Unfinished Brevet Business

I’ve been battling a nasty cold this week (probably bronchitis but I’m too dumb to see the doctor) so there hasn’t been much riding.  This gives me a chance to provide a brief update to last weekend’s brevet, including two pictures taken by DC Randonneurs’ George Moore as I reached the crest of the final ascent on Etlan Road (about Mile 62).

At least the trees looked good.

In this photo I am wearing my new helmet cover, which I purchased for this ride.  There was a chance of rain and the morning temps were supposed to be cool.  As it turned out, there was no rain but the cover still kept my head warm without needing to wear a skull cap.

I am also proudly wearing my clear lenses, which I swapped out later in the day for darker ones.  I kept the lenses in my saddle bag and it was much nicer than bringing another set of glasses or doing without during the night portions.

Historical Marker Segment!

I had a bumper crop of historical markers.  Truth be told, I pedaled past several others but I simply couldn’t stop at every single one.  I was moving slowly enough as it was.

I came across the first marker in the early morning light (Lord knows what I passed in the darkness before this).  It details the story of a one-room schoolhouse that once stood in this location.  The sign reads as if the school still stands, but I could find no evidence of it.  Perhaps in better light it would be obvious to me where it is.

About a mile away from the previous sign was this one, describing the relief of Union General George McClellan at a site four miles from the sign.  Why they couldn’t be bothered to put the sign closer to the actual location is curious.  I sense the hidden hand of the local chamber of commerce.

Also in Marshal is this sign, describing an event six miles away.  Very curious.  One can only imagine what different course the war would have taken if the 9th NY Cavalry actually captured General Lee.

Right next to the above sign is a classic, erected in 1928.  It’s interesting (to me, anyway) to see the basic design for these signs has been unchanged for 85 years.  It must be said that the authors were a little less wordy in the earlier versions of these signs, which must have been far more difficult to produce than today’s versions.

Below is another classic, also erected in 1928 near Boswell’s Tavern (Mile 110).  Nobody refers to Marquis de Lafayette very much these days, but once upon a time he was a superstar, worthy of remembrance on things as mundane as when he opened a road.

Our final sign is much newer, thus it has more words.  It is an homage to FDR’s Civilian Conservation Corps, which gave jobs to unemployed workers.  The fellows in this particular company came from Pennsylvania, where they did all manner of odd jobs in the local forests.  Why the CCC couldn’t find forests to clear for these men in Pennsylvania is not addressed in the marker.

Warrenton 300k Brevet

Let me just say that waking up at 3:00 AM for a bicycle ride is not the sort of thing I normally do, but that is precisely what was required in order to be at the Hampton Inn in Warrenton for the registration and bicycle inspection in the DC Randonneurs 300K Brevet.

Instructions at the start

There was no sign of the morning sun when we shoved off at 5:00 AM.  There were 31 riders (including those riding on tandems).  It was a chilly 48 degrees and a brisk breeze blew into our faces as we headed north toward I-66.  After a few miles, we strung out over several hundred yards.  The tail lights on the bikes in front of  me made for a pleasant sight as the cyclists pedaled off into the dark.

The group broke up quickly.  There was a small band of us still together when I noticed everyone stopping on the side of the road.  It turns out it was a secret control.  Randonneurs carry a brevet card with them and log their arrival at “controls” which show they actually were on the course and on schedule.  Just to keep things super honest, the ride organizers will occasionally throw in a control that is not announced beforehand.  I was the last person to line up to get my card signed and by the time I put it away so I wouldn’t lose it, I looked up and I was alone.  Off I went in the faintly growing light of the new day.

A rare scene on I-66 – almost no traffic

After pedalling through the sleeping town of Marshal and crossing over a nearly deserted I-66 I settled into my rhythm on Cresthill Drive, which would feature a series of rollers gradually leading me uphill toward the Appalachian Mountains.  The scenery was fantastic and I was happy to be handling the climbing chores early in the ride.  I came across a fellow named Dave, who became my companion off and on for the next forty miles.  It’s always nice to strike up a conversation with a fellow cyclist and Dave has been at this for many years.  It was good to pick his brain.

Dave is the fellow in blue

I tried to pace myself as we went through small towns with names like Flint Hill, Washington, Hawlin and Peola Mills.  Taking it easy and eating/drinking properly would be the key to getting through this day, I thought.  The last of the major (well, major to me anyway) climbing would finish just before our first official control in the town of Syria, around Mile 63.

I trudged up three miles of the final climb to be met by the ride organizer, George, who was happily snapping pictures of each cyclist as the reached the crest.  I was not at my most radiant moods but I gathered myself as best I could and posed for a picture.

A windy mile long descent into Syria was fun.  I then pulled into Control #1 – a convenience store of the type that one can only find in the country, preferably in a place with no cell service like Syria.  It had no bathroom but the old “store” across the street – which was open and appeared to be drying hundreds of beets from the ceiling – had one.  It reminded me of restroom facilities I have seen in places like Haiti and other war-torn parts of the world.  It was not hygienic, is what I am saying, and I shall leave it at that.

It was starting to warm up a bit and it was time to shed a layer of clothing.  I removed the helmet cover which I had bought specifically for this ride.  I swapped out my full finger gloves for half finger versions and I very cleverly popped the clear lenses out of my glasses and put some darker ones in.  In short, I felt like I knew what I was doing and I belonged out here.  It’s nice to feel prepared.

The next fifteen miles were a hoot.  The road was downhill, away from the mountains, and it ran along a stream which was quite pretty to ride beside.  My apologies for not taking any shots of that.  I was too busy horsing around  with self portraits and gimmicky photos like the one below.  I did manage to take a shot of the road, sans stream.

Lunch

All good things come to an end and this pleasant portion was no exception.  Eventually, some climbing was involved.  I was up to 80 miles now, making this the second longest ride of the year for me.  Knowing that I had another 108 miles to go was sobering.  It was approaching noon and I had been at this for seven hours now.  I planned a lunch in the town of Gordonsville at Mile 101 and it couldn’t have come soon enough.  I was knackered.  I pulled into a Subway sandwich shop that had several Randonneurs finishing up their meals.  I texted a pic of myself to my wife, who wrote back, “You look tired.”  She’s a very observant person.

It was good to see some of the gang and we chatted a bit over our food.  It turns out two of the other four people there were named Steve, in addition to myself.  I held a quick vote and agreed it would be easier for everyone if all club members just went by the name Steve.  Remembering names is too difficult when you’re tired.

Even fewer layers

Lunch had precisely the effect I hoped for.  The rest and the meal did wonders for my energy levels.  I shortly came upon Louisa Road, a delightful gradual downhill with the wind at my back.  For seven miles, I flew along at speeds over 20 mph.  Let  me say this about the my Madone.  It is absolutely the wrong bike for long distance rides.  The tires are too thin.  The geometry is too aggressive.  The carbon frame makes attaching anything such as lights, fenders, or bags problematic.  The gearing is all wrong (most of the Randonneurs I talk to favor triple cranks with their better ability to climb).  But the Madone was built for speed and that is what I was doing now.  I reeled in several riders who simply didn’t have the top end I had due to fatter tires, heavier loads or whatnot.  It was fun going fast, even for just a bit.

