Bike MS: Waves to Wine 2017 - Day 1
103.3 mi, 6092 ft
The Day of Reckoning dawns. This is the Saturday in which the chronically unsporty asthmatic kid bursts free from her pre-ordained life trajectory of sofa-sitting and grocery home deliveries to stock up on crisps. This is the Saturday to do something different, maybe heroic, that only seventy-eight percent of the Bay Area populace has already accomplished per extrapolation from rigourous conversational sampling. This is the Saturday of the century ride. One hundred miles.
The alarm clock shrieked at 4.45 am. Car pooling team mate acquired, the Honda Civic conveyed us effortlessly to the start line in Brisbane (naturally mis-pronounced Brizz-baayyyyne) Marina, in South San Francisco. Incredibly, despite ungodly porta-loo queues, the team rallied timely and well-equipped, achieving a cohesive 7.06 am departure. The ride commenced well.
The team captain efficiently marshalled his ducklings into formation up until the first rest stop, such that the perfect group photo may be snapped in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. Unfortunately, your correspondent is not terribly competent at riding amidst a close-knit pack with gazillions of other riders swishing by. As such, my front wheel clipped a team mate's back within the first ten miles of the ride, ingloriously wiping myself out, mercifully without taking down any other rider. Upon self-evaluation, the scraped appendages encrusted with specimens of bacterial-ridden San Francisco filth which would subsequently become mildly infected, represented superficial non-showstopping injuries. Having selflessly absorbed the team's bad juju for the weekend, I righted my wayward limbs and continues to pedal.
Although the majority of evil spirits were undoubtedly sated by the fall, it is challenging to achieve one hundred percent containment. Riding along the glorious Great Highway on San Francisco's scenic coast, an ominous, repetitive swishing sound emanated from a team mate's equipment. Ah no, the first flat tyre. Leave me here, he instructed; he would fix the flat and continue on. I was torn. On the one hand, it is guilt-inducing to leave a team mate in a state of decommission. On the other hand, riders had to make haste or they risked losing SAG vehicle support by 5 pm. After a moment's agonising, and a perfunctory "are-you-sure?", I abandoned him to the wolves.
The whole team made good time to the first rest stop, especially the member who had efficiently repaired his puncture. Setting off once again in presumed convoy, we inexplicably managed to lose two riders in the sub-mile distance to the photographic destination. Nonetheless, a very fine set of images was achieved containing many of the team members. Next year we can aspire to the full complement. The herd then dissolved into clusters separated by riding speed.
The Golden Gate Bridge crossed, a few unwitting tourists squished under wheel, the trillions of Bike MS riders teemed northwards up the Marin, akin to a flotilla of raiding ants. Passing through many villages, progress impeded by dozens of traffic lights and stop signs, the course then veered towards Point Reyes via Sir Francis Drake Blvd, along which I have driven several times, quietly hissing at riders taking up valuable tarmac. Accelerating furiously towards the lunch stop in Olema, mandibles clacking, I actually passed several other riders. One even called out to inform me I was "smoking". This was almost certainly an allusion to my velocity, surely not a tribute to my sweaty scraped apparition. Lunch lunch lunch...
Lunch gobbled at the halfway point, salt pills and pain killers quaffed, a grouping of similar speed team mates set off once more unto the breach. And then the course diverged. Gripped by a fleeting compulsion to follow the shorter 86 mile course markers, my handlebars nonetheless followed involuntarily the blue arrow, past a sign ominously announcing that this was unmistakably the longer 100 mile route. Away from the coast, into the brown, arid interior.
At the 63 mile rest stop, a team member whom had partaken of the 100 mile course last year described how much the next segment "sucked". This was going to be the worst leg of the whole ride. It contained the infamous Marshall Wall, wherein another team mate collapsed off his bike in 2016 upon painfully discovering that a "wall" was in fact a steep hill and not an interesting historic site. To compound the bad omens, the team captain announced he was not feeling at all well. No wonder I had been able to keep up with him. Another twinge of guilt, and then swift callous abandonment. Must finish the course by 5 pm.
Despite the psychological and physical barriers to come, I found myself in fine riding fettle at this point. The Marshall Wall, although not a great joy, was certainly no Mt Diablo in 36C weather. There was some slight disturbance when another rider erroneously declared that we were near the summit, when we were, in fact, not, but otherwise the climb passed without incident, as did the other hills of that segment. 80 miles down, starting to move into uncharted distance territory. This was the stage at which I had envisaged myself cracking.
And... the last twenty miles were miracoulously frictionless. Twenty-three miles in fact, as the length of the course had been most falsely advertised. Fueled by salt pills and electrolyte drinks and sugar chews and bananas and pickle juice, crashing through Wine Country, legs pumping, cardiovascular system thumping, blinded by salt agglomerating on the corneas, cross winds thrusting the bike and rider inexorably towards a ditch. And then, the finish line.
The bikes corralled; the team captain appearing happily much recovered; the riders showered, fed and socialised; the banshee karaoke finally silenced; the flood lights dimmed; renal function returning immediately upon sleeping bag cocooning necessitating a final foray into the darkness; plunging inexorably comatose at 9 pm despite being camped in a thistle field.
