Well, It has come and gone. This past weekend marked the MS150: Escape to the Lake in Western Pennsylvania. This year was slightly different in that there was a return loop trip - so one could feasibly ride from Zelienople to Meadville and back over the course of two days, OR ride from Meadville on to Conneaut, OH and the shores of Lake Erie. Having ridden to Lake Erie last year, and NOT relishing the thought of a three hour busride back to Zelienople, I elected the return trip - the Loop. Day one was 75.3 miles, Day 2 was 79.8 miles. The following is my account, for better or worse, of the points I can remember.
I managed to get into the first starting group on Day one, and it wasn't long before we managed to establish a rhythm, moving along relatively smoothly. The first 16 or so miles to the first rest stop - an area I've ridden a couple times in training - really didn't cause me any problems, other than a loose crank bolt - even after I'd tightened it. Stop at the base of the first real climb of the day, tighten the bolt again, and I was off. I found that the hill - previously climbed - was relatively ok. Drop the gear, get into a manageable cadence - it seemed to work pretty well. Indeed, I was passing a few people. of course, a couple passed me as well, but the fact that I was passing people made me feel pretty good. Not bad for 9 miles in, when it useually takes me about 5 miles to loosen up and get comfy.
Rest stop at 16 miles, have crank bolt tightened. Eat, drink, refuel. life was good. Second major climb at 17 miles - this would be a theme where if we stopped, there MUST be a hill coming up. - scooted up it with relatively no problems, other than reaffirming my general hatred of hills. Latched on with some teammates, and was hitting some good stride. The next stop was at the top of a small rise further down the road - about mile 34 - and I realized I was strong. Plenty left in the tank, legs felt comfy, was having good rhythm, good power - I was in that zone. I powered up the rise in the big ring, the sun shining behind me. On the ground ahead of me, I saw my shadow - and I was surprized. As my legs pounded up the rise, I saw them moving in shadow form. They looked good. They looked....well, they looked like the pro riders' legs look!!!! I know, this may make no sense to some of you, but for the Fat Kid, it was a nice moment of satisfaction.
Lunch was at mile 47 - and by 11AM, I was just about ready to get back on the road. We'd started about 7:30 AM, and I was still feeling pretty good. Mile 56.6 was where I'd been stalled a few weeks ago, so I forced myself to eat and drink more than I wanted to. The next climb, one that just about did me in last year, was next up. I cramped. It wasn't too bad, and after a couple of minutes, I started up the hill again, and proceeded to the top, where, although I was hurting, I once again found that I was passing a few riders...many of whom passed me whilst I was working out my cramp. Find the cadence, push the pedal around. Don't let up. At the top, I was strong again, and then we came to it: my favorite stretch of road.
Now, growing up near the mucklands of Central NY, the Fat Kid KNOWS how to ride the flats. The hills, not so much, but the flats?? Oh, I excel at them. When riding a 53 x13-23.....well, let's just say it doesn't take a lot to start pulling some speed. Those legs I was so proud of a little while ago? They are my engine (corny, I know) and the engine wanted to have some fun. The power was there, the rhythm was there. Shift up. Hands to drops. Slide forward in the saddle. Start the engine. I think I took that section of road around about 22 mph - with virtually no effort...just steady momentum, all the way into the Grove City area. When it works - when the body is working correctly and the conditions are right - speed, form, machine, engine, lungs and head become as one, and that is where the cyclist finds his/her joy. That stretch of road was pure joy.
The going got tougher after that. The hills became a little steeper, and a little longer. While I suffered a little up them, the cadence and the power were there. A few times, riders latched on behind me, holding the slipstream and letting me cut through the wind in front of them. Occasionally, I would catch a rider and do the same. There is a strange allegience that takes place on a ride like this, where strangers become friends and partners for a little while. We need each other out there. We help one another, say encouraging things, form pace lines, draft off each other, converse to relieve boredom - anything at all. We are all in this together. And we were all heading to the same place, where many a cold beverage was waiting...some even non-alcoholic!