Estabished in 1890!

Eventually, the downhill became an uphill and the route turned northward and back into the wind.  At Mile 120, we stopped at yet another lonely country store near the town of Oakland for a control.  Inside I found three local men holding court near the front.  They were sitting in chairs, passing the time of day amongst themselves and moving the conversation quickly to whatever passing thing occurred.  They were a slice of Americana is what they were.  They had just finished interrogating a local lady who regaled them with the story of the 5K run she completed earlier that day when they turned their attention to us.  When they learned we would be riding almost 200 miles today, their reaction was as predictable as it was complimentary.  Most people, even fellow cyclists, have a hard time imagining cycling such a distance.  It’s always a pleasant moment to bask in their admiration.  I then stepped back outside and stared at my bike.  We had another 68 miles to travel together and it was time to get after it.

Northward we went until we hit our final control in the town of Orange (Mile 133).  The cue sheet was a little confusing to me with several quick turns in the small town.  Fortunately, I chose wisely each time and made it out of there with no navigational challenges.  Shortly outside of town, I turned on to a road named Clarks Mountain Road.  As a rule, I try to avoid roads with the word “mountain” in their name.  This was a somewhat tame affair and it afforded some nice pictures in the late afternoon.

I should mention I was once again alone at this point.  After Orange, I was pretty much by myself for the last 55 miles.  I wanted to move as fast as possible while the sun was still in the sky and everyone else seemed more comfortable with riding at night.  At Mile 153, I stopped briefly to say goodbye to BOB (“Bright Orange Ball” – an Army nickname for the sun).

By this time I was back in my cold weather gear, clear lenses in my glasses, reflective vest/ankle bracelets on, and lights on.  I sailed downhill toward the Rappahannock River in the gathering gloom and could maintain a good pace since I knew these roads well enough from previous brevets and my own excursions.  At the Rappahannock, I paused for a final picture at dusk.

This was Mile 164.  I had long since past my personal best for distance on a single ride but was feeling rather good considering the circumstances.  That would shortly change as I was about to experience night cycling while extremely fatigued.

Remember those pretty country roads in the pictures above?  If not, please take a moment to refresh your memory.  See how they have no markings or even a shoulder?  See how there are no buildings to give you any ambient light?  Now imagine roads like this cloaked in darkness.  That was what I was cycling through, trying to find my way home.  I fully expected to be struck dead by a passing drunk driver (or inattentive teen) at any moment.  If I was somehow able to survive that, it would almost be guaranteed that I would become completely lost and not realize my mistake until I turned up in West Virginia or some such place.

Compounding my anxiety was the fact my cue sheet warned me three turnings were easy to miss.  What joy.  I crawled at speeds well under 10 mph, desperately searching for hidden roads while trying to make sure every passing car – most of whom blinded me with their brights turned on – did not kill me.  Compounding matters was my increasing exhaustion.  I had managed my pace and nutrition well, but the fact remains I had been cycling for about sixteen hours after getting up at 3:00 AM.  I had difficulty remembering the cue sheet instructions, which caused me to pause at each turning and triple check them with a flashlight to ensure I was still on track.  It was slow, tedious, and stressful work.

Since I am typing these words, it is obvious that I survived the ordeal, although I can’t say I am excited to repeat it.  I was so nervous at one point I pulled off to the side to wait for other cyclists.  After ten minutes, nobody arrived so I shoved off again on my own.  I was even treated to a .3 mile stretch of gravel at almost the very end.  Loyal readers will know that I detest gravel roads and my skinny tires gave me plenty of excitement as I slowly made my way over the ruts and stones.

I checked in with a finishing time of 17:40.  After sharing some pizza and some stories with the Randonneurs who were still there, I made my way home, driving on roads similar to ones I had just cycled and wondered what my reaction would be if I stumbled across a cyclist clinging to the edge of the road.  Shock and exasperation, most likely.  I made it home around midnight and quickly found my bed, 21 hours after the whole affair began that morning.  I had traveled 188.8 miles, climbed 10,600 feet, and burned 7,750 calories. It was certainly a day to remember!

Marine Corps 17.75K Run

The year’s first running event went off without a hitch yesterday.  I am happy to report that I finished the race without mishap and now have exclusive access to register for this October’s Marine Corps Marathon – an event which typically sells out in less than three hours.

Rather than the Garmin GPS snapshot I typically use for ride reports, I have posted the race’s course map so readers may quickly discern the elevation data along with road names and distances.  No thank you’s are necessary.

I have difficulty writing compelling reports about running events, so those of you who are routinely bored by my cycling reports are forewarned – this will be worse.  Running events don’t have nearly as many topics to consider when telling a tale.  Consider the distance – eleven miles may be a fairly lengthy route to run but I routinely gloss over longer distances with a mere sentence or two, or perhaps no mention at all.  Now I am obliged to regale you with each turn and dip of the road.  I am certain you are thrilled at the possibility.

The shorter length is not the only challenge for your humble scribe.  Unlike cycling events, there is very little chatter between participants due to the enormous effort spent on breathing.  There is little in the way of race strategy; there’s no drafting.  There are no breaks for enjoyable meals and the conversations that they frequently generate.  It is difficult to bring a camera or to even admire scenic vistas.  Alas, the run – at least for me – is basically just a lot of running and hoping I don’t get injured.  Although I enjoy the event, I don’t think there is much of interest in me relating to you how I ran as fast as I could and then finished.

Having properly warned you, here goes nothing.

Posting the colors at the start (images taken from the event’s Flikr page)

This race started a mere five miles from my house, which made the drive to the start a pleasant change of pace.  Spring was still frustratingly absent and the temperature at the start was 31 degrees.  This was a relatively small field of runners – only 2,500 due to the narrowness of the course in several points.  Because every finisher gains an automatic entry in the Marine Corps Marathon, it is extremely popular.  Registration sold out in 40 minutes.  After a short opening ceremony featuring the posting of the colors, a prayer, and the national anthem, a starter’s pistol was fired and we were off onto Route 234.

We ran up a gentle rise for 2.5 miles, the men and women of the Prince William County Police Department guarding the intersections en route.  It is at these early points in any run where I quickly do a check of my various maladies and determine if everything is settling in properly: inflamed nerve under toes on right foot, plantar fasciitis on right foot, right ankle, right calf, left calf, and left knee cap all were functioning properly.  Oddly enough, a pain soon developed on the side of my left foot.  That was a new one for me and it mercifully went away by the time we turned into Prince William Forest Park, where we would spend the rest of our race.

