Grime ride

As I sit back and reflect on my ride today from 25,000 feet above the crust of the earth, I wonder what I will discover as I pedal 340 miles from Raleigh to Washington DC in 25 short days. 25 days. Wow. I realize the scale of a number is reflective of the thing that number refers to. 25 Days is such a short time. Just over three weeks. Three weeks to finish training for a ride that is the equivalent of running three and a half marathons in a row. I lean back in my cushy airline seat and revel in its apparent softness compared to the hard leather and titanium saddle that seems to be the nemesis of my backside.

Today, I rode with Ilene and Sondra who are part of my team for the Tour. All week we fretted the weather; which has canceled so many training rides for us. The weather we ride through when it is safe. Too many times the sky has wreaked havoc on our plans to ride by providing lightning and thunder to accompany the rain.

We triumph over the rain, which doesn’t fall today, to ride 60 miles in just under 5 hours. Less than a century ago, you couldn’t ride a horse that distance in a day. Our legs churn in rhythmic song. A steady tattoo of breaths in and out. Precision made machines carry our bodies across wet pavement and remnants of leaves and twigs from surrounding trees. The chains whir across the cogs that comprise the rear cassette on the back wheel; an alien sound in the peace of nature. Yet, one that is strangely comforting. Each bike has a unique signature sound that allows us to know where each of us is on the road in relation to the others.

Our legs pump up and down as they propel the pedals around the circle. “Full Circle”, it’s a mantra in my head as I seek to find the perfect cadence to revolve the pedals in harmony with my legs as they strain to climb the hills before me. And to relieve the lactic acid from my muscles as I descend the other side (sometimes miles away.) My tires touch the road over less surface area than a 25-cent piece. On the slick road, the bald tires are my safety net that help me cling to the pavement as I corner and lean my bike over in angles that seem to defy the laws of physics. Yet out of each turn I’m able to stand and accelerate away in confidence.

Thankfully, my ribs are not bothering me today with constant stings of pain as they were when I awoke to the shrill sound of my alarm telling me to rise and dress for another day in the saddle. For this small blessing, I repeatedly smile. It took just a moment to crash, but I’ve spent the last few weeks reliving it (or at least being reminded of it.)

As the miles accumulate, I think about the distance we have traveled and the grime I’m covered with. I can’t recall the last time I was so filthy. The bikes in front of me in combination with my own wheels throw up a continual spray; which slowly covers me with minute specks of dirt, small pieces of dead leaves and bark. At one point I lean over as I climb a hill to scratch an itch on my lower shin. It leaves a gleaming white stripe across my skin. When I remove my socks I will have a perfect little line around my ankle with the lower side the pale white of my skin (proof of the lack of sunny training days) the other a gray black soot color.

At our turnaround point, a 7-Eleven which carries a sandwich which Ilene ironically calls “heaven”, I notice a pair of women watching me stretch and for a moment my mind tells me they like my legs (which are toning nicely I must say) until I look down and see the grit that covers them. Oh, well, it was a thought. Haha.

Two and a half hours later, we coasted into Ilene’s driveway, after what seemed like a brutal climb up the three blocks from the main road, but was actually a gentle incline. I looked down to check my computer to see we’d averaged 15.5 miles per hour over the course of the ride (60.28 miles according to the same computer). A comparable ride on day two of the Tour would see us in the saddle for over 10 hours as we work toward the 120 miles scheduled that day. For comparison, Lance Armstrong rode the entire 2,100 + miles of the 2001 Tour De France (21 days) at a pace that averaged more than 32 miles per hour to win the race. Next time you get in your car, roll down the window, set your speed at 32 and stick your head out the window…Now imagine seeing the road beneath you flying by at that pace with a pair of tires less than an inch wide between you and it.

Better yet, try it at 48 MPH and imagine me on bike going down a hill at that speed leaning over my handlebars to coax out every bit of speed I can find. (So far, the top speed I’ve hit on my bike is 48.7 and you wanna talk adrenaline rush, add a blind corner on a narrow road with a car coming in the opposite lane. WooHoo doesn’t even come close.

But I diverge from my little story, which needs a conclusion. I climbed off my bike and squatted in an umpire’s position to stretch my weary legs. A wan smile or a wry grin peered out from the grit across my face as I felt the tightness ebb out of my quads. I rolled my neck to relieve the tension across the top of my shoulders.

I look down and comment, “I’ve been out mountain biking in the mud rather than pedaling around the countryside on paved roads and trails”.

It’s 3 o’clock on the nose. Ilene and Sondra have delivered me back at the precise minute I requested. I have a flight to catch. (One I barely made, but that is a whole different story.)