But up the hills we went. Over the tops and down the other sides. Mile 70 came and there was a veritable wall of a hill. I was forced to walk some of it. It was just too much to push through at that mileage. I felt bad for those who did the century route (100 miles, for those not in the know) who had to do the hill twice. My leg cramp had returned, and there was no way I was going to get through the short, but very steep (estimated 10% or steeper) hill. From there, the ride to Allegheny College was downhill, the finish line was attained.
What happened once at the finish? It's like Vegas - you don't say. I can tell you I met up with an old buddy, took a dip in the pool, had an adult beverage, and met some very fun people. Hijinx, Hooliganism, Shenanigans, pranks, and Tomfoolery were in abundance. Well, we were on a college campus, what did you expect?
Day TWO:
Once again, I was in the starting group, and once again, it didn't take very long to be dropped from them. I was there to ride MY ride, not make a race out it. It wasn't long before we hit the hills coming out of Meadville. This was the part I was mainly concerned with, as I didn't know how I would recover in time to ride. Turns out, I wasn't that bad. Early on, the hills, while significant, were managed decently. The rhythm was there, the gears were right. I now know why I've hated hills for so long, and what I was doing wrong at the bottom. The issue is corrected...but I still hate hills. Up and over them we went. But they kept coming. I think we rode more uphill on the way home thanthe previous day, even though the slopes were a little more gentle for most of it. Uphill is still uphill.
But the power was there, the gears were right, the timing better, and even though the saddle sores were forming (yep, I'd used chamois cream) It was still good. Through the high flat parts of the plateau we went, and once again, I was able to find the power I liked, and was able to engage the engine again. I met Dean, who was having some difficulty with his left knee. Dean is about 60 yrs old. I told him to tuck in behind me and ride my slipstream for a while to take it easy on his knee. It got Dean through a couple pit stops where the medical pros could assist him. I don't know if I'll ever see Dean again, but I know that for those miles, I was his best friend. And he was very cool to talk to.
Mile 54.4, rest stop. Saddle sores were seriously hurting every time I got on and off the bike. Food. Water. Gatorade. I'd finally tapped into my reserve fluids (two waterbottles full of gatorade) Thermometer on the bike was reading 92. No clouds. Any other day, I would have thought it beautiful. I just wanted it to be over. 25 miles left to go. Start again. cover some of the same roads we were on yesterday. The tar on the pavement is bubbling, and I can hear it cracking under my wheels as each bubble pops. Eventually, I'm forced to walk up a small ascent that is just too steep to ride. I know I'm spent. A couple minutes at the top of the hill, and I hop on, painfully, and continue. A long, slow climb up to the top of a hill, descend into the state park again for the last rest stop.
16 miles left to go. I want a taxi. I'm not even sure where I can draw strength from anymore. Head out again, after more chamois cream, bananas, gatorade, and water. And Gummy treats. Those things rock, and I've eaten a ton of them at this point on the ride. They take us on new roads that we didn't travel yesterday. Up a climb witha "false flat" and then up the rest of it. Up again. And again. Turn the corner, more uphill. Round a bend. Then, I see it. It's the hill where I died two weeks ago. They put it on the ride. Everyone's first reaction on seeing it: "WTF!!!!!" Oddly - even though I rode it only a couple weeks before, I didn't realize it was THAT hill until I was halfway up it. That is when I knew I had this. Again, the cadence was right. the strength was there. The power was in my legs. My muscles were screaming - but they were screaming something new: "WE"RE NOT READY TO GIVE UP." OK, legs. Just keep climbing.