Trail running

The first mile inside the park was on a forest trail which consisted mostly of dirt and stones.  I don’t do a lot of trail running so this was a new experience for me.  I can’t say it was particularly eventful other than I understood every step was an opportunity to twist my ankle on the uneven surface.  That didn’t happen to me and I was pleased to be able to catch up with The Diesel who (as usual) scampered ahead of me on the rather large hill leading up to Scenic Drive.

Scenic Drive

Scenic Drive was a pleasant paved road in the middle of the forest.  It should be noted that it was very quiet due to the fact there were absolutely no spectators on the route.  Logistics would not permit anyone besides race volunteers to watch the event from anywhere other than the start and finish lines.  The only motivation came in the form of signs the Marines had placed along the route, with phrases designed to capture the “hardcore” spirit for the Marines such as, “I’ve seen pond water move faster” and “Quite whining.”  I can’t say they were very motivational for me.  Fortunately, I was not relying on placards for my motivation.

After a pleasant three-mile descent to Mile 8, it was time to climb two very nasty hills (see the elevation guide on the map above).  I remember riding these hills a few years ago on my bike.  My thought at the time was that they were quite steep.  My thought on the run was that if they were steep on my bicycle, they’d be hell on foot.  I was right.  My 8:30/mile pace slowed to a mere 10:30/mile at this point.  Then the road leveled off and we once again moved to a very gravelly trail for the final mile.

As is typical for the Marine events, this final mile featured another hill.

A crowded and narrow scene at the finish

In the end, I crossed the finish line with a time of 1:40:35, earning me a respectable if not spectacular 618th place out of 2,500 runners.  I quickly met up with my wife who finished a few seconds ahead of me and we stood in a lengthy line waiting for some water, Gatorade, and food.  We emerged on the far side of this tent and wandered about a post-race party which featured massage tents, some stretching rollers, more energy food stands, and a local radio station playing music.  Eventually we found what we were looking for – the tent that was issuing Finishers’ Coins and a password that allowed for early registration for the marathon.  Having secured these items, we beat a retreat to the buses which took us back to the starting line and our car.

We pulled into our driveway at 11:00 AM, a mere four hours after we left for the event.  This was a huge change from a typical cycling ride which guarantees an entire day of riding and traveling.  It was nice to have some time left in the day to do other things of interest.

As of this writing, I am happy to report no ill effects of the run.  I got through it in better shape than normal and at a pace which equaled runs of similar distance last year, despite far more hills and trails.  I’m off to a good start on the running portion of the season.  Cycling is doing ok, but I need to get some more miles in.  Eventually, I will need to put myself in some water and swim a bit, but that can wait for a while yet!

Paperwork

I learned today that the 2013 edition of Bike DC is cancelled because “[t]he restrictions and road blocks to getting permits from the National Park Service and some DC agencies have made it impracticable to continue this event.”

Well, isn’t that a fine “How do you do?”

This is disappointing as my wife and I were looking forward to the event.  It has a unique combination of moderate distance (about 30 miles) and fantastic scenery that make it a great day out on the bike for both of us.

I can only imagine how difficult it must be to get the necessary permissions to close roads in the nation’s capital.  Still, one wonders how the group was able to do it for the past several years but is no longer able to do so.  It would appear the ever-expanding bureaucracy has overwhelmed this organization’s ability to cope.

This seems to be a growing trend in our area.  In 2011, The Jingle All The Way run organizers mentioned that they had hoped to make the event a traditional 10K run but were forced to shorten it to the unusual distance of 8K due to the challenges of getting approvals from the various organizations which have oversight on such things in the District.

More recently, the finish for next weekend’s Marine Corps 17.75K run mysteriously changed from previous years. Instead of wrapping things up in a very fitting setting in front of the Marine Corps Museum, the route will be lengthened inside Prince William Forest Park and the finish will be at the significantly less interesting venue of Pinegrove Campground.  The only logical explanation (to me at least) is the race was unable to get permission to use local roads needed to get everyone to the Museum, which is a shame.

I wonder if others are experiencing similar challenges in their area?  Rest assured, I shall keep you updated on this issue as events warrant!

Things I Think I Think

Sports columnist Peter King has a popular segment he publishes after every NFL weekend which he calls Things I Think I Think, in which he gives his impressions on the week that was.  It is that spirit I offer my thoughts on last weekend’s brevet.

1.  I think I’m over my initial disappointment at my finishing time.  Advantages in less weight and knowing the course from last year were outweighed by colder temperatures and less training mileage brought on by a colder winter.  I agree with the larger point made by many commenters that it is very difficult to compare one year’s ride with another despite being on the same course.

2. I think I need to improve my nutrition strategy.  That means eating more calories more regularly and probably sitting down for a meal mid ride.  I burned over 4,300 calories on this ride and a quick inventory of what I took in adds up to about 2,300.  Not enough.  Cold weather makes “gummy candies” like Clif Blocks difficult to chew.  Adjust as appropriate.

3.  I think I need to get better at climbing hills.  I’m faster than some and much slower than others, but among people I find myself riding with (about my own ability) I find I tend to be slower on the climbs.

4.  I think the DC Randonneurs run great events.  For $5, I get better directions, more fun, better food pre/post race, and feel more welcome than I do in organized rides where I’ve paid far more.

5.  I think I like my new saddle bag.

6.  I think the 300K brevet next month will be hard.  Really hard.  I haven’t seen the course but understand it will run closer to the Blue Ridge Mountains, meaning it will be hillier.  See #3 above.  And it will be 300 freakin’ kilometers long.

7.  I think my increased running in the winter helped offset the reduced amount of riding.  Helped only, mind you.  It didn’t completely replace the training I lost in the saddle.  This will only get more interesting as the weather warms and I add swimming to my regimen.

8.  I think randonneuring has many aspects apart from a finishing time, including general exercise, cameraderie, orienteering, scenery, etc…   But time is an aspect and is therefore worth pondering and setting goals around, just like the other aspects are.

Historical Marker Segment!

I am pleased to present my first Historical Marker Segment of the year.  I found these markers during this weekend’s brevet.  I passed by them last year but did not stop to photograph them for reasons I have long since forgotten; probably because I was traveling with others and didn’t want to inconvenience them.

Our first selection is next to a bridge over the Rapidan River on Route 3 (around Mile 42 of the brevet) and is a reminder that the colonization of America came in waves.  In this particular case, the wave was German.  I am embarrassed to say I have never heard of the Knights of the Golden Horseshoe, but you can read more about it here.

I came across this marker on Brock Road, between The Wilderness and Spotsylvania battlefields (about Mile 60 of the brevet).  Amidst all the Civil War history, it was interesting to come across some Revolutionary War trivia.  Nowadays, Marquis de Lafayette is an afterthought in American history but there was a time (early 19th Century) when he was a superstar.  His legacy remains in the numerous towns and counties that were named after him in that period.  FUN FACT:  the evil (and fictitious) Colonel Tavington in Mel Gibson’s movie, The Patriot, is based in part on Colonel Tarleton.

Wilderness 200K Brevet (Part 2)

Now, where was I?

