Amish and Corn Fields and Bikes! Oh My!

My arms were shivering.

Or they would have been if Linda hadn't loaned me her fleece-lined jacket.  For all my obsessive planning, early packing, and double-checking of my gear, I neglected to bring a jacket, a long-sleeved jersey, or arm-warmers.  Somehow that weather forecast of early-morning temps in the high 50s and low 60s didn't register when I was making my DO NOT FORGET list for this trip.

Luckily there was a guy selling biking gear on a little cardboard table who just happened to have some arm warmers that fit.  I nearly kissed him from relief.  No, not really.  He wasn't that cute.

The morning was clear and crisp.  Linda and I had both slept poorly in our hotel beds and took awhile to shake off our grogginess.  We took our time getting ready, pulling on our padded shorts and fingerless gloves, pumping up our tires and stuffing extra food into our jersey pockets.  All around us in the parking lot, other cyclists were doing the same.  We smeared sun screen over our faces, arms, and legs, and pinned ride numbers to the back of each others' jerseys.

Pre-ride, with my new arm-warmers

At last we made our way to the starting line and joined the hundreds of other riders gradually leaking out of Dover's Legislative Green onto its city streets, where policemen were directing traffic to let us pass, and then into the blissfully flat Delaware farmland beyond.  

We kept a consistent, fast pace, faster than I've ever ridden on a long-distance ride, easily overtaking other riders who clogged the street.  We wouldn't have impressed pro-cyclist Bradley Wiggins but I was thrilled by our speed.  Linda, I could tell, is a fast rider.  She's used to mountain bike races and triathlons where you have to bolt out of the gate and give it all you've got.  Nevertheless, she hung with me and paced herself.

By the first rest stop at mile 24, it was warm enough to peel off the arm-warmers.  The Baptist church's parking lot was packed with at least 300 cyclists milling about and a line for the port-a-potties that was 20+ people long.  We gulped down PBJ sandwiches and a banana while stretching our legs. 

The first rest stop

Setting out again, miles of corn and potato fields flew past us.  Dozens of small churches sat quietly, waiting for Sunday meetings.  The hoards of cyclists thinned out until we had the road nearly to ourselves.  We breathed in fragrant, pungent country air and tried to avoid squashing the plethora of fuzzy caterpillars making their way across the road every few dozen feet.

We passed Amish children sitting in their front yards, watching the spectacle.  The boys wore matching light-blue button-down shirts and suspenders while the girls wore plain cotton dresses in bright colors with white bonnets on their heads, the ties hanging down by their cheeks.  They smiled and waved at us as we passed.

At the second rest stop, a guy at the medic station was being treated for abrasions on his cheeks, lip, and chin--the result of a massive face plant a few miles back.  He said his teeth were numb.  That's right, his teeth were numb.  The nurses worried that he had done serious damage to the bones in his face, including his eye socket and mandible, and urged him to let a support vehicle take him to the finish.  Though he could barely talk for his wounded lip, he insisted he was well enough to ride his bike to the finish and then drive himself to the ER.  Ah, the stubbornness of cyclists!

Miles 44-52 were a struggle.  My legs felt sluggish and we pushed against pockets of wind.  The shot blocks I had snagged from Linda during the first half of the ride made my stomach cramp from the concentrated rush of sugar. I sucked down more water to push it through my system, hoping my tummy would stop clenching.  I also had to remind myself to keep drinking so my legs wouldn't cramp up.  Unfortunately, all that water did nothing to stop my saddle area from going numb, which was arguably worse than either stomach or leg cramps.

And then we were in the home stretch!  Farmland transitioned to suburbs and suburbs became commercial streets.  The odometer kept ticking upward, upward, closing in on our target distance of 62 miles.  My nether regions were numb and my legs weren't too happy either.  I really wanted a nap.  I ignored my body's protests and kept going, rhythmically pedaling to propel myself forward no matter what.  At mile 62.7, we crossed the finish line, smiling for the photographer who snapped our pictures to welcome us.  Suddenly it was over and we'd barely registered where we'd been.  We were supremely conscious of the miles we'd traveled but not the space those miles occupied.  All we knew is we had worked hard and achieved something terrific.

Every cyclist knows that at least half the pleasure of riding long distances is in the post-ride meal.  Today was no exception.  Tents with a barbecue feast were waiting for us on the Legislative Green: pulled pork and chicken, potato salad steeped in mayo, coleslaw, baked beans, and cookies.  Sitting down on a rickety folding chair to eat never felt so good. 

Getting ready to devour the post-ride lunch

My nose is now slightly sun-burned, my body weary, and my cycling clothes in need of some strong laundry detergent.  It's hard to explain why something so physically demanding and even downright uncomfortable at times is still so enjoyable.  And yet, it lifts the soul.  Endorphins probably have a lot to do with it.

I saw a poster last week that encapsulates why I continue to put myself and my body through days like this one.  It said, "You can't buy happiness but you can by a bike and that's pretty close."  Indeed it is.