There's nothing like spinning off a leisurely 20 miles on the bike through the softly rolling terrain of northeast GR. Or taking a casual ride with the brother on the weekend. You know, just enough to get the legs moving and the heart rate up a bit...
Then there's the Blue Water Ramble, a ride of varying distances (30, 45, 55, 65, or 100 miles) put on by the Clinton River Riders (
http://www.lmb.org/crr/) this past weekend. Don't let the name fool you. There's nothing Rambling - or even Ambling - on this ride. At least not with the company my brother chooses to keep.
Big brother is fully aware that I'm in taper mode for the Chicago marathon. I had told him previously that I was pretty tentative about the ride because it was just one week before the marathon. After deciding to take it easy in Chicago, however, I signed up, and committed to the 45-mile "ramble."
As the weekend approaches, my brother begins putting out the feelers, so to speak.
Email #1: So, we're still on for the Ramble, right? We'll get a nice early start on Sunday, ride 45 miles and be home before noon.
Response #1: Sounds great, Scotty! Lookin' forward to it!
Email #2: I was looking into the routes, and it looks like if we don't ride into Canada, we could actually do a 55-mile ride in less time than it would take us to do the 45-mile ride because we wouldn't have to take the ferry into Canada and back.
Response #2: Yea. I'd be fine with 55 miles, as long as we're not killing ourselves to do it.
Email #3: I've been talking to some of the guys I ride with, and it looks like they're going to get a group together to leave at 8:00 from the high school. They're awesome guys and pretty good riders (his exact words), so you can rest in the slipstream most of the way, without getting too tired.
Response #3: Sounds like a plan.
Sunday morning arrives, and as we roll into the parking lot, Scott begins to talk about some of these "pretty good" cyclists that we'll be riding with today.
Rider #1 - think Jens Voigt and his "big diesel engine." He's 6'4", has legs like sequoias, and rides a bike that looks like something out of a Tour-de-France-meets-James-Bond movie. You know... a "pretty good" cyclist.
Rider #2 - Levi incarnate. A tiny fella, sporting all-black, research-sponsored gear.
Rider #3 - A tall drink of water aboard a tri-bike. His water bottles? Iron Man Kona.
Rider #4 - A heftier lad, riding what appears, on first inspection, to be some sort of sci-fi rocket ship. Sleek black carbon with tapers, angles, and curves that you'd expect to see on a super model, not a fricken bike! Seriously?
Rider #5 - Also a little guy who happens to compete in (and WIN) cycling races all over the state. His machine? Think Silver Surfer meets The Dark Knight (or the surfboard meets the Batmobile). Impressive.
Riders 6 - 8 are variations of above riders, all of whom have abilities and machines far superior to what I'm riding, and how I ride it.
Oh, and let's not forget...
Rider #9 - My brother. Yep. The guy who completed the Ore-to-Shore 50-mile mountain bike race while pedaling a TANDEM, by HIMSELF (his wife was thrown over his shoulder, sack-of-'taters style - sorry sis!). My brother, the cyclist who entered three races in Ohio... and only won two of them. The reason he didn't go three for three? After his first race, Scotty was quoted as saying, "I thought I was supposed to lead from start to finish." Really Scotty? Ever seen a little bike race known as
Le Tour?
But I digress...
The ride began easily enough with casual chatter as we rolled out of town. Soon, we hit the open road, and the pace ticked up. The sun was bursting through the clouds, scattering purples, oranges, reds, and yellows across the sky, putting on quite a light show for us. In addition to the sunrise, nature had a second surprise for us: wind.
As seems to be the case with every ride Scotty and I sign up for, the wind decided that she was going to make our day a little more interesting.
As miles 8-10 ticked off, I felt pretty good. I put in a decent pull at the front of the pack, pulling for a half-mile or so at a respectable 23 MPH. Spent, spitting, frothing, aching, and grinning, I slipped to the back of the pack to enjoy the slipstream of nine "pretty good" cyclists.
The first half of the ride seemed to fly by, and we were at our first rest stop before the legs even knew we were riding. 22.4 MPH average speed. Not bad. The legs were feeling good, and I was happy for the hot chocolate, bananas, and Gatorade that were waiting for us, along with some helpful, welcoming volunteers.
Side note: Volunteers at races and rides are amazing. Thank you for all you do.
It wasn't until we remounted that trouble began. The aforementioned wind had been somewhat tame to this point. A few gusts here and there, but nothing that a string of 9 riders couldn't overcome. As we headed out for the second half of the ride, the wind began to shift (to a cross/headwind, of course), and the ride became tougher. Well, tougher for me, anyway.