Oh yes – just heading back after a lovely sandwich and Mountain Dew at the Spotsylvania 7-11.  Did I mention I had a slight breeze at my back all the way down from Bristow?

It was in my face now.

Nothing serious, mind you.  It was only 5-10 mph and only as annoying as a dripping faucet in the middle of the night – always there, always bugging you, but nothing that you can’t deal with.  Stupid wind.  It would be my companion for the next 60 miles.

I left the 7-11 within a few moments of two other cyclists.  I quickly learned they weren’t together as one dropped the other.  Then the slower one dropped me.  We each made our way over flat roads to Chancellorsville Battlefield and another information control.  As I was about to leave, another group of three riders came up and kindly (if unknowingly) posed for the below picture.

Thousands of men died in this field in May, 1863.

With the sightseeing officially over, all that remained was the ride home.  My first task was to pedal through 13 miles of hilly boredom known as Elys Ford Road.  Or maybe it’s Eleys Ford Road; nobody seems to know for sure what the correct spelling is.  I saw both versions on signposts and I saw an Eleys Baptist Church.  Finally, I saw a gravestone in a cemetery with a large Eleys engraved upon it.  It would seem the Eleys faction has a stronger claim.  This road has almost nothing to see and only the tiny town of Richardsville to pass through for entertainment.  On my previous two trips down this road, the hills and boredom sapped my strength.  I was better prepared this time and paced myself.

One of the few pleasant sites on Eleys Ford Road. Sadly it occurs only two miles into the journey.

There is a steep descent on this road where I always make great speeds.  In fact, my personal best speed of 46.0 mph was set on this stretch and I once again made a run at the record.  I topped out at 44.7 mph.  Stupid headwind.

Eventually I reached the turning point of Eleys/Elys Ford Road and began the descent to the Rappahannock River.  I was thinking about how I felt better than I did at this point last year when my leg began to cramp.  Not good.  Not good at all.

I pedaled to the bridge on one leg and dismounted to stretch and grab some energy food.  I’m not sure what caused the cramping.  It is either a nutrition issue or the fact that my longest ride of the year was 37 miles and I was currently at Mile 98.  Perhaps it was both, but I have decided I need to eat a little more at these rest stops.  I see other riders getting by with small sandwiches and fruit, but these riders tend to weigh about 30-50 pounds less than me.  I’m burning more calories than they are and need to take in more to compensate.  Some folks take the time to have a sit down meal at a local restaurant.  I’m thinking that’s the way to go when I tackle the 300K next month.

The bridge over the Rappahannock River with three randonneurs crossing.

I arrived at the bridge five minutes behind last year’s pace and took another five minutes stretching, eating some shot blocks, and taking photos.  I now needed to travel the remaining 30 miles ten minutes faster than I did last year just to equal my time.  Things were becoming desperate.  But maybe I could keep my cramps under control.  Maybe my lighter weight would help.  Maybe I could shave some time by being quick at the final control point.  Maybe there was still a chance.

So off I went, climbing a steep hill out of the river valley and continuing my ride into the slight breeze.  In ten miles, I reached the final control point of the day – a humble convenience store at a lonely crossroads in Fauquier County.  Ed and Mary were there, enjoying a leisurely break with several other riders.  I learned that they also took a lengthier lunch break at a proper restaurant.  Ed and Mary are extremely experienced randonneurs having completed the legendary 1,200km Paris-Brest-Paris ride amongst many other feats.  Maybe I should learn from them.

Enjoying a break at a picnic table outside the final control point. I probably should have done likewise.

On this day, I was not in a learning mood and politely declined their friendly invitation to sit and relax with them.  I had less than 80 minutes to complete the final 20 miles.  When fresh, I could easily do that but I will remind you, Dear Reader, that I had logged 108 miles at this point and any “freshness” that I once had was long since gone.  I pushed hard for the first ten miles on a slight downhill but blew a gasket as I turned onto Hazelwood Road.  I could hear the immortal cycling announcer, Phil Liggett, in my mind:

“Oh dear, it certainly looks as if Martin has cracked.  So close for the American, yet so far.”

 Having given up my chase, I sat up and spun my way home.  Amazingly, Ed and Mary’s group reeled me in only a couple of miles later.  Apparently, I wasn’t going nearly as fast as I thought I was.  It was also apparent what a well-rested set of legs can do and the pace a group of cyclists can do that a soloist cannot.  As always, they were very cheerful.  Mary even managed to take an exceedingly rare photo of your author riding a bicycle.  This is how I looked in their rear view mirrors.

Putting on a good face at Mile 122

I put forth an honest, if not herculean, effort and made it back to the Carribou Coffee Shop with a final time of 9:49, nine minutes slower than last year.  As always, I was greeted with clapping and offered congratulations by the riders who finished before me.  Pizza, soda, fruit and other goodies were laid out and I was grateful to partake.  I signed my official control sheet and turned it in.  I chatted briefly with the group and decided I needed to be on my way home.

And thus ended 2013′s running of the Wilderness 200k Brevet.  The start at freezing temperatures was the coldest of my humble career but the day turned out to be quite pleasant.  I was disappointed in my finish time and I had plenty to think about on my way home.  I shall share my poignant observations with you in my next post!

Wilderness 200k Brevet (Part 1)

As is always the case with the DC Randonneurs, check in was a breeze and there were ample supplies of food and drink to help us store up some energy for the day.  I was very pleased to finally meet Mary, local cycling heroine and author of the blog, Chasing Mailboxes.  Mary was running a marathon during last year’s brevet so her husband Ed (a blogger himself and regular contributor to the DC Randonneurs site) rode solo – something unusual for him as he usually rides a tandem with Mary.  I was pleased that Ed remembered me from last year’s trip.  After reading Ed’s trip report, I would learn that this was the eighteenth consecutive year he has rode at least one official brevet and the ninth year he and Mary have ridden one.  Wow.

My streak is now at two.

The Madone making friends before the ride. Cory (whom you will read about shortly) is on the right.

After some brief instructions on the route and potential hazards, we were off.  This began the first phase of the ride, which I shall call:

The Debate

Here is the dilemma I face on most rides:  pacelines are really really good but I generally don’t last very long.  I knew from last year the lead group would probably set a good pace and I wanted to be part of it.  I also knew that they would eventually spit me out the back.  No worries.  The trick for me was to figure out the best time to bail – that point where the faster speed of the paceline was outweighed by the increasingly high amounts of energy I needed to use up to stay with it.  Last year, this point came at Mile 18.  I hoped to last longer this year.

A mistake I often make is to timidly stay at the rear of the group.  This is not a great place to be as the group expands and contracts like an accordion.  This means the riders in the rear spend equal amounts of time hitting their breaks and sprinting to stay in contact with the group.  Also, if there is a break between groups, anyone sitting in the back is forced to stay with the slower group or try to sprint to catch up with the faster group.  This happened to me last year and I tried to sprint the gap.  I failed and was exhausted in the attempt.