Into Portsville and one last small climb. I'm starting to pass people. They're blowing up. We're about to drop into the valley, and they're blowing up. They are cooked. I have strength. I even have a little speed. It's under 7 miles to the finish. Engage the engine one last time. I catch up to a couple of riders and as we hit some of the small rises, I realize that I'm ready to go. I Just have to NOT stop pedalling, and I've got it. I overtake the guy who has been outclimbing me all day. He used up too much and he's gassed. I won't see him again until I'm already on my second bottle of water at the finish. He's weraing an Indiana kit he thinks he got from Steevo....it makes me think I've just beeten Steevo. Adrenaline fills me. Suddenly, I know I could do the century today, if I wanted. I don't want to. I am a man-machine - like the Terminator. 3 miles. 2 miles. One last stop light. A guy I rode with three weeks ago on a training ride is there ahead of me. I catch him and we head off together, along with a third. We make the turn and ride the last mile together, down the chute where we started.
It's a party.
I wasn't the first to finish, but I was far from the last. People ask me why I love this sport. The friends, the allies, the pain, the pleasure, the realizations, the heart and will it takes to push through hot temps and nasty climbs, roads blistering under your tires, saddle sores and sunburn...every time I'm out there on the road, I find a little more of who I am. And I like that guy.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Monday, June 11, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Moving....always a trial.
Well, Readers, it's here again. Yep, in just under 72 hours, I will be biking my way across the hills, valleys, and backroads of Western PA doing the MS150: Escape to the Lake, 2012. What is this? Simply put, it's a bunch of crazy nutters like myself riding 150 miles in two days to raise money and awareness of MS. Their slogan is to "join the movement." and so, having done this ride last year, I'm doing it again. I'm nervous. It's a tougher ride than last year. My training hasn't been what I'd hoped it would be, though I've done some really good stuff this year, and should be able to do this with little to no problem. I'm looking forward to it. Why do I do it? 1) I love to ride my bike. 2) No, I really do LOVE to ride my bike. 3) events like this are worth it to me - it is an act of giving that has a purpose. It is important in building community and maintaining that community. It promotes community health. There are other events like this for all sorts of things. I would encourage you to find one that matches your interests/desires, etc and then volunteer to do it. At some point or other, we have to start taking care of ourselves again....the government cannot do it for us. Events like this are ways in which we can become active in our lives and communities.
Speaking of moving...I'm in the middle of one, and like all moves, there is both pleasure and pain. The house I'm going to is in need of some updates, though, and so there are some general repairs and upgrades that need to be made. This is always expected - the "perfect house" doesn't exist until you make it perfect, after all. One of the bonuses of this new place is that I get my own workshop, which is a concrete bunker under a porch about the size of a single car garage. It's nice. It's dry. It will work. BUT, half the walls are underground, so, in the interest of keeping it dry, I bought a can of dry-loc and painted the walls. Now, they were white, and the dry-loc was grey. So - in a concrete bunker that is a woodshop - there was a two-tone paintjob. Why? Because it doesn't exatcly matter, that's why!!!! It could be purple and I won't care. It could be bare block and I'll be ok. Because it's a workshop. It's not about the shop looking pretty, it's about it being functional and making pretty things come out of it! But wait: As this is my roomie's house, enter Mother.
"It looks unfinished."
"It's a workshop in a concrete bunker. It's going to be covered in sawdust."
"But it's wrong."
"There are better things to spend money and time on at the moment, plus, it doesn't matter."
"But it's two-toned."
"So what? It's not an entertainment space. It's a space for me to make a mess."
"But that would bother me."
"But you're not going to be using it. It doesn't bother me."
The conversation ended there...or so I thought (cue the overdramatic music)
It seems Mother went home and did nothing but moan and gripe and complain to her husband about how it...get this....HURTS RESALE VALUE.
1) ummmm...Concrete bunker/workshops under porches DO NOT SELL HOUSES. Kitchens sell houses. Yards sell houses. School districts and communities sell houses. Concrete bunker/workshops are bonuses that are kind of like gravy, but they do NOT sell houses.
2) really, there's nothing better to do with your time then complain about a paint color? I'm SOOOOOOOOOOO glad that THIS takes precedence over anything else. I mean - I was getting worried there for a while! First-world problems.
3) WHY ARE WE THINKING ABOUT RESALE VALUE???? The house was just bought! OK, think about resale value when redesigning/updating the kitchen (see point #1about kitchens selling houses) but really??