The Day of Reckoning dawns. This is the Saturday in which the chronically unsporty asthmatic kid bursts free from her pre-ordained life trajectory of sofa-sitting and grocery home deliveries to stock up on crisps. This is the Saturday to do something different, maybe heroic, that only seventy-eight percent of the Bay Area populace has already accomplished per extrapolation from rigourous conversational sampling. This is the Saturday of the century ride. One hundred miles.
The alarm clock shrieked at 4.45 am. Car pooling team mate acquired, the Honda Civic conveyed us effortlessly to the start line in Brisbane (naturally mis-pronounced Brizz-baayyyyne) Marina, in South San Francisco. Incredibly, despite ungodly porta-loo queues, the team rallied timely and well-equipped, achieving a cohesive 7.06 am departure. The ride commenced well.
The team captain efficiently marshalled his ducklings into formation up until the first rest stop, such that the perfect group photo may be snapped in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. Unfortunately, your correspondent is not terribly competent at riding amidst a close-knit pack with gazillions of other riders swishing by. As such, my front wheel clipped a team mate's back within the first ten miles of the ride, ingloriously wiping myself out, mercifully without taking down any other rider. Upon self-evaluation, the scraped appendages encrusted with specimens of bacterial-ridden San Francisco filth which would subsequently become mildly infected, represented superficial non-showstopping injuries. Having selflessly absorbed the team's bad juju for the weekend, I righted my wayward limbs and continues to pedal.
Although the majority of evil spirits were undoubtedly sated by the fall, it is challenging to achieve one hundred percent containment. Riding along the glorious Great Highway on San Francisco's scenic coast, an ominous, repetitive swishing sound emanated from a team mate's equipment. Ah no, the first flat tyre. Leave me here, he instructed; he would fix the flat and continue on. I was torn. On the one hand, it is guilt-inducing to leave a team mate in a state of decommission. On the other hand, riders had to make haste or they risked losing SAG vehicle support by 5 pm. After a moment's agonising, and a perfunctory "are-you-sure?", I abandoned him to the wolves.
The whole team made good time to the first rest stop, especially the member who had efficiently repaired his puncture. Setting off once again in presumed convoy, we inexplicably managed to lose two riders in the sub-mile distance to the photographic destination. Nonetheless, a very fine set of images was achieved containing many of the team members. Next year we can aspire to the full complement. The herd then dissolved into clusters separated by riding speed.
The Golden Gate Bridge crossed, a few unwitting tourists squished under wheel, the trillions of Bike MS riders teemed northwards up the Marin, akin to a flotilla of raiding ants. Passing through many villages, progress impeded by dozens of traffic lights and stop signs, the course then veered towards Point Reyes via Sir Francis Drake Blvd, along which I have driven several times, quietly hissing at riders taking up valuable tarmac. Accelerating furiously towards the lunch stop in Olema, mandibles clacking, I actually passed several other riders. One even called out to inform me I was "smoking". This was almost certainly an allusion to my velocity, surely not a tribute to my sweaty scraped apparition. Lunch lunch lunch...
Lunch gobbled at the halfway point, salt pills and pain killers quaffed, a grouping of similar speed team mates set off once more unto the breach. And then the course diverged. Gripped by a fleeting compulsion to follow the shorter 86 mile course markers, my handlebars nonetheless followed involuntarily the blue arrow, past a sign ominously announcing that this was unmistakably the longer 100 mile route. Away from the coast, into the brown, arid interior.
At the 63 mile rest stop, a team member whom had partaken of the 100 mile course last year described how much the next segment "sucked". This was going to be the worst leg of the whole ride. It contained the infamous Marshall Wall, wherein another team mate collapsed off his bike in 2016 upon painfully discovering that a "wall" was in fact a steep hill and not an interesting historic site. To compound the bad omens, the team captain announced he was not feeling at all well. No wonder I had been able to keep up with him. Another twinge of guilt, and then swift callous abandonment. Must finish the course by 5 pm.
Despite the psychological and physical barriers to come, I found myself in fine riding fettle at this point. The Marshall Wall, although not a great joy, was certainly no Mt Diablo in 36C weather. There was some slight disturbance when another rider erroneously declared that we were near the summit, when we were, in fact, not, but otherwise the climb passed without incident, as did the other hills of that segment. 80 miles down, starting to move into uncharted distance territory. This was the stage at which I had envisaged myself cracking.
And... the last twenty miles were miracoulously frictionless. Twenty-three miles in fact, as the length of the course had been most falsely advertised. Fueled by salt pills and electrolyte drinks and sugar chews and bananas and pickle juice, crashing through Wine Country, legs pumping, cardiovascular system thumping, blinded by salt agglomerating on the corneas, cross winds thrusting the bike and rider inexorably towards a ditch. And then, the finish line.
The bikes corralled; the team captain appearing happily much recovered; the riders showered, fed and socialised; the banshee karaoke finally silenced; the flood lights dimmed; renal function returning immediately upon sleeping bag cocooning necessitating a final foray into the darkness; plunging inexorably comatose at 9 pm despite being camped in a thistle field.
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