Now it is important to point out that randonneuring events are not races.  Time is a factor but you are very much running against an established standard, not each other.  That said, I am pleased to report that I was the lead cyclist for the better part of five miles in the early going.  I’ve never done that sort of thing before and it was exhilarating.  As far as personal performance goes, this was the highlight of the ride.  Everything goes downhill from here.

The lead group about eight miles into things, west of Nokesville

You’ve been warned.

We zipped through a sunny morning, exhorting the sun to rise in the sky more quickly.  Steady speeds of 20+ mph were maintained and I happily was holding my own at the spot where I sat up last year.  I managed another seven miles before surrendering.  We had lost several riders already and there were only nine left in the group that pressed on without me, including Ed and Mary on their tandem.  I was happy to have lasted that long and believed I saved about 25 minutes over how long it would have taken me to ride that length solo.

I eventually hooked up with another solo rider named Cory, who regaled me with stories about life in Japan (he served in the Navy) and a fascinating cycling tradition in California where a massive number of cyclists take to the road every New Years Day and ride incredibly fast.  Traffic lights, stop signs and trailing police are routinely ignored.  I offered up the Air Force Cycling Classic as a humble, more safe, version of that event and he seemed intrigued.

After crossing the Rappahannock River we lumbered up the hills on the far side and eventually made it to the Locust Grove control at Mile 48. It was beginning to warm a bit and I swapped out my winter gloves for regular full fingered ones.  I stored the winter gloves in my new saddle bag, which received more than a few compliments.  My bike barely drew a glance, but the bag impressed.  Interesting.

Control #1. The Madone is parked next to Ed and Mary’s Co-Motion Tandem. Ed is near the bike and Mary is wisely standing in the sun.

I was in good spirits as I left the control.  My energy was high and I was ten minutes ahead of last year’s pace.  I shoved off alone for the Wilderness Battlefield and entered into the next phase of the ride:

Solitude

On every organized ride I have ever been on, there comes periods where you are by yourself on the road.  I’ve ridden for many miles by myself, often out of sight of another rider.  Sometimes I’ve gone as long as twenty miles like this.  Little did I know at the time, but I was about to ride the next 80 miles alone.  Apart from brief conversations at control points, I would spend the next six and a half hours alone with my thoughts.

Fortunately for me, I am a very interesting person.

I’ve explained these battles in the past and won’t bore you with the details again.  Wilderness Battlefield Park is a narrow strip of land with a road running through it.  Much of the land is forested and occasional markers are placed alongside to describe an important aspect of the fighting.   After four miles, I left the park, pedaled past the site where Confederate General James Longstreet was mistakenly shot by his own men (the Confederates had a habit of mistakenly shooting their better generals) and made for Spotsylvania Battlefield nine miles away.

Wilderness Battlefield

The roads were mostly dry and the temperatures had warmed to the point where the early morning ice was no longer an issue.  There was definitely more snow in this area than in Bristow, despite being fifty miles to the south.  The sound of generators running in some of the homes was evidence that power had not yet been restored.

Spotsylvania Battlefield was right where I left it one year ago.  There are a few more roads in this park than the Wilderness.  The major road I was on runs in a loop past several key parts of the battle.  I stopped at an “information control” and answered a question based on one of the historical markers.

Monument to Union General Sedgwick, Spotsylvania Battlefield

Information Control – Spotsylvania Battlefield

After that, it was time for lunch.  I was very hungry and the town of Spotsylvania was only three miles away.  I pulled into a 7-11 and pondered my options.  I eventually settled on a sandwich and the free bottle of Mountain Dew that came with it.  There were a few other cyclists there, grabbing something to eat.  Mostly everyone kept to themselves.

I sat in the sun on a sidewalk and thought about the ride so far.  I was at the halfway point with a pace exactly like last year’s.  The day was becoming quite pleasant but I wasn’t going to take off my winter jacket just yet.  I read cheerful texts of support from my wife, drained my soda, and saddled up for the rest of the trip.  It was beginning to dawn on me that this would be done by myself as no groups of cyclists seemed to present themselves they way they usually do for me.

Beating last year’s time would be challenging, but I believed I had a good shot as I was considerably lighter than last year and presumably in better shape.  Check back here to see if I actually did it.

Army Ten Miler

click for details

The 2012 Army Ten Miler was a much more satisfying experience than the previous year, due almost entirely to the fact that my calf muscle was not behaving as if it had been ripped from my fibula.  Regular readers will know that I recently suffered the same injury to the same calf and the possibility of a repeat of last year’s travails was looming large.  Lots of massages, ice, heat helped rehabilitate it to an acceptable level.  Icy-Hot bandages, compression sleeves, motrin, and new shoes helped prevent reinjury.

First, my apologies for a lack of photos.  It’s difficult to photograph a running race as a participant.  It means lugging a camera with you.

The day was sunny and cool, but not frigid, and we managed to stay warm enough while waiting in the Pentagon’s South Parking Lot for about an hour.  Runners face difficult wardrobe decisions that cyclists do not.  They are forced to wait in the cold for extended periods and quickly warm up once the event starts.  Stowing excess cold weather gear is not an option.  They have come up with two general solutions to this problem:

1.  Suffer in the cold and do just fine after the race starts.

2.  Bring some throw away clothes (or a plastic bag converted to a shirt) and stay warm before the race.  Discard when they are no longer necessary.

I largely fall into Category 1, but I did use some disposable gloves which I tossed to the side after crossing the Potomac (around Mile 2).  They are purpose-built for this very thing and I was glad to have them.

Pre-race events were filled with parachutists from the Army Parachute Team, the National Anthem, and mercifully no speeches from the dignitaries.  The starting gun sounded in the distance for the Wounded Warriors, who would start five minutes before the official race start.  Nice touch, I thought.  I would eventually catch up with these folks, and watching them overcome their disabilities is always inspirational for me.  Everyone was giving them great support and I was happy to do likewise as I passed each one.  I suspect there were several I never caught up with.  Simply remarkable.

Bolivar’s Statue

It’s also remarkable how much more enjoyable an event is when you are not wondering how you will finish the next 50 feet.  I noticed statues I had never seen before, such as the one of Simon Bolivar at Foggy Bottom.  I couldn’t imagine why that guy earned a coveted spot a few blocks from the White House (the answer - which I discovered after I got home – is that it was a gift from the Republic of Venezuela to the U.S. in 1958).  I was able to enjoy the sights of DC, something I never grow tired of despite having done several events there over the years.

I took it easy for the first five miles just to make sure everything was ok, going at about 90% effort.  After that, I pushed things a little more.  Thanks goes to Tootlepedal for his “negative split” strategy.  It worked quite well.  I finished with a time of 1:29:58, about 13 minutes faster than last year.  I was pleased to break (by two seconds) the 9:00/mile pace.  Out of over 21,000 finishers, my overall placing was 7,931 - up from 14,513 last year.  I managed to improve my place in the 45-49 Men’s Division to 832, up from 1,354 last year.  Plenty to build on for next year.

