Scenic Route

Not only did I survive the Great Finger Lakes Bicycle Tour, I thrived.

I enjoyed this past weekend so much, I’m already planning to do the GFLBT next year. And the next BikeJournal Reunion, wherever it may be held. Although the proposal by Club Hypoxia in Colorado (Motto: “Oxygen or Altitude—Pick One”) already has me gasping and looking for blood doping doctors. “Hello, I’d like a bunch more red blood cells please.”

Pics, BTW, are in the gallery

When he picked me up on Friday morning, John remarked that I had a awful lot of baggage. I had a duffle for me, a backpack of tools and repair parts for Yellow Bike, another backpack full of medical supplies, granola bars, apples and oranges, then my sleeping bag and pillows, plus the TailRider and map case for on the bike.

I didn’t think it was that much, especially since he was bringing an entire spare bike.

The drive down was relatively uneventful. It would have been nice if the Southern Tier Bicycling Club had sent us directions to the campsite. Even so, it was only two stop in the Watkins Glen State Park to find the right place.

Arriving, we found the BikeJournal gang right away. They had staked-out prime real estate in the campground and erected a banner. There was some snafu with the park over unlocking the cabins, but we got settled in soon enough.

Soon it was time for the Friday night pre-dinner “warm-up” ride. It was billed as an “Easy, 18-mile ride from [the campground] to the climb the Sugar Hill Fire Tower.” I’d forgotten the we cyclists are sandbaggers.

From Cycling Translations:
 
“It’s not that hilly”
 
Translation: This climb lasts longer than a presidential campaign. Be careful on the steep sections or you’ll fall over — backwards. You only have a 39×23 low gear? Here’s the name of my knee surgeon.

This was a nine-mile climb to the base of Sugar Hill. Yes, nine miles of climbing to get to the climb. In the first half-mile I was sucking wind like a Hoover. Mercifully, it eased up a couple of times, but never lost the relentless grab for altitude.

And did I mention the weather? It was hot, over 90 degrees, and sticky, the humidity was so thick everything had a blue cast. Wind, some would have been nice, even a headwind would have felt good. Somewhere along the line, as I was grinding along in my granny gear, I began wondering at what point does temperature begin to drop with altitude. It never did.

When we finally stopped at the base of Sugar Hill, I downed one water bottle in almost a single gulp. Rivers of sweat poured down my face, arms and back. It took fifteen minutes for the panting to subside. And most everyone else was feeling it too.

Even so, I was in the first group to arrive. I felt good about that, even if I had my doubts about the entire rest of the weekend. If this was an easy, warm-up ride, what must the more challenging regular rides be like?

Now, just so you don’t get the wrong impression, getting to the top of that climb wasn’t an expression of fitness or even machismo. It was fear. Pure fear. I was afraid of getting dropped, then getting lost.

Ride maps show where you’re supposed to go, but don’t show much else, so if you miss a turn, or turn before you’re supposed to, you’re off the map. Plus, even without sweat running down my face, I can’t see the damned map with my sunglasses on. They’re my distance prescription only.

The only way I could not get lost, was to not get dropped, or at the very least, keep the riders who already knew the route in sight. And the only way to do that, was to crank like a mutherfucker, suck wind like a Hoover, and damn the consequences.

By the time we stopped, I wasn’t even aware of my arm, hip or other injuries. All I was aware of was my heart pounding so hard it affected my vision and my ability to hold the camera, and of my lungs which I thought might do a better job outside my body if I could swing ‘em around a bit to catch some breeze.

Boy it felt good to stop.

If the nine-mile climb was the hardest work I’d ever done on a bike, the nine-mile descent was the most fun. Although I found it’s impossible to scream, “Wheeee!” for nine miles straight.

Even so, I took it easy because of new wheels, new brakes and my injuries from earlier in the week. I wasn’t yet used to the feel of the wheels and brakes, and screaming descents are tests of each. Plus, I was wearing my wrist splint which made operating the left levers (including the front brake) a bit challenging.

During the weekend I’d descend Ellison Road three times. This first time, I kept it down to 32.5 MPH. Two days later, more confident with the bike, feeling better from my injuries, and familiar with the road, I did the same descent at 42.5 MPH. I could have gone faster still, but there’s a sharp 90° left at the bottom, which sort of limits potential velocity.

The last half-mile or so into camp was another screaming descent, this time through a shady curvy section that, in the mist, looked like it had been lifted from a magazine. We passed through a couple of noticeably cool patches on this descent. The women I was riding with at the time noticed too. Tempting as it was, we decided it was just too steep to justify riding back up so we could descend through them again.

Little did I know, I’d make that very climb twice the following day…

A post-ride shower was never quite so welcome as it was Friday night after just 18.35 miles. Ride time of 1:30 made the average speed just 12.1 MPH despite lots of high-speed coasting. It was roughly an hour up here, and a half-hour down back.

And boy did I chow down in the dining hall. I made two passes at the salad bar before hitting the main meal line three times. Only then did I sit back for some conversation. And actually, I was so tired, both from the climb and from the short night before, thanks to my neighbors having a party until 4:30am, that I don’t remember much else about Friday. I washed my jersey and shorts and went to bed early.

Oh yeah, they kept issuing severe weather warnings, including a tornado watch. We got a thunderstorm right around dusk, and rain through the middle of the night.

Saturday morning

I awoke before dawn on Saturday. Between my sleep disorders and anxiety over the day’s ride, there was no point in even trying to get more sleep. Instead, I suited up and rode off to scout the first few miles of Saturday’s ride.

I’d originally planned to take the “big” ride, the 74-mile “Four Falls Tour.” The problem was that between my arm and feeling a little gun-shy from the “easy” ride the night before, I wasn’t sure I could make it. The 74-mile ride was a loop, with no real bailout point.

On the other hand, the 51-mile “Augie’s Ambling Adventure” was sort of lollypop-shaped—a 22-mile loop at the other end of a 15-mile out-and-back stick. I could always bail out at the end of the out-and-back if it seemed like I wouldn’t make it through the loop.

Trouble is, it began with a seven-mile climb, parts of which I knew were steep since I’d descended them the night before.

There’s no way to find out other than to try, so I fired up my lights and rode up to the rising sun.

The sunrise was marvelous—easily the highlight of my weekend. Everyone else was still sleeping and I had it all to myself. The pics I took, nice as they are, just didn’t capture it. What made it especially nice is that the best views were right at the top of steep sections where it was nice to take a break anyway.

For five miles I Hoovered up, stopped, watched, took pictures, before Hoovering up the next section. Next I knew, I’d met my morning goal. I’d promised myself I’d do five miles or 30 minutes, whichever came first. I turned around at 5.11 miles in 28 minutes and change, switched to my sunglasses and rode the five miles down non-stop. Wheeee!

It was still over an hour before breakfast when I hurtled through camp, headlights blazing and secure in the knowledge I could make it on the day’s ride.

This entry was posted on Friday, June 15th, 2007 at 9:05 pm EDT and is filed under Bike. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.