartridges and tools in it; my jersey pockets are stuffed with food. I feel ready, in as much as you can ever be ready for a thing like D2R2.
Almost straight away we are climbing and we are on dirt. These are the event’s two main characteristics. If you are coming here to ride this course, any of the courses, you will be climbing and you will be on dirt.
Another primary characteristic is creaking. Chain ring bolts. Bottom brackets. Spokes. All of them straining and lurching against the grade. Torque making itself heard. Dozens of wheezing machines, off key, out of time. And then the whole mess popping and cracking down the descents. Rocks pinging off aluminum rims. Chains slapping stays. The occasional WHOOP of a rider whose rear wheel has momentarily lost traction in the sand.
After the first water break the riding goes from serious to extremely serious. We are only ever going up or coming down. It fatigues the body, but also the mind as it requires close and constant concentration. I force myself to run back down the cassette on the descents, to milk every ounce of gravity for what it’s worth. Up over 40 miles, over 50, we are just grinding them out, stroke-by-stroke.
And then, at last, there is a long, twisting descent that careens into the lunch stop at a grassy area by an idyllic covered bridge. Smiling faces pile in. Sandy, the svengali of this particular brand of suffering, is there, as he always is, stalking about in his heavy boots and shorts, making sure everyone is ok, but more importantly that everyone is having fun. The morning’s stories are already tumbling out. Minor crashes. Mechanicals. A general sense of disbelief at the scenery and the effort it takes to reach it.
If I am honest, I have been riding with a stomach full of doubt all morning. I have done the thing you must not do, which is to think too much about the miles to come rather than focusing on the road beneath your wheels. At lunch, that doubt lifts. I still feel good. I have seen the sun rise through the pines and haven’t put a tire wrong yet. We are past the halfway point.
I stuff my face with food, a sandwich, a handful of cookies, a banana, a bag of chips. I down three ibuprofen with a soda, and I’m ready to go. I know I can do the rest. My companions are going well, and in the early afternoon we crest four steep rises in a row with little effort. Then the course eases up, gives us some long stretches of smooth, easy travel. My Garmin, naively, reins in its estimate of our arrival time.
Free of the constraints of self-doubt and full of calories, the afternoon at D2R2 becomes a sort of spiritual experience. All year, as I ride my local hills and trails, as I incorporate dirt roads into as many road rides as I can, as I sit at my desk day-dreaming of my best moments on the bike, I am thinking of this part of D2R2. This is the part where I am finally inured to the suffering. This is the part where I am able to pick my head up from the bars and see the sweeping vistas, to smile at everyone on the road, knowing that we are all in that same magical place.
We roll inexorably to the finish, anxious to be done, to be back under that tent, but also savoring each mile. Of course, Sandy and his wide grin never allow it to be easy. There is a wall called Archambo, 27% of impossibility, loose and stupid in its difficulty. Of the 40 riders I see there, one makes it up. All others walk.
Then, somewhere past the 90th mile, the road pitches up vertiginously again. Patten Hill Road is a long, dusty, stair-step climb that pushes my heart rate dangerously close to its maximum. I have to find that point between blowing up and falling over, and somehow, just as I suspect I will put a foot down, the angles all tilt in my favor again. Then we are into the last rest station, water melon juice dripping off our chins.
We feel done and begin, at least mentally, to congratulate ourselves. We are not done.
At mile 105 we begin a serpentine downhill through deep sand and large stone. This is, perhaps, the worst road of the day, and it pushes each of us to the brink. Our forearms burn from the effort of steering and braking. Our legs go heavy from pushing through the soft surface. We are crawling again, so close to the finish, so close to finished.
Perhaps the final distinguishing characteristic of D2R2 is that it is relentless. You will need to ride hard all the way to the end.
By the time we spill back onto pavement, adrenaline has taken over the controls and we barrel into Deerfield at 20mph, headed for the salvation of the tent. We finish through the timing corral, which is, in our case, really just a way for the organizers to know we’re not still out there, dead in a ditch somewhere. And then we’re back at the car, half-dressed again, just trying to get some of the way back to clean and comfortable before attacking the buffet line.
I am not a high-fiver, by nature, but back in the tent I high-five Jesse, who I met on the 115km route two years ago. He lives just off the course himself, and seems to know everybody. We had ridden together throughout the day. He has the misfortune of being as
slow fast as I am.
I also high-five the guys from Brooklyn who I suffered through the 150km route with last year. They wonder why they only ever see me when they’re at the very end of their rope. I high-five this guy and this guy. I might be delirious with fatigue.
I down a pile of mac n’ cheese and another of barbecue. I stuff down a roll. Sodas disappear like singles at the craps table. Everything settles. Someone mentions that there is hot coffee.
It’s just getting dark when I leave the comfort of the tent. I don’t want to leave. I want to bask in the warm glow a bit longer, but the ibuprofen I gobbled at lunch have long since quit and my back is starting to complain about the folding chair I’m in. Still, it’s hard to walk away from D2R2. I spend so much of my year idealizing it, visualizing it, looking forward to it. It has a strange hold on me.
And now I find myself in the same predicament I did in 2011 and 2012, sitting in front of a keyboard, trying to get my head around something larger than myself. There is the scale of it, 180km, nearly 15,000ft of climbing, a whole day on the bike. There is the scenery, picture book New England, technicolor and high-res. There are the people, the ones I only see at D2R2, the ones I meet every year (Hi, Dave Kraus!), and the ones who ride with me. And then there’s what happens in my head.
I never believe, despite the evidence, that I can have a day like this on my bike, this big, this beautiful. But year after year, D2R2 delivers. Whether that’s by design or by accident (or both), I can’t really tell you. This ride will push me forward all year, and maybe a piece of inspiration that size is worth whatever price and whatever effort it takes to get.