You may be curious about Diesel.  She smoked the course with a time of 1:25:44.  She improved her time by six minutes from last year and finished 102nd in her division of 1,017 women.  More impressively, she was not the least bit sore and reported this morning that she could run another ten miles today if she wanted to (something your humble scribe cannot say).  She won’t do that because she has her first marathon to run this Sunday.  It is worth repeating that for most of her adult life, Diesel focused on raising our kids and maintaining a household and she did no specific exercise of any kind.  It was only three years ago that she began walking and only 18 months ago when she ran her first race – a 5k.  I am in awe.  At the marathon, I’ll be leading her official cheering section.  Perhaps next year I will run with her.

Now, where’s my bike?

DC Randonneurs Civil War Tour 200K Brevet (Part 2)

So there I was, zipping through the streets of Fairfield, Pennsylvania, hoping my depleted energy reserves after 69 miles of climbing would be sufficient to help me outrun an approaching thunderstorm.

I’ve outrun storms before.  It’s kind of a cool notion, that you can actually outpace a force of nature while riding a bicycle.  However, this storm seemed to have me in its sights.  The skies darkened and the wind picked up.  As I passed a local fire department, I noted the siren was wailing.  This was troublesome as sirens are often used as a tornado warning.  Even more perplexing was this same fire department was being used as a rest stop for the Civil War Century riders and there were many cyclists leaving the parking lot and continuing their ride.  A fire department that was sounding its siren as a tornado warning surely would not let cyclists leave its parking lot, would they?

Would they?

I certainly hoped they would not and that the siren was for some other inexplicable reason.  Maybe they were cheering on the cyclists.  In any event, I pressed on and quickly left the town for the countryside.

The wind picked up.  I’d guess that gusts were over 40 mph and would occasionally push my bike to the side.  One gust caused some acorns to fly off a nearby tree and pelt me.  That hurt.  After about three miles, the heavens opened and a thunderstorm of epic proportions ensued.  Once again, I was trapped in a large storm while on a ride.  I attempted to use my iPhone to find a weather radar which would tell me how serious a situation this was.  I learned that the touch screen on an iPhone doesn’t work well when torrents of water are flowing onto it.  I put it away in a ziplock bag and pressed on.

It got worse.  Thunder crashed around me and the mid-day sky looked like dusk.  It started to rain sideways.  Winds were steadily over 30 mph and gusts had to be around 50 mph.  This was not good, about as bad as I have ever experienced on a bicycle.  I could only see a few hundred feet in front of me and was looking for shelter more substantial than an oak tree.  After about half a mile of this, I came across a gentleman who was closing up his barn.  The building had a porch and I shouted a question to him over the wind, “Could I please use your barn for shelter?”  He graciously gave me permission and I am in his debt.

So now I had shelter and there was a fairly good chance I was not going to die.  Things were looking up.  Still, I was completely soaked and my fatigue from six hours of mountain cycling had not abated.  I plopped myself down on a plastic chair and enjoyed the view.  Amazingly, I saw five people who cycled past in this deluge.  I never saw their bodies or ruined bicycles, so I presume they made it out of there.  I know this:  they were crazy.

The view from the barn

As I sat there, waiting for the storm to abate and wondering what sort of fool rides through a potential tornado, a funny thing happened:  I started to feel better.  After twenty minutes, the storm had subsided, the skies cleared, and I felt remarkably fresh.  For the first time in about two hours, I believed I might finish this ride in decent shape.  In some odd way, the break enforced by the storm may have been just what I needed to recharge my batteries.  I headed out into a light sprinkle and saw two different groups of cyclists emerging from nearby garages.  It looks like the good people of McGlaughlin Road helped several of us cyclists on this day.

The ride into Gettysburg Battlefield was mostly downhill and in a slight sprinkle.  For me, this would be the highlight of the ride.  I’ve been to Gettysburg many times over the years.  There are many fantastic stories associated with this battle, way too many to share in this space, and the park-like setting is always very inviting for a visitor.  I’ve never been to the battlefield on a bicycle.  When I spied Big Round Top and Little Round Top from about three miles away, I picked up my pace like a horse who smells the barn.

Fought over three days the summer after Antietam, Gettysburg is often described as the “High Water Mark” of the Confederacy.  With Robert E. Lee’s defeat, the South lost their best chance to win the war.  Approximately 50,000 casualties were suffered during three days of combat.  I entered the park from the west and traveled past The Wheatfield, which saw 30% casualties among the 20,000 soldiers who fought there on the battle’s second day.  Some of the wounded managed to crawl to nearby Plum Run and soldiers downstream reported the stream ran red with their blood.  Recalling these stories, I suddenly didn’t feel so bad about my personal condition.

I made my way northward along the Federal lines, passing by monuments I knew very well - regimental markers placed where a particular unit fought, Father William Corby – who blessed the Iron Brigade before it launched its attack in the Wheatfield, and several state monuments including a nice one from my home state of New York.  Of course, the Pennsylvania Monument is the largest and it dominates the Union Center.  Despite the recent storm, there were still a few people sightseeing, though far fewer than one would expect on a typical Saturday.

The Pennsylvania Monument

Just past the Pennsylvania Monument is one of the battlefield’s key points – The Copse of Trees.  This small grouping of trees is what 15,000 Confederates marched toward during the doomed Pickett’s Charge on the battle’s third day.  The attackers suffered 50% casualties, a rate that is almost unimaginable to this career army officer.  The original trees still stand today and are part of a nice display.  Imagine my surprise when I saw what the storm had done.

The Copse of Trees

The large tree limb missed a period artillery piece by inches and the marble statue by a few feet.  The only thing that appeared to be damaged (apart from the tree) was the iron fence which surrounds the trees.  I spoke with the gentleman pictured above and learned he had spent the storm in his car on Little Round Top, about a mile away.  We both grabbed some acorns which were all over the place as a result of the storm.  With a little luck, one of them will sprout and I will have a descendent of these trees growing in my yard.

Rodney at Little Round Top

One can sight-see for only so long on these rides.  While not overly demanding, there is a time limit to arrive at the various controls.  I therefore broke off from monument chasing, pedaled out of the park and headed north into the town of Gettysburg, where I eventually pulled into the next control point – a 7-11 store.  I must have made quite an impression to the people inside, who gathered around me and asked where, exactly, I was during the storm.  I told my story with as much embellishment as I could reasonably get away with and impressed everyone with my report about the downed tree limb at The Copse of Trees.  Outside the store, I met up with another Randonneur named Rodney.  We would end up cycling the remaining 50 miles together.

Rodney is an experienced randonneur raised in Wisconsin and recently moved to Virginia from Illinois.  He has been on brevets and lengthy tours in those states and many others but this was his first event with the DC Randonneurs and his first brevet in some time.  He rode a nifty steel bike custom-made by Seven Cycles out of Massachusetts.  I’d never heard of the company and he happily told me a bit about them.  Apparently, they are big into Titanium and lightweight steel and they custom build almost all their bikes.  Neat.

