My First Century

Every so often in life, something momentous happens.  These events are even more remarkable when they're the result of your own blood, sweat, and tears.  Or at least your own sweat.  I sweat a LOT when I ride a bike in 88-degree heat, especially when I'm riding ONE HUNDRED MILES.  

To cut to the chase, it was hard, friends, very hard.  I asked myself more than once why I was putting myself through it.  I say with no exaggeration that my glutes have never worked as hard or been as sore as they were at the end of this ride.  Actually, I hurt all over and really wanted a massage.  Would it sound indecent to ask for just a butt massage?

My first century ride was a long time coming.  Year after year I'd set myself the goal of riding a century and year after year, I'd not train enough or let myself be intimidated by the triple-digit mileage or simply put it off.  Not so, 2013!

After an early morning full of delays, I finally set out, accompanied by three friends who quickly shot ahead of me.  They later waited until I caught up and then one of them, Joanne, rode with me nearly the entire time, even though she was clearly a much faster rider. 

"It's your first century," she said when I thanked them for waiting for me.  "I want to see you finish it."  It was an incredible act of friendship and solidarity for which I am extremely grateful.
 
The day started hazy and still but quickly turned hot, humid, and windy.  The route was flat and rural, clogged with 7,000 other avid cyclists of all shapes, sizes, and ages riding equally diverse bikes.  We passed random people out on their front lawns cheering us on and ringing cow bells.  Never underestimate the power of the cow bell.  

Miles 0-50 were pleasant.  Joanne and I chatted and admired the scenery.  I chewed on thick energy bars while I rode in an effort to keep my strength up during the 20 miles between rest stops.  We passed farms and fields and country churches of all denominations, rode through forests and occasional small towns.  We passed cyclists and were passed in turn by others churning their pedals in a steady cadence. 

Miles 50-64 were solely about getting to Assateague Island and the rest stop there.  It was in the parking lot next to the dunes--full sun with no shade, heat wafting up off the asphalt.  To get there, we had to ride over a bridge.  I whimpered when I saw the incline of the bridge, modest as it was.  The thought of exerting more effort when I was already so tired was almost too much.  Of course, when I actually started riding up the bridge, it wasn't difficult at all.  On the other side was a stretch of marshland leading to the beach.  I spotted a wild horse grazing in the distance.  

Once at the rest stop, we met up with the guys, downed a PBJ, and stretched our legs.  I was closing in on the upper limit of how many miles I'd ridden previously and I was more than a little nervous about what the next third of the race would bring.

Descending the bridge to Assateauge; me in front of the dunes at the rest stop; Assategue's wild marshland

Miles 64-100 were pure muscle pain and Little Engine-style "I think I can! I think I can!" self-pep talks.  Somewhere around mile 68, it started raining men--on my iPod, that is.  I turned on my On the Go playlist to distract myself from my aching legs until I caught up with Joanne, who had managed to get ahead with her swift pace. Throughout the ride, she pushed me to go faster than I otherwise would have.  Left to my own devices, I would have given in to the pain and slowed down, which ultimately would only have prolonged the agony.  When I got really tired, I tucked in behind her and focused on the motion of her feet pumping steadily round and round and round.  The rest of the world didn't matter, only the constant movement of the pedals--hers and mine--pushing us ever closer to the finish line.

The group forged ahead from the last rest stop, at mile 85, leaving me to spend a few more minutes gathering strength for the final stretch.  I ate some ice cream and a bagel, listened to the live band playing under a tent in the middle of a field behind a church.  I noted the father-daughter duo with matching jerseys coming towards the food tables.  The daughter looked like she was about 12 years old.  When I was 12, bikes were for riding around the neighborhood to get to your friends' houses, not for long-haul journeys just for the fun of it.  What was this sport called cycling? 

When I hit mile 90, I knew I had done something extraordinary.  I was entering truly uncharted territory.  The farthest I'd ever ridden before was 89 miles, and that only once, several years ago, unplanned. (Okay, I was trying to impress a boy.  Not recommended.)  From here on out, it was all new.  

Mile 90 was also when I began to feel that I really would finish this beastly ride.  Not that I'd had doubts about finishing before, but with only 10 miles to go, finishing suddenly felt more tangible. Only 10 more miles.  I could do 10 miles.  Ten miles is easy.  I was really going to complete this century thing!

At mile 94 I passed three people sitting in chairs on their front lawn, ringing cowbells for every cyclist who passed.  A huge sign next to them said, "You can do it, cyclists!  Only 6.5 miles to go!"  I waved and smiled and thanked them as I passed.  Wow, how that cow bell spurned me on!

A couple of miles later I came to a busy intersection where state troopers were directing traffic to allow the cyclists to pass through safely.  As I approached, I spotted one state trooper walking slowly and monitoring the riders.  

"Feel the burn!" I heard him shout.  "Come on, cyclists!  Finish strong!"  He was suddenly my own personal drill sergeant, pushing me to keep going, and it worked.

"Yes sir!" I thought.  "I will finish strong!"  

Suddenly, I felt more energy than I had for the past 30 miles.  The pain in my legs disappeared.  I started pedaling faster.  I shifted into a higher gear.  I passed other riders going up the incline of an overpass and surged ahead.  Now I was back in town, closing in on the finish.  The numbers on my odometer ticked closer to 100 with every pedal stroke and I saw signs and people pointing the way to the finish line a hundred yards ahead.  My friends were there on the sidelines waiting for me, waving and cheering.  I rode under the balloon banner, euphoric, completing my first century ride.

 

Total time: Eight hours.  Riding time: 6:37.  Just what I'd expected.  I was happy.

 

After the ride, when all the pedaling was over and I was putting things away in my car, I had a surreal moment of wondering if I'd really just accomplished this long-sought feat, or if it had just been a dream.  All the toil and muscle pain and sweat and saddle soreness, all the miles and rest stops and corn fields--did I really experience all that was in my memory?  It didn't seem now like it was really that hard or really that long, even though I knew it was.  My odometer and my sore muscles proved it.  

It's a funny thing about cycling.  You end up right back where you started, and yet not where you started at all, because those hard-earned miles change you a little bit.  You set off feeling hopeful, determined, energized, and maybe even a little bit apprehensive.  Miles later, you come back exhausted, hungry, and very, very smelly, but knowing with certainty that you have the power to go as far as the open road does, and even beyond it, as long as you keep pedaling.  

Oh, and don't forget to take along a cow bell.