Before the second, post-break mile, the pack had already lifted the pace to around 23 MPH again. My legs protested vehemently, as did my heart, lungs, chest, fingers, and eyeballs. The wind was cutting across the group of riders, and there was little shelter to be found. I was two riders from the front of the group, wondering how the hell I was going to possibly put in some time at the front when I couldn't even maintain this speed within the confines of the group. Thankfully, I didn't have to worry about that.
The other more seasoned (and better-conditioned) riders sensed my weakness and rallied around me, allowing me a respite at the back of the pack. I was consoled with "Good jobs" and "Atta boys" as I slipped off the front toward the back. But as I mentioned, the back provided little relief from the howling wind.
Within a few minutes, our efficient machine composed of nine individual parts was splintered and scattered all over the road. The front four riders maintained their impossible pace, as the rest of us struggled to keep the number 20 on our speedometers. Among them: Jens, Rider Number 6, Levi Incarnate, and brother Scott.
Thankfully, I was able to match pace with "Kona" and we took short stints at the front, pacing each other back to a respectable 20-21 MPH. Shortly after that, we were joined by rider #5, and together, the three of us "rambled" along, ticking off the miles until the next rest stop. We were to get a fourth rider before that rest stop.
As we approached a convenience store, the three of us feeling the burn of Beard's Hills, a rider - with bike slung over his shoulder - sprinted out of the undergrowth, mounted the steed and matched our accelerations all in one lithe movement. Finally, after 9 miles, Scott realized that his sibling was absent from the lead pack. Nice brotherly instincts, brother.
With four of us working together, and the wind shifting in our favor, we actually began to close the gap and were able, to my amazement, to see the pack of lead riders. Apparently, they were nothing without the raw power, cycling instincts, and what I like to affectionately call "idiocy" of my brother - he just doesn't know when he's outmatched, so he just keeps going until his lips fall off and his eyes bleed.
With the pack in sight, we had renewed vigor, and Mother Nature was smiling upon us. The wind was now at our backs, but the group ahead was still pulling away. Scotty, however, wasn't about to let them go gently into that good night. Please see above comment about "idiocy."
Rather than following his own advice of "working together" and "taking short shifts at the front," Scott decided to take matters into his own hands. I heard - rather I felt - him dig for a deeper gear, and mutter something like, "tuck in tight and stay there" to me. He revved the RPMs up well over 90 and began doing something that not many cyclists can do on a day such as this: he began catching the wind.
It sounds impossible, but allow me to explain. See, when you're riding in a vacuum, there's no resistance, no wind to hold you back. When a headwind is pushing against you, you can only go so fast, because the wind pushes back. But with a tailwind, you can use that to your advantage to go as fast as your legs will carry you... that is, unless your legs can carry you 3 MPH faster than the 25 MPH tailwind that is pushing you. So, my brother, with a 25 MPH wind pushing at our backs, managed to create a slight headwind (really?), and carried us to within a minute or two of the leaders into the second and final rest stop.
The final eight miles of our ride was no easier, except that the end was finally in sight (just like this blog entry). With about four miles remaining, and a giant overpass looming, I finally cracked and fell permanently off the back of the pack. I struggled over the next mile, before a lead rider fell off, and escorted me safely to the finish line. We shared the load, but without his help, the last miles would have been a lot harder and a lot more lonesome.
Who was that rider that came back for me you ask? The rider that took pity on me, and could relate to the anguish that my body was feeling? My brother Scott? Seems like a logical guess. I mean, what brother wouldn't come back for his suffering and exhausted brethren. Wouldn't that be a fitting end to this story? Sorry gang. No fairy-tale endings this time.
Those of you who know Scott know that there is no way he'd let another rider beat him, even if it meant leaving his brother in the pain-gutter on the side of the road. Nope. Scott was at the front of the pack, loving every moment of his idiocy, relishing every pedal-stroke, every snot-rocket, every eyeball popping, vein-screaming minute of this ride, this Sunday morning Ramble. Ride on, brother. Ride on!
Check out the route at:
http://www.gmap-pedometer.com/?r=5122736
dv
We stepped outside, and it was cold. Really cold. After a brief westward stint, we headed directly into the wind. The breath was ripped from our lungs before the blood could grab enough oxygen. We leaned into the maelstrom, steadily digging northward, as it tried to stand us upright and blow us over. I could feel knives ripping through the multiple layers of high-tech running gear. But for some reason, I wasn't cold. I wasn't whining. I wasn't angry.
