Bike MS: Waves to Wine 2017 - Day 2
64.2 mi, 2494 ft
An alarm twanged somewhere in the thistle field at 5 am, despite the ride being not scheduled to start for a further two hours. The flood lights relit, appearing as a glimmer of dawn under canvas. Struggling into cold fresh lycra in the semi-dark, bundling extra layers of coats and hats on top. Stepping gingerly through thistles in search of coffeeeee.
Following sunrise and a satisfying breakfast burrito, the team chafingly remounted bicycles with a collective groan and set off for Day 2. The route soon bifurcated into 60 miles versus 40 miles, and reluctantly the realisation of once again taking the longer. Chafe chafe chafe.
Soon, we were a group of five riders of similar speed, travelling companionably together. This fortuitously prevented my getting lost as the route suddenly veered left on a narrow alley at the bottom of a steep hill, down which we were passing at some speed. We made our way uneventfully to the lunch stop at 43 miles. Perhaps Sunday would not be as difficult as anticipated. And then, a crucial mistake: believing that two salty packets of crisps would be an adequate substitute for the traditional cocktail of salt pills and pain killers.
The next leg felt rather less positive. For the first time in the weekend, struggling to keep up. What a regression. Completing the course was a certainty, but in addition there was the egotistical target of keeping up with the team. My metamorphosis into the Bay Area rider mentality is complete.
At the final rest stop, consciously masticating salt pills and cramming sugary treats into the gaping maw. There may be little peer-reviewed evidence, but I will gaily testify to the positive impact of electrolyte consumption for endurance athletics all day long. Perhaps a placebo effect, but much restored, my bike and I zipped through the final miles, once again longer than specified. For the second time that weekend to the finish line, and the buoyant cheering of the ride volunteers.
The next day I would arise to a sensation not far removed from having been repeatedly clobbered by a brick. But I did not know it yet. One hundred and sixty-seven miles down. At last, I could dismount.
An alarm twanged somewhere in the thistle field at 5 am, despite the ride being not scheduled to start for a further two hours. The flood lights relit, appearing as a glimmer of dawn under canvas. Struggling into cold fresh lycra in the semi-dark, bundling extra layers of coats and hats on top. Stepping gingerly through thistles in search of coffeeeee.
Following sunrise and a satisfying breakfast burrito, the team chafingly remounted bicycles with a collective groan and set off for Day 2. The route soon bifurcated into 60 miles versus 40 miles, and reluctantly the realisation of once again taking the longer. Chafe chafe chafe.
Soon, we were a group of five riders of similar speed, travelling companionably together. This fortuitously prevented my getting lost as the route suddenly veered left on a narrow alley at the bottom of a steep hill, down which we were passing at some speed. We made our way uneventfully to the lunch stop at 43 miles. Perhaps Sunday would not be as difficult as anticipated. And then, a crucial mistake: believing that two salty packets of crisps would be an adequate substitute for the traditional cocktail of salt pills and pain killers.
The next leg felt rather less positive. For the first time in the weekend, struggling to keep up. What a regression. Completing the course was a certainty, but in addition there was the egotistical target of keeping up with the team. My metamorphosis into the Bay Area rider mentality is complete.
At the final rest stop, consciously masticating salt pills and cramming sugary treats into the gaping maw. There may be little peer-reviewed evidence, but I will gaily testify to the positive impact of electrolyte consumption for endurance athletics all day long. Perhaps a placebo effect, but much restored, my bike and I zipped through the final miles, once again longer than specified. For the second time that weekend to the finish line, and the buoyant cheering of the ride volunteers.
The next day I would arise to a sensation not far removed from having been repeatedly clobbered by a brick. But I did not know it yet. One hundred and sixty-seven miles down. At last, I could dismount.
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