The rain did not stop the reenactors from impressing sightseers hardy enough to start outside

We rode westward through town and made our way to the Confederate lines, where we discovered the road closed due to more downed trees.  The presence of trees on a road didn’t deter some drivers, who attempted to bypass them and became stuck in the mud.  The presence of Rodney didn’t deter the driver of an RV, who almost ran him over as he gunned his engine to get out of the mud.  We quickly got through the mess and pressed on past the large statue of Robert E. Lee and the Virginia Monument and onward past a statue of James Longstreet, Devil’s Den, and up onto Little Round Top.  Rodney was the first person I cycled with at any of the historical sites and I am afraid he had no choice but to hear my ramblings about the events that transpired at each location.  He was very polite and pretended to be interested.  After a few miles, we exited the battlefield on its Eastern side.

I looked at my Garmin.  40 miles to go.

The rain had stopped by this point but the skies were threatening to the west.  Another band of rain was moving our way.  We made a good pace as the ride was mostly downhill and we repeatedly thanked our good fortune that the winds had subsided with the passing of the cold front.  We were pushing against a modest breeze and not the strong gusts of a few hours ago.  We made decent time but I could feel myself beginning to drain once again.  The excitement of being at Gettysburg had faded and all that remained was the long slog back to Frederick.

At my request, we stopped for a rest in the town of Detour (Mile 108) at a small village store called, sensibly enough, The Village Store.  There, we chatted with an elderly man who was fascinated with our bikes and stated he used to enjoy riding a bit in his youth.  Rodney tried to convince the man that if you are well enough to walk, you are well enough to cycle.  Perhaps he made a convert.  Despite the pleasant conversation and the intake of food/drink, this stop did not have the recuperative effect that the stop during the storm or the one in Gettysburg had.  I believe I had simply reached the end of my endurance and the remaining 26 miles would be a gut check.

I was right.

Toward the end, my camera was performing about as well as I was cycling

The gradual downhill ended and a series of rollers ensued.  Roller after roller and roller.  Normally, these are kinda fun to ride:  you zip down one hill and dance up the next using the momentum created from the descent.  In my current condition, I usually handled them by coasting or pushing slightly and then slamming my into my bottom gear, whereupon I battled to reach the top.  I had been fighting cramps off and on for the past four hours.  Every hill brought on a cramp.  It started to rain again.  Life was hard.

Along the way, Rodney lost his cue sheet while attempting to change it on the fly.  This meant he had no choice but to stick with me, which was a pleasant situation for me, at least.  I was responsible for reading and remembering the directions to the next turning, but my memory skills were fading fast.  I could remember the name of the road we were looking for but would usually forget which way we needed to turn.  We would stop at the intersection where I would once again consult the cue sheet, then point out the right way, announce the next street we would turn at, then forget the direction.  This went on for about ten miles.

Finally, we made it to the day’s final challenge:  Ball Road.  Only three miles from the finish, this road features a climb of 200 feet over about 3/4 of a mile.  If you’ve been paying attention, you will know that this is not a significant climb compared to all the others I’d been over this day.  We took a break at the bottom while Rodney got his reflective gear and lights turned on (it was getting dark).  Then we set off.

I’ve been cycling regularly since 2010.  I’ve logged over 7,000 miles.  I have never gotten off my bike for any challenge.  Ever.  But halfway up that hill, with cramps in both legs, I tasted bile in my mouth and gave up.  I walked my bike up about a hundred yards then remounted near the summit.  It was not my greatest moment, but I do believe had I continued I may well have passed out or at the very least vomited while riding my bike.  I didn’t want to do either of those things, so I guess I made a good decision.

The final mile and a half was an easy ride up Urbana Road to the Pizza Hut.  Rodney and I checked in with an official time of twelve hours and three minutes.  That’s well before the maximum time of 13.5 hours but much slower than my previous 200k time of 9:40 on a much flatter course.  I was hoping to finish within 12 hours, so I pretty much hit my mark.  We then sat down inside the restaurant, enjoying some pizza and soda and chatting with other finishers about the ride while trying to not let on that my legs and feet were cramping on and off.  The main topic of conversation was “Where were you when the storm hit?”  The group clapped in congratulations as we arrived and we did likewise for cyclists who finished after us.  It is a nice tradition that separates the DC Randonneurs from other “non-club” organized rides I have been on.  After a few minutes of conversation, I packed up the car and headed home.  It was time to sleep.

Thus concluded the 200k Civil War Brevet.  My Garmin informs me I rode 134. 4 miles, climbed 8,763 feet and burned 5,201 calories: all personal bests.  My top speed was 44.6 mph – my second fastest time on a bike.  Except for the Marine Corps Marathon (which I ran in 1993), this was the hardest physical thing I have ever accomplished.

I’m looking forward to the next challenge.

DC Randonneurs Civil War Tour 200K Brevet (Part 1)

As always, click for details

And so it came to pass that I found myself in Frederick, MD, with 33 serious cyclists for the DC Randonneurs’ 200 km brevet (pronounced Bra-Vaye, for those who haven’t bothered to learn French).  How serious were these cyclists?  As I have discussed elsewhere, a 200 km ride is one of the shortest distances these people cover.  Many ride far longer distances and for a nice report of what a serious randonneur endures, I commend to you this post.  As for myself, I considered the upcoming ride to be my toughest attempt to date.  I had ridden 200k with the Randonneurs last March, but this ride would feature twice as much climbing with strong winds and possible thunderstorms in the forecast.  My goal was a simple one – finish.

A few hundred yards into things – at this point, all was well

After signing in at a local Pizza Hut and receiving a short briefing, we were off toward the first of four battlefields of the day – Monocacy.  It was here in 1862 where Union forces famously found a copy of Robert E. Lee’s Special Order 191, detailing his plan to invade the North.  Using this information, Union General George McClellan exclaimed, “Now I know what to do! Here is a paper with which, if I cannot whip Bobby Lee, I will be willing to go home.”

McClellan intended to march westward toward Sharpsburg, MD,where he expected to meet Lee’s army as it crossed the Potomac River.  Although Sharpsburg is only 30 miles away from Frederick, there are two rather significant terrain features between the two towns – Catoctin and South Mountains.  Our route would take us along one of the roads used by Union forces, who fought their way uphill against a delaying force of Confederates.  In 1862, the men fought in wool uniforms on dirt roads.  I had a bicycle, asphalt roads, and all the liquid and food I could ask for.  And nobody was shooting at me.

Piece of cake.

We pedaled at the rather sedate pace of 17 mph, much slower than the club did in my March ride.  I suspect the more experienced riders at the front were conserving their energy for the climbing to come.  I know I was.  My strategy was not to impress anyone on the climbs.  That was not possible to begin with and to expend energy I would need later while simply trying to make a good showing would be foolhardy, in my view.  I just wanted to survive with as much energy as possible.  The worst of the climbing would be over by Mile 67 and I could then enjoy the rest of my day in relative peace.

A blurry photo at the beginning of Mar-Lu Ridge

At Mile 12, we hit Mar-Lu Ridge and the “sedateness” ceased.  The steepest climb of the day was mercifully the first one.  It was only a little more than a mile, but we climbed 450 feet.  The little pack of riders split up as we struggled to reach the summit.  For the first time that day, I put my bike in its bottom gear and grinded my way to the top.  I would get to know my bottom gear very well before the day was through.  This was also the place where I maxed out my heart rate at 180 bpm – 100% of my capacity, or so the people at Garmin would have me believe.  I think they’re about right.

After gently rising for the next eight miles, I came across our second major climb of the day: Gapland Road.  This was a “mere” 310 feet over two miles from the slumbering town of Burkittsville to Gathland State Park.  I traveled this portion of the ride alone, with most of the group ahead of me and out of sight and a handful trailing behind me, again out of sight.  I was alone in my thoughts, which tended to center on just when would this &^#$%!  climb be over.    At the top of the climb, I found the monument to war correspondents killed in war which Folksnake often mentions.  The site also served as a rest break for the Civil War Century which was being run out of nearby Thurmont.  There were a handful of strong riders there, being part of forefront of a group of 1,000 (or so) riders I would encounter over the day.  There were lots of bugs in the air and I really didn’t enjoy being around food I wasn’t permitted to eat, so I beat a hasty retreat and began the descent into Sharpsburg.

The Madone pausing by the War Correspondents Arch

On my way down, I contemplated my Garmin, which informed me I had climbed 2,000 feet in 20 miles.  I have never climbed more than 5,000 feet in a single ride and I had almost done half that in a mere 20 miles.  No wonder why I was feeling a bit knackered.  As I came down the mountain, the sky cleared and a beautiful morning developed before me.  I eventually came upon Nick, who I knew as the organizer of the March brevet.  We exchanged pleasantries and were quickly joined by Mike.  Both Nick and Mike are experienced riders who knew the area well.  It was nice to have some company and to learn what to expect up ahead.  We pedaled into Sharpsburg, just on the edge of the Antietam battlefield, and made a mandatory stop to get our control cards signed by a cashier at a convenience store.  I also grabbed some more sports drink, some water, and a cup of mixed fruit.  Yummee.

Nick and Mike left a few minutes before me, so I was once again on my own as I entered Antietam Battlefield.  Fought on September 17, 1862, our brevet ride was almost 150 years to the date of the battle.  There were 23,000 casualties at Antietam, the largest single-day loss in American history.  The carnage shocked the peoples of both sides of the conflict, though clearly not enough to resolve the issue as the war would continue for three more years.  I parked briefly at a corn field where some particularly savage fighting took place and pondered what the scene must have looked like 150 years ago.

The Cornfield, with the New Jersey and Indiana monuments in the distance

A lovely ride through the battlefield park ensued.  In short order I came upon another important spot, The Sunken Road, where Confederates surprised advancing Yankees with devastating effect.  After several assaults, the Federals broke the Confederate line.  There are period pictures of the corpses of Confederate defenders, stacked like cord wood in this road.  Nowadays, the road is preserved with two post and rail fences and an observation tower overlooks the scene.

The Sunken Road, with some of the hills I was about to climb in the distance

Boonesboro

The battlefield ride was quickly over and it was once again time to climb over the ridge in order to get to Gettysburg.  The next 35 miles are a bit hazy for me.  Generally, they involve one common characteristic – me going uphill.  There was a long gentle climb through the town of Boonesboro, which seemed to be having some sort of civic event that I couldn’t quite fathom until a passerby flagged me down and asked directions for the reenactment.  Why she thought I would know such a thing is anybody’s guess and I was sorry to disappoint her.  My thoughts quickly returned to roads with names like Mountain Laurel Road and Mount Lena Road.  I have long ago figured out that roads with the word “mountain” in them are always troublesome, and this ride would prove to be no different.  I was grateful for the fact that a stiff breeze would be at my back for most of these ascents.

At this point I found myself intermingled once again with the Civil War Century riders.  Whenever the Randonneurs route veered in a slightly different direction, they would shout to tell me I was “off course.”  In a few miles, our paths would once again converge.  As I huffed and puffed on a particularly steep stretch, a friendly rider passed me by and said, “Halfway there!”  For him, perhaps, but not for me.  When I informed him that I still had 75 miles to go, I don’t think he believed me.  He smiled and said, “Well, have a nice ride!” and was off.

Mike and Nick on Raven Rock Road

At Mile 52, I made my way onto Raven Rock Road and confronted the day’s longest climb – 750 feet over six miles.  The grind was a steady 5-6% grade with almost no pauses.  It was tough work and it sapped my strength.  The sun was shining and temperatures were in the mid-80s when I once again happened upon Nick and Mike, who had paused to put on some sunscreen.  We chatted a bit and both cyclists offered encouraging words to me.  I knew the worst of this would be over in 15 miles and concentrated on somehow reaching that point.  Eventually, me and my bottom gear reached the summit and some descents ensued.

A word about descents is now in order.  Riding downhill is fun; of that there can be no doubt.  But when you’re riding downhill at speeds around 40mph on roads you do not know in a state of near exhaustion, the potential for disaster is always present.  I forced myself to concentrate as I flew along country roads, waiting for loose gravel or potholes that would ruin my day.  Fortunately, I found no such thing and was happy to be nearing the town of Fairfield when I happened upon the final, gut-wrenching climb of the mountains.

It occurred on a road named Sunshine Trail.  Let me just say that to give such a name to a road that inflicts so much suffering is borderline criminal.  This lovely treat, at the end of 65 miles of climbing, features 300 feet of ascent over a mile with two false summits to add to the fun.  There were century riders strewn about the hill, most of them chugging away but a few of them walking their bikes up the rise.  Knowing this was the last major effort of the day and a rest was only a couple of miles beyond, I steeled my resolved and lumbered to the top.

A happy reward on the road into Fairfield

Having finished 69 miles, I pulled into a convenience store at Fairfield and found a small band of Randonnneurs finishing their break.  Among them were Nick and Mike, who stayed a bit and chatted with me while I ate my turkey sandwich.  I was thoroughly wrung out and couldn’t imagine how I would ride another 60 miles.  I felt like I had just finished a century, but sadly had done far less than that.  My legs felt like lead.  As Mike and Nick headed out, I decided to stay for a bit longer to rest, stretch, and somehow find some energy.

Then in the gathering gloom to the west, I heard thunder.  Yikes.

Quickly, I gathered my things and struck out for Gettysburg, about 12 miles to the northeast.  The rest would have to wait.  I needed to see if I could outrun this storm.

Does Steve find the energy to finish the ride?

Does he avoid the thunderstorm?

What other silliness might transpire between here and the end?

Stay tuned for the second and final part of the DC Randonneurs Civil War Tour 200K Brevet!!!