Enter Father - who is now mightly purturbed that Mother will not shut up about this, nor will she let it go. He just doesn't want to hear it anymore. I don't blame him. I would cure it with a "Oh well, what's done is done, put your big-girl pants on and deal with it." This is not his solution. His solution is to tell roomie that the workshop needs to be repainted. And roomie does it.
Now, if a man's home is his castle, the workshop in the home should be considered the chapel. You do not mess with it without written permission, unless he asks you to. It is sacred. It is set up so that he can work in it the way he needs to. My shop was already in place. Tools were already hanging on toolboards. Storage had been created and was being used. My workshop...my chapel...was defiled. Roomie lost a day of productivity. I lost several hours, and will lose more when I put it all back. I am not pleased. In fact, I'm well beyond angered at this moment...and this happened a couple days ago.
Luckily, I received some of the oddest news ever yesterday, so I simply must share with you all. MY father, the Map King of the East Coast....has purchased a GPS device for use when traveling. Now, this is a man who taught his children how to read maps using topographical maps. Not only did we know what turn to take, we knew that it was around that bend and over that rise. It was rather difficult when I went to school, because I was asking where the hills were, and the teachers had no answers for me. But my father never goes anywhere without a road atlas in the car. Every route is thoroughly vetted, explored, and known before he gets in the car. Weather patterns of the area are watched like a hawk eyes a foul wind - wary and concerned about the "just in case" factor. Always alert and aware. I have watched him look at maps at highway stops so he knew where we were - EVEN THOUGH WE HAD NOT TURNED OFF THE ROAD! In short, the man lives by his maps. He's a civil engineer - this makes a lot of sense. Buying a GPS system??????
Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.!!!!!!!!!!!!!
On top of his superior internal guidence system of map-reading that comes pre-loaded with the engineer, the man HATES - and I'm talking about with the heat of 1,000 suns here - absolutely HATES to travel. His wanderlust got lost. He plans trips around town counter-clockwise so he never has to turn left! On top of that, he's not really a "gadget guy." If it's a tool with an actual purpose, ok, he'll buy it and use it. BUT, it's rarely without weighing it out on his head whether there's an actual need or not. My father travels known routes to visit his children or other relatives, and he does that only rarely. There are only two possible reasons I can come up with:
1) THIS is his midlife crisis purchase. Which, if it is....OK, there are a lot worse things he could do!
2) This is some newly-formed sadistic ploy to keep everyone around him guessing while he just laughs and snickers quietly to himself.
OR SECRET OPTION 3) He's buying his granddaughter a car when she turns 16 next year, and it will come equiped with a GPS system. I really hope my niece is reading this!
My father using a GPS?? The terrorists have finally won.
All Right. That's all from me. I will have a few people post some updates for me while I'm gone this weekend, and of course, I shall blog all about the epic awesomeness of the ride afterwards - for it will be epically awesome. Take care, everyone, and of course:
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
Speaking of moving...I'm in the middle of one, and like all moves, there is both pleasure and pain. The house I'm going to is in need of some updates, though, and so there are some general repairs and upgrades that need to be made. This is always expected - the "perfect house" doesn't exist until you make it perfect, after all. One of the bonuses of this new place is that I get my own workshop, which is a concrete bunker under a porch about the size of a single car garage. It's nice. It's dry. It will work. BUT, half the walls are underground, so, in the interest of keeping it dry, I bought a can of dry-loc and painted the walls. Now, they were white, and the dry-loc was grey. So - in a concrete bunker that is a woodshop - there was a two-tone paintjob. Why? Because it doesn't exatcly matter, that's why!!!! It could be purple and I won't care. It could be bare block and I'll be ok. Because it's a workshop. It's not about the shop looking pretty, it's about it being functional and making pretty things come out of it! But wait: As this is my roomie's house, enter Mother.
"It looks unfinished."
"It's a workshop in a concrete bunker. It's going to be covered in sawdust."
"But it's wrong."
"There are better things to spend money and time on at the moment, plus, it doesn't matter."
"But it's two-toned."
"So what? It's not an entertainment space. It's a space for me to make a mess."
"But that would bother me."
"But you're not going to be using it. It doesn't bother me."
The conversation ended there...or so I thought (cue the overdramatic music)
It seems Mother went home and did nothing but moan and gripe and complain to her husband about how it...get this....HURTS RESALE VALUE.
1) ummmm...Concrete bunker/workshops under porches DO NOT SELL HOUSES. Kitchens sell houses. Yards sell houses. School districts and communities sell houses. Concrete bunker/workshops are bonuses that are kind of like gravy, but they do NOT sell houses.
2) really, there's nothing better to do with your time then complain about a paint color? I'm SOOOOOOOOOOO glad that THIS takes precedence over anything else. I mean - I was getting worried there for a while! First-world problems.
3) WHY ARE WE THINKING ABOUT RESALE VALUE???? The house was just bought! OK, think about resale value when redesigning/updating the kitchen (see point #1about kitchens selling houses) but really??
Enter Father - who is now mightly purturbed that Mother will not shut up about this, nor will she let it go. He just doesn't want to hear it anymore. I don't blame him. I would cure it with a "Oh well, what's done is done, put your big-girl pants on and deal with it." This is not his solution. His solution is to tell roomie that the workshop needs to be repainted. And roomie does it.
Now, if a man's home is his castle, the workshop in the home should be considered the chapel. You do not mess with it without written permission, unless he asks you to. It is sacred. It is set up so that he can work in it the way he needs to. My shop was already in place. Tools were already hanging on toolboards. Storage had been created and was being used. My workshop...my chapel...was defiled. Roomie lost a day of productivity. I lost several hours, and will lose more when I put it all back. I am not pleased. In fact, I'm well beyond angered at this moment...and this happened a couple days ago.
Luckily, I received some of the oddest news ever yesterday, so I simply must share with you all. MY father, the Map King of the East Coast....has purchased a GPS device for use when traveling. Now, this is a man who taught his children how to read maps using topographical maps. Not only did we know what turn to take, we knew that it was around that bend and over that rise. It was rather difficult when I went to school, because I was asking where the hills were, and the teachers had no answers for me. But my father never goes anywhere without a road atlas in the car. Every route is thoroughly vetted, explored, and known before he gets in the car. Weather patterns of the area are watched like a hawk eyes a foul wind - wary and concerned about the "just in case" factor. Always alert and aware. I have watched him look at maps at highway stops so he knew where we were - EVEN THOUGH WE HAD NOT TURNED OFF THE ROAD! In short, the man lives by his maps. He's a civil engineer - this makes a lot of sense. Buying a GPS system??????
Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.!!!!!!!!!!!!!
On top of his superior internal guidence system of map-reading that comes pre-loaded with the engineer, the man HATES - and I'm talking about with the heat of 1,000 suns here - absolutely HATES to travel. His wanderlust got lost. He plans trips around town counter-clockwise so he never has to turn left! On top of that, he's not really a "gadget guy." If it's a tool with an actual purpose, ok, he'll buy it and use it. BUT, it's rarely without weighing it out on his head whether there's an actual need or not. My father travels known routes to visit his children or other relatives, and he does that only rarely. There are only two possible reasons I can come up with:
1) THIS is his midlife crisis purchase. Which, if it is....OK, there are a lot worse things he could do!
2) This is some newly-formed sadistic ploy to keep everyone around him guessing while he just laughs and snickers quietly to himself.
OR SECRET OPTION 3) He's buying his granddaughter a car when she turns 16 next year, and it will come equiped with a GPS system. I really hope my niece is reading this!
My father using a GPS?? The terrorists have finally won.
All Right. That's all from me. I will have a few people post some updates for me while I'm gone this weekend, and of course, I shall blog all about the epic awesomeness of the ride afterwards - for it will be epically awesome. Take care, everyone, and of